Evil Little Bastard v2.0 (kierthos) wrote,
Evil Little Bastard v2.0
kierthos

fiction

I'd finally got Carl tucked away in the basement he calls home. God only knows what he has on his landlord that he doesn't get kicked out. Strange smells, the occasional chemical fire... Fuck it, for all I know, he pays his rent in pot and customized party drugs.

Pulling back into my driveway was a chore. I drive this big old Caddy, and the driveway was meant for some fucking Euro-weenie car that seats one and a half. The car had belonged to my father, and he didn't need it down in Florida, so what the hell. He and my mom are enjoying retirement in possibly the only place that Neanderthals with faint Russian accents won't get stared at... Key West naturally, and hey... free car. No one walks in L.A. if they can help it.

And shit... looks like more bad news. Rachel is waiting for me, and she's got waffles made. It's not like she's a bad cook or something, but waffles is one of my comfort foods, so something hairy and nasty must be coming at me now.

"Sooo... your grandfather called while you were out." Rachel at least waited till I had finished a couple of waffles. Yep, hairy and nasty indeed.

"You know," I said, staring at the plate, "If there was ever proof needed that a just and kind God did not exist, you would have to look no further then the continued existence of Ivan Dmitriovich Orlonski."

"That's a horrible thing to say!" but Rachel was smirking when she said it. She's met the old lech after all. "He wanted you to stop by today... if you weren't busy."

"That's the way he put it, huh? Shit." I stared at the plate some more. My girlfriend is an angel sent down to Earth. My best friend is a pothead and dropout chemist. My boss is a rectal tick who only keeps me hired because of the good liberal press having a neanderthal on staff... and not in some shitty retail job... gives a business. And my grandfather would be Evil Incarnate if Satan himself were not so afraid of the old fuck as to appear to hand over the title.

Okay, that's a bit much. Maybe. But he's got enough dirt on enough people that what passes for Mafia in L.A. gives him a wide berth and a ton of respect. Not too shabby for a Russian emigre caveman, if you were so inclined to look at things that way.

"Shit."

"You're going to go see him, aren't you?"

"Yeah. I don't want to. But I have to. He's.... family. Plus, if he's calling me, it probably means he can't or won't call the police. Goddamnit."

"I don't understand."

"Rache.... it's not that he doesn't trust the police. He does. He trusts them to be greedy, corrupt, and probably inept. And hell, swing a cat by the tail in a room full of L.A. cops and it would be hard not to smack a cop who wasn't all three. But he sees them sort of like the KGB as well, and... you stay off the radar of the KGB. It doesn't matter that this is the U.S. of A. You stay off their radar."

*sigh*

"Right. First order of business... finish waffles. Second order of business... find out what the world's nastiest old man wants... after I have to listen to the obligatory half hour speech of 'Why the Communists were such bastards' with the attendant cackling laughter over Stalin's demise."

"Well... I told him not to expect you until this afternoon."

Oho... "Right then... nasty old man has been bumped to third order of business."

------------------------
Author's note: Yes, this is a continuation of this piece of micro-fiction.

Goddamn, it took me over six months to write this? *sigh*

This entry was originally posted at yah -> (http://kierthos.dreamwidth.org/958291.html).
You can comment here or there.
Tags: fiction
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