Happy Life
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Breathing heavily and drenched in sweat, Arandor ran through the gloomy alleys. Finally, he stopped behind some garages and looked around—not a soul. He had padded his own budget with Tieru's share, pouring banknotes from one bag into another. Now for the next step. Arandor doubted that Tangheizer would bother over another greedy middleman skimming off the top. This could even be called a service.
Leaving the garages, he left the now-useless containers in a trash can and headed to catch a taxi. His hand slipped into his pocket: the most important package was there; everything was fine.
Finally, he found transport and returned to his place. He wanted to rest and shoot up. Collapsing onto the sofa and turning on the news, he fell into a trance.
—...the tactical team arrived too late; the raiders managed to escape. However, investigators report that they have all the necessary information to detain the brazen criminal gang within the coming hours.
The screen showed a half-destroyed police station building surrounded by dozens of cars. Smoke trailed from a couple of windows. Here and there, stretchers with wounded people rushed past; emergency services were pulling one body after another out of the building.
— At this moment, two dozen killed officers have been discovered; four are wounded and in critical condition. The city's best doctors will fight for their lives.
Next, one of the high-ranking officials gave an accusatory speech—a portly, mustachioed captain with receding hairline. He furiously denounced the crime that had bogged down the city, spit flying from his lips. The announcer added that a curfew had been introduced on the streets and the number of patrol cars had been doubled.
"Perfect time to get high," Arandor decided and picked three cubes from the prepared solution. Tangheizer would be catching a lot of heat, as he was the most powerful crime boss in this city. He wouldn't last long, Arandor thought, feeling for a vein. Finally, he smoothly shot up and closed his eyes. A smile touched his lips while he thought about the potheads, crackheads, and pill-poppers. Small fry, narrow-minded people.
— "On the liquid question since ninth grade..." — he muttered under his breath.
***
Tangheizer looked expectantly at the battered Black guy in front of him.
— "You'd better tell me everything," the boss said in a graveyard voice.
— "I told you everything! Some sucker came along, wanted something. I stepped away to smoke, heard a shot, ran out, saw my bro rushing over. Your goons jumped out, looked at each other, and pinched me," notes of desperation leaked into the questioned man's voice. — "I don't remember his name! Short, unshaven, with a mohawk. The name was strange, sounding, but I forgot... Listen, I didn't have a gun, nothing! Why would I whack my own brother?"
Tangheizer waited. He believed this man; the story sounded truthful. Nevertheless, fear would help him remember important details. If anything, Tangheizer could be proud of his interrogation methods.
— "Reasons can vary... Now tell me, did Tieru not talk about his business?"
— "Well no... No, he didn't say anything," the punk shook his head.
Tieru evoked mixed feelings in Tangheizer. He was like pus. When pus is in the body, it seems to belong there, but not quite. He really did distribute well, but he was too arrogant. He wasn't missed, but replacing him at the same level would be difficult. In light of recent events.
Tangheizer lit a cigarette and glanced at the guest. The guest waited in fear for the decision of his fate.
— "Alright then. I suppose this one has told all. And I have other important matters. Hossie," he called out to the bodyguard goon. — "Kill him."
Strong arms grabbed the African American and dragged him toward the exit.
— "Wait! Hey! I remembered the name! Arandor! Arandor! His name was Arandor!!!" — resisting, the prisoner screamed.
— "Oh. I know that name," Tangheizer smiled. — "Thank you for your cooperation. Hostor, you know what to do."
The office doors slammed shut. It was convenient, of course, to have one's own people everywhere who would act in one's interests. Hm, Arandor... They had crossed paths a couple of times. A freelance little brigadier, no one behind him. Unexpected.
Smoothing out a line of cocaine with a credit card, Tangheizer planned further actions. First, visit the suspect, then... Actually, no.
"First is first," Tangheizer thought, putting the plan into action and wiping his rapidly numbing nose.
And now for the orders and calls.
***
Whistling cheerfully, Vistreet descended the stairs. A great day! He had eaten hearts, but unfortunately, there was no time to work on the bodies. There was still so much to do. Pulling a crumpled piece of paper from his breast pocket, he looked closely at his scribbles. Right, drugs. I've taken it upon myself to return them, he thought. And then he could work more closely with people in the know. He didn't hope to solve this matter by brute force, but Imaris was stationed a five-minute walk away and should be checked first. A try is not a crime, so let's leave the hard part for later.
Approaching the pimp's car and spinning keys on his finger, Vistreet reflected that a whore wouldn't have been able to escape him in any case.
— "Mmm..." — he thought, remembering the way to the police building. — "And the air conditioner isn't working! Though who needs it in such a refrigerator."
After thinking, he opened the window slightly and a gust of wind blew the locks of hair from his face. And here is the police. Vistreet hadn't been brought in before, and he was interested to see the building from the inside. Parking carefully and passing the officer at the entrance, he headed toward the duty officer behind the glass.
— "I have a Case!" — leaning low, he said conspiratorially to the cop.
— "All cases are with the investigator in office twenty-seven," the duty officer brushed him off without looking up.
— "No-no, I just want to know! When you confiscate a truck with narcotic substances, where do you put it?"
— "Warehouse on the other side of the building until they move it to..." — the duty officer answered automatically, only realizing the situation after a couple of seconds and raising his gaze to the smiling petitioner. — "Hey, you!"
The cop's hand reached for the service weapon hanging in the holster on the back of the chair. Unfortunately for him, he didn't have time to get it—a bullet from Vistreet's pistol punched a neat little hole in his forehead. Screams were heard; the officer at the entrance rushed toward him but was cold-bloodedly killed. A siren wailed. A second pistol jumped into his hand on its own—this was much more convenient than pulling it out—and the hairy man resolutely headed down the corridor.
— "The heavens weep... For you... For youuu..." — he hummed under his breath, shooting cops as they ran out of their offices.
One, two. Two in the stomach for this one, one in the groin for that one. Vistreet walked through the station sowing death and reflected on his difficult life. At seven, his mother sent him to music school to learn piano. He didn't like it much, but he didn't object. One in the eye for this one. He learned a lot, graduated from school with honors, and then entered a prestigious university. Even then, he realized that his true passion was surgery. A year later, the desire to be a doctor vanished, and he began writing small works of prose; the woman was shot right at the table, brains splashed on the window glass behind, and her head fell onto the papers, soaking them in blood. Vistreet clicked his tongue—important documents were surely lost. He didn't like red. In general, he preferred purple and black. Black? Brisk? Proud. He wore clothes of a proud color, Vistreet thought and chuckled—the thought seemed so amusing to him.
The magazines of both guns emptied at a very bad time—two big guys with guns jumped from around the corner and opened fire to kill. Vistreet wasn't hit; he leaped into an open office door but caught his sleeve on a nail and nearly tore it. It was an expensive coat; he resentfully swallowed a lump in his throat, pulled a grenade from an inner pocket, and threw it. The guys scattered.
"Where did I get this explosive?..." — he couldn't quite remember. Maybe he stole it from somewhere or made it himself. Sometimes he forgot things that happened to him just a couple of hours ago. Well, whatever, nobody is perfect. Muttering irritably under his breath and arguing with himself, he pulled a pump-action shotgun from the depths of his cloak and continued his stroll.
Yes, he was not bad at writing. He valued unconventionality and wordplay. Wordplay, donkey play, sharp-tongued man.
A fat lieutenant fell to his knees and raised his hands, begging to be left alive.
— "Please tell me, how do I get to the warehouse?" — Vistreet inquired politely.
— "D-down the corridor and right, then... Into the hall... And go straight through, there will be a door with a sign," he stammered.
— "Thank you!" — Vistreet smiled friendly, blowing the lieutenant's skull apart.
Leaving the office, he immediately grew sad. The lieutenant wasn't so bad; he had helped him. He shouldn't have killed him. But the brief moment of regret passed, Vistreet flashed crooked teeth and waved his hand. What is done cannot be undone; why get upset over trifles now?
Briskly walking all the way to the exit, meeting no further resistance, he entered the huge warehouse room. The truck near the gates immediately caught his eye. Surprisingly—even the sound of the siren doesn't reach here. Soundproofing? Saving on equipment? Does it even matter? Next to the truck stood three guys looking lost, not taking their eyes off Vistreet and slowly raising their hands.
— "Is this vehicle ready for shipment?" — he inquired.
One of the employees, apparently the boss, nodded.
— "In that case, be so kind as to unlock the exit door for me."
Two remained standing, while the boss approached a panel on the wall, pressed a button, and the warehouse door rose with a screech.
— "Thank you. And now die," Vistreet announced and carried out the sentence.
Finding about fifty bags of white powder in the cargo bed, he settled into the cabin with satisfaction and drove out of the warehouse building. Shooting the lock on the lattice fence, he drove onto the street and headed in the opposite direction from the police sirens. The reinforcements are taking a long time. It's worse for them.
Suddenly, the phone in his trouser pocket shrieked, and out of surprise, Vistreet jerked the steering wheel and nearly drove into the oncoming lane.
— "Hello! Hello!!!" — he shouted into the receiver.
— "Damn it, don't scream like that!" — Tangheizer's dissatisfied voice sounded. — "The rat's name is Arandor."
— "You bought a rat?"
— "No. It's a person. Bring him to me. Write down the address..."
Leaving the garages, he left the now-useless containers in a trash can and headed to catch a taxi. His hand slipped into his pocket: the most important package was there; everything was fine.
Finally, he found transport and returned to his place. He wanted to rest and shoot up. Collapsing onto the sofa and turning on the news, he fell into a trance.
—...the tactical team arrived too late; the raiders managed to escape. However, investigators report that they have all the necessary information to detain the brazen criminal gang within the coming hours.
The screen showed a half-destroyed police station building surrounded by dozens of cars. Smoke trailed from a couple of windows. Here and there, stretchers with wounded people rushed past; emergency services were pulling one body after another out of the building.
— At this moment, two dozen killed officers have been discovered; four are wounded and in critical condition. The city's best doctors will fight for their lives.
Next, one of the high-ranking officials gave an accusatory speech—a portly, mustachioed captain with receding hairline. He furiously denounced the crime that had bogged down the city, spit flying from his lips. The announcer added that a curfew had been introduced on the streets and the number of patrol cars had been doubled.
"Perfect time to get high," Arandor decided and picked three cubes from the prepared solution. Tangheizer would be catching a lot of heat, as he was the most powerful crime boss in this city. He wouldn't last long, Arandor thought, feeling for a vein. Finally, he smoothly shot up and closed his eyes. A smile touched his lips while he thought about the potheads, crackheads, and pill-poppers. Small fry, narrow-minded people.
— "On the liquid question since ninth grade..." — he muttered under his breath.
***
Tangheizer looked expectantly at the battered Black guy in front of him.
— "You'd better tell me everything," the boss said in a graveyard voice.
— "I told you everything! Some sucker came along, wanted something. I stepped away to smoke, heard a shot, ran out, saw my bro rushing over. Your goons jumped out, looked at each other, and pinched me," notes of desperation leaked into the questioned man's voice. — "I don't remember his name! Short, unshaven, with a mohawk. The name was strange, sounding, but I forgot... Listen, I didn't have a gun, nothing! Why would I whack my own brother?"
Tangheizer waited. He believed this man; the story sounded truthful. Nevertheless, fear would help him remember important details. If anything, Tangheizer could be proud of his interrogation methods.
— "Reasons can vary... Now tell me, did Tieru not talk about his business?"
— "Well no... No, he didn't say anything," the punk shook his head.
Tieru evoked mixed feelings in Tangheizer. He was like pus. When pus is in the body, it seems to belong there, but not quite. He really did distribute well, but he was too arrogant. He wasn't missed, but replacing him at the same level would be difficult. In light of recent events.
Tangheizer lit a cigarette and glanced at the guest. The guest waited in fear for the decision of his fate.
— "Alright then. I suppose this one has told all. And I have other important matters. Hossie," he called out to the bodyguard goon. — "Kill him."
Strong arms grabbed the African American and dragged him toward the exit.
— "Wait! Hey! I remembered the name! Arandor! Arandor! His name was Arandor!!!" — resisting, the prisoner screamed.
— "Oh. I know that name," Tangheizer smiled. — "Thank you for your cooperation. Hostor, you know what to do."
The office doors slammed shut. It was convenient, of course, to have one's own people everywhere who would act in one's interests. Hm, Arandor... They had crossed paths a couple of times. A freelance little brigadier, no one behind him. Unexpected.
Smoothing out a line of cocaine with a credit card, Tangheizer planned further actions. First, visit the suspect, then... Actually, no.
"First is first," Tangheizer thought, putting the plan into action and wiping his rapidly numbing nose.
And now for the orders and calls.
***
Whistling cheerfully, Vistreet descended the stairs. A great day! He had eaten hearts, but unfortunately, there was no time to work on the bodies. There was still so much to do. Pulling a crumpled piece of paper from his breast pocket, he looked closely at his scribbles. Right, drugs. I've taken it upon myself to return them, he thought. And then he could work more closely with people in the know. He didn't hope to solve this matter by brute force, but Imaris was stationed a five-minute walk away and should be checked first. A try is not a crime, so let's leave the hard part for later.
Approaching the pimp's car and spinning keys on his finger, Vistreet reflected that a whore wouldn't have been able to escape him in any case.
— "Mmm..." — he thought, remembering the way to the police building. — "And the air conditioner isn't working! Though who needs it in such a refrigerator."
After thinking, he opened the window slightly and a gust of wind blew the locks of hair from his face. And here is the police. Vistreet hadn't been brought in before, and he was interested to see the building from the inside. Parking carefully and passing the officer at the entrance, he headed toward the duty officer behind the glass.
— "I have a Case!" — leaning low, he said conspiratorially to the cop.
— "All cases are with the investigator in office twenty-seven," the duty officer brushed him off without looking up.
— "No-no, I just want to know! When you confiscate a truck with narcotic substances, where do you put it?"
— "Warehouse on the other side of the building until they move it to..." — the duty officer answered automatically, only realizing the situation after a couple of seconds and raising his gaze to the smiling petitioner. — "Hey, you!"
The cop's hand reached for the service weapon hanging in the holster on the back of the chair. Unfortunately for him, he didn't have time to get it—a bullet from Vistreet's pistol punched a neat little hole in his forehead. Screams were heard; the officer at the entrance rushed toward him but was cold-bloodedly killed. A siren wailed. A second pistol jumped into his hand on its own—this was much more convenient than pulling it out—and the hairy man resolutely headed down the corridor.
— "The heavens weep... For you... For youuu..." — he hummed under his breath, shooting cops as they ran out of their offices.
One, two. Two in the stomach for this one, one in the groin for that one. Vistreet walked through the station sowing death and reflected on his difficult life. At seven, his mother sent him to music school to learn piano. He didn't like it much, but he didn't object. One in the eye for this one. He learned a lot, graduated from school with honors, and then entered a prestigious university. Even then, he realized that his true passion was surgery. A year later, the desire to be a doctor vanished, and he began writing small works of prose; the woman was shot right at the table, brains splashed on the window glass behind, and her head fell onto the papers, soaking them in blood. Vistreet clicked his tongue—important documents were surely lost. He didn't like red. In general, he preferred purple and black. Black? Brisk? Proud. He wore clothes of a proud color, Vistreet thought and chuckled—the thought seemed so amusing to him.
The magazines of both guns emptied at a very bad time—two big guys with guns jumped from around the corner and opened fire to kill. Vistreet wasn't hit; he leaped into an open office door but caught his sleeve on a nail and nearly tore it. It was an expensive coat; he resentfully swallowed a lump in his throat, pulled a grenade from an inner pocket, and threw it. The guys scattered.
"Where did I get this explosive?..." — he couldn't quite remember. Maybe he stole it from somewhere or made it himself. Sometimes he forgot things that happened to him just a couple of hours ago. Well, whatever, nobody is perfect. Muttering irritably under his breath and arguing with himself, he pulled a pump-action shotgun from the depths of his cloak and continued his stroll.
Yes, he was not bad at writing. He valued unconventionality and wordplay. Wordplay, donkey play, sharp-tongued man.
A fat lieutenant fell to his knees and raised his hands, begging to be left alive.
— "Please tell me, how do I get to the warehouse?" — Vistreet inquired politely.
— "D-down the corridor and right, then... Into the hall... And go straight through, there will be a door with a sign," he stammered.
— "Thank you!" — Vistreet smiled friendly, blowing the lieutenant's skull apart.
Leaving the office, he immediately grew sad. The lieutenant wasn't so bad; he had helped him. He shouldn't have killed him. But the brief moment of regret passed, Vistreet flashed crooked teeth and waved his hand. What is done cannot be undone; why get upset over trifles now?
Briskly walking all the way to the exit, meeting no further resistance, he entered the huge warehouse room. The truck near the gates immediately caught his eye. Surprisingly—even the sound of the siren doesn't reach here. Soundproofing? Saving on equipment? Does it even matter? Next to the truck stood three guys looking lost, not taking their eyes off Vistreet and slowly raising their hands.
— "Is this vehicle ready for shipment?" — he inquired.
One of the employees, apparently the boss, nodded.
— "In that case, be so kind as to unlock the exit door for me."
Two remained standing, while the boss approached a panel on the wall, pressed a button, and the warehouse door rose with a screech.
— "Thank you. And now die," Vistreet announced and carried out the sentence.
Finding about fifty bags of white powder in the cargo bed, he settled into the cabin with satisfaction and drove out of the warehouse building. Shooting the lock on the lattice fence, he drove onto the street and headed in the opposite direction from the police sirens. The reinforcements are taking a long time. It's worse for them.
Suddenly, the phone in his trouser pocket shrieked, and out of surprise, Vistreet jerked the steering wheel and nearly drove into the oncoming lane.
— "Hello! Hello!!!" — he shouted into the receiver.
— "Damn it, don't scream like that!" — Tangheizer's dissatisfied voice sounded. — "The rat's name is Arandor."
— "You bought a rat?"
— "No. It's a person. Bring him to me. Write down the address..."
My sword, my trusted ally, unphased by my aspect.
