Monday, June 30, 2014

Anastasija Volkova.

Report #110 2014, June 30th.

Before Dimir Volkov could rule this city, he had to make every major crime family bow down and it was no picnic. Dimir had to huff and puff like crazy, to earn his spot as the Oracle and "The Owner" of Moscow, he had to do a lot of killing, tricking, stealing, etc. But one dreadful day, one of the crime families visited his home, visited his family, his wife, his son and daughter. His wife and son were cuffed to the bed, while his daughter was held by one of the thugs, he put a knife to her throat, Dimir had a gun hidden behind his jacket, it was a stand still, they told Dimir to step down, walk away from trying to assume the role of the Owner, they told him to lose all the power, told him to disappear along with his family. Then Dimir shot one of the thugs that was closest to his wife and Son, the thug that was holding his daughter slit her throat open, he shot the second thug, his daughter was bleeding out, he shot the third thug. Her name was Anastasija, she was only 16 years old, do you remember her Dimir? Do you remember how she dies? Quickly, or slowly? Remember how you sacrificed her to gain the power you have now? When you gave up everything, for nothing.

Then your wife divorced you, took your son, but of course you want to pretend like you're a good father, you still pay them, you visit them as much as you can, however those visits don't go so well, remember when I was standing outside of their home, when your goon Mennonite attacked me? I saw both of you through the window, you weren't talking, you were arguing, remembering that detail made me look up everything about you.

Now I have her, I have your daughter, I dug her up. I was half way home with her casket, when it hit me, when I threw up on the ground, it's the smell that gets me, I've smelled rotting bodies more times than I can remember, it's not that, it wasn't her smell, it's mine.

I'm used to apologizing to dead children, I've been doing it for years. I tell my own child for getting her killed, sorry for walking her into an ambush, sorry for failing her in every conceivable way, sorry for the way I've chosen to honor her memory, but most of all, I'm sorry she was ever born in the first place.

Not every man deserves a legacy, not every man deserves to be a father.

Went to work tonight, taking down a small proxy base full of weaponry, they used to run, they used to hear me coming and run like hell, they used to, but not anymore.

Was having a shootout in a four story building, in the corridor, there was five of them left, shot down two of them in the gut, three others kept firing, had to take cover behind a wall, pierced my arm, luckily didn't hit the bone. It was easier when they ran. Now they stand and fight, they lie in wait, they give chase, they hunt me as much as I hunt them. And every time I bleed, they believe a little more that they can win.

Took the bandages from my side bag, bandaged the wound to avoid infection, I hear what they say, they say Kelevra took something out of me, prison kicked my ass. They say I'm not the man I used to be, they're right.

I heard dogs barking, 3 Ovcharka's, they let them go to munch me up, shot one of the dogs in the head, the other two tackled me down, I was holding off one of them by it's neck, the other one bit into my wrist, was able to choke the dog I was holding off by the neck, took the last one by it's head, swung it around, it hit one of the proxies, they didn't expect that, shot the dog, along with the proxies.

I'm full of weapons now.

It's times like this, I remember a man I once met on duty. He was assaulting Russian Army bases in the jungle, he'd killed 38 Soviet soldiers, ambushing patrols, he'd hit and run, disappear like a ghost. Me and 8 men were assigned to assist the soldiers, all 8 of my men died by his hands, I'd been shot twice and peppered with shrapnel, infection was setting in, I was barely conscious when I managed to drop a grenade into his cover. He still nearly killed me, without his legs, he came tumbling out of the cover on top of me, I stabbed him through the right eye with the knife, he was still fighting, chocking me, I tried to do the same, I was ripping his throat apart with my own hands, he tried to drown me in his blood, so hot it burned my face. Eventually, his head lolled to one side, held on by nothing but rage and flaps of skin, yet he still crawled after me, reaching for me, breathing through all his bubbling, gaping wounds. I had to beat his head into paste before he finally stopped twitching, I staggered out of that jungle feeling like I'd won. Now that I look back on it, I realize what a fool I'd been.

I think about that man every time I bleed, each time my bones ache, or my body begs to let it lie down and die, or I start to run low on rage, used to be a man like that would've ruled the world, on his back whole empire's would've been raised, or conquered. Not cowards like you Dimir, who only send their goons to do their dirty work.

I don't pray, but if I did, I'd pray to that man, every goddamn day.

Report Ended.


  1. I suppose it's a good start that you're used to apologising to dead children, since we'll soon have a new one for you to apologise to.

    Men like you and Dimir make me sick. You don't care about your daughters. All you care about, is your personal failure. You all mope over how you failed as a parent, or a spouse. But never over the people you lost, you don't remember their aspirations, their individuality, their humour, the things they like, the way their laugh is so loud yet so contagious, the way they smile and shuffle their feet. You mourn a concept, not a person, and you make me sick.

    1. Spare me the melodrama talk, just tell me your location now so we can end this more quickly.

    2. I am not going to challenge you right now. Maybe later or something. Much much later.

    3. I said later. I did not come here to challenge you. I do not go around poking bears with sticks.

  2. I'm not one for consoling, but I've been in a good mood this week and this post in particular is killing it you morbid asshole.
    Take it from me all right, my dad was a drunken piece of shit who set all the wrong examples and then left me flat on my ass in the middle of the woods to go die a miserable and unnecessary death somewhere on his own. And yeah I resent the hell out of him. Everything that ever went arry in my life you can trace back to him going starry-eyed for my poor old mom. But we don't pick our lives and we don't pick are family, and we all do the best with the shit we get. If I had to go back, I'd still want him as my dad, because as much as a fuck up as he was he was my dad and I loved him. Love does weird shit to people. Looking for a creative way to kill yourself won't set anything right in the grand scheme, it won't bring anyone back and it makes you look about ten times more pathetic. There's no such thing as just deserts because the world is an amoral crazy place where the good die young and evil maniacs are world famous billionaires. Of course you don't deserve to be a father, just like I didn't deserve to be hunted down from birth by a faceless spaghetti monster. But honestly, who the hell cares? The past is the past and we all die. Sorry to throw a bible quote at you because I just know you're going to bristle like a fucking asshole, but the only sins God won't forgive are the ones we don't repent for. You fucked up, you know you fucked up, and now you gotta live with it. It's as simple as that. If you're fighting the bad guys now though, then that's all that matters. You aren't worthless.