Title: The Russian
Tags: Scifi Etherpunk
Blog Entry: At first glance, I knew he was a hard man. I've seen hard men, in the Royal Irish Rangers, in the Gurkha Brigade, and in the other British armed forces divisions I've worked with in my ten years of service. I've opposed hard men in the service of other countries; the Portuguese almost broke me. I've killed hard men. Something about The Russian was harder than anything I had ever seen in a man, past or present. There's something about the way a man's eyes look when they are stone, unmoving, uncaring of anything, and The Russian's eyes were definitely stony. It got my hackles up, that's for sure. Nobody knew his name. He had taken over O'Toole's Pawn in the old neighborhood whilst I had been gone to Korea, and had never changed the sign in the eight years since. He lived in the little flat above the shop, which no one had entered since Jon O'Toole had skipped town. Some said even the mob was afraid of The Russian. Of course, I didn't know all of this the day after I had come home. All I knew was that I needed to get rid of a few things I'd picked up the night before, and that O'Toole's Pawn was still open. So I had decided to pay a visit. I'd been in the shop as a young man several times, but upon entering that day, I only knew that something had changed. Whereas once the shelves had been lined with household goods given up in hard times for cash from neighborhood families, most now laid bare. The lighting which was once prevalent was dimmed, with only a single light illuminating the store from the back. The pastel blue of the interior walls were a dingy grey from a combination of the dim lighting and what looked like years of smoke and grime being built up. The biggest change in the once-open layout of the shop was the huge cage in the back. And within that cage was one of the hugest men I had ever seen. Easily seven feet tall, the man was heavily muscled and wearing a sleeveless shirt with a heavy leather shop apron over it. As I approached, he glared out at me from the cage with a glint of metal from his brow. His thick neck supported a shaven head that trickled sweat under the heat of the single lamp in the shop. The top of his head was crisscrossed with a web of scar tissue. A single large cybernaughtic eye was set into flesh that seemed perpetually on the verge of rejecting it, being an angry red in coloration. The eye itself seemed more like a camera lens, primitive in its design compared with more modern eye replacements. As I stepped closer to the cage, it rotated in its base and seemed to jut out from his face further in focusing upon me. Behind the cage, there were a number of jewelry items hanging upon a pegboard with pricing listed. There also was a rather large shotgun, black and blocky looking, with an ugly snub barrel and a gaping maw of a bore, hanging from a thick peg by a shoulder strap. I took this particular item to be this fellow's anti-theft deterrent. "Da?" the big man said in a thick growl as soon as I was close to the desk. The desk itself was encased in the cage, with a small slot in the scarred glass window. I reached slowly into my jacket pocket, eying the shotgun on the wall which was within easy reach of the huge man’s grip, and pulled out the pepperbox pistol by its barrel. The big man did not flinch, nor did he reach for the shotgun. I passed it into the small slot, and one massive hand enveloped the rickety pistol. He drew it close to examine it. “Is piece of shit, street-work. I give twenty pound,” he growled after a long moment. I nodded in response, and placed the nunchaku and several pieces of jewelry I had lifted from my assailants the night before. He took up each in turn, lifting them to his one eye and examining them closely. “One hundred pound for it all,” he stated once finished with his examinations. His single camera-lens eye fixed on me for a moment, awaiting my agreement to his terms. I considered for a moment haggling, and in that moment, the giant man decided something. “You look like man who may be more, how you say, discerning? You need good gun, maybe?” He turned to the jewelry display, fingers moving over its side. The clack of the hidden catch’s release was barely audible, and he swung the case forward on unseen hinges to reveal wall mounts behind the jewelry case holding several firearms. I knew that this particular collection of goods had never before graced O’Toole’s, and that this man must have some military connections, for several of the items in that case would not be available to any civilian. “Now, how do you know I’m not some copper, mate?” I replied with a bit of a grin. The big man scowled at me, then his lips spread into a large grin of his own, showing broken and discolored teeth. He lifted a cigar to his lips and lit it as he spoke. “You are soldier, friend. Can tell. Jacket mean nothing, anybody can get patches at surplus store. See it in way you carry yourself. And in your arm, is not street-work.” With one hand, he passed another cigar and a match through the slot to me. With the other, he waved his hand to the case. “See anything you like?” I did, indeed, but I was rather certain that most of them were beyond my budget. I lit the cigar he had passed me as I considered my options. A gun would be a good thing to have. “Tell you what,” I said, my eyes fixing on two particular pieces, “I’ll take that ten gauge, and that Webley Combat Magnum.” “You have good eye, friend! But will be more than what I could give for what you bring me.” I shrugged, and pulled out my wallet from my jacket pocket. “How much, friend?” “Shotgun is old, cheap, only double barrel; could give you for fifty. But Webley is fine pistol, that worth two hundred fifty pound alone.” “I’ll give you fifty, plus the stuff,” I replied, gesturing to the jewelry, “There’s a ring in there that is worth at least two hundred in there, real stone.” “It seems you do indeed have a good eye, friend. If only I could market it for as much. This is pawn shop, after all.” “You can always take it downtown to a jeweler to have it appraised and sold,” I shrugged nonchalantly. To this, The Russian rather suddenly barked out harsh laughter, issuing forth a cloud of cigar smoke. “You are shrewd bargainer, friend. Seventy-five pound, plus what you bring here, and you have deal.” “Done. You going to throw in some ammo, too?” “Da, I’ve a box for each I’ll give.” “Oh, yeah, you gotta bag for it all, mate?” The Russian just grinned. I took it all back to my apartment, and carefully cleaned both guns and the ammo provided and loaded each firearm. I stowed the shotgun underneath the steel-framed cot that passed for a bed in the place, securing it within the framework. There was still a little more shopping I had to do, and I planned on finding my sister Eileen today as well. I considered taking the Webley, but stowed it under the bed as well. In retrospect, maybe I should have taken it.
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