The thoughts alternating in my head fade second by second into fog till I'm dozing off while the washer stops the low groans and the timer resets to four glinting zero.
Heat rushes to my face before ascending to the mold-infested ceiling, the touch of clothes is both rigid and soft as rays of white vapor cloud the sleeve cuffs and zippers.
Sweeping the lid shut, a low bang sounded hollow in the half-open space while the four zeros on the timer shone back to four eight. I fix the 'out of order' sign upright and pick up the basket.
The moon ain't up tonight, not in my sight at least. Between two lamp poles across the empty driveway and the flickering one on my left, the dark sky above dipping an uncomprehending indigo and the cracked concrete pavement under my feet with the graffiti of a horse head sneezing. The spent incandescent behind me was the only light the world had given me.
***
Past the wobbly gate and a little over a hundred stairs, I was greeted by 25-degree Celsius controlled temperature from the central system again. Dumping the basket next to the closet, the earlier sense of weariness grew passively to a wriggling, soothing numbness. Despite the pocket watch on the nightstand indicates it's only nine.
Jet late has a weird way of operating. I put the Colt pistol back on the nightstand and pick up the wrinkled pack of smoke from the mess on the table.
Sitting by the edge of my bed, I glance at the thinnest hand of the clock. As soon as it finishes a rotation, my left thumb tucks the package open. Bumping the bottom of the pack made two sticks of filter poke out, I bite the taller one between my teeth as my right index finger slid open the tacky, black-and-gold matchbox. My left thumb bent the lid of cigarette pack back and pressed it down between my ring finger and pinkie and the other three pick up a match, rub against the striker, tilting the end of the cig towards the small ember while my breaths grew rapid to draw the spark brighter.
I flicked the withered match towards the dumpster across the room before cocking my head back at the pocket watch.
4 seconds.
A laugh escapes my lips beside loaves of smoke.
Still second to maxim.
The afterthought came as a package, with so many by-products, little things linked with habits and intertwined with old faces. But I left the box sealed and threw the pack of cigarettes back on the table.
Resting the cigarette by my nightstand, I push the mattress aside and sat down by the opened safe to start recording all the expenses occurred today, the blasted 502, the new 9 mm, the quartz dagger, lunch, three-piece suit.
Then the possible problems in the future, the luthier wants his dues pay in physical labor in the weeks to come. If anything goes wrong at Club 57, dojo will rat me out in a heartbeat, and I have a feeling they won't be as eager to cut a deal with me again this time.
I take another drag, running my thoughts back to the bespoke tailor, about Enzo and Maurizio. The tip of the sparkle closes in on the end unobtrusively as it hangs on the edge of my mouth. A whiff of grey smoke stings my eyes shut, exhorting me to not overthink the look on tailor's face when he saw the strap.
And there's Enzo's fucking takeaway on this city riding towards hell on 5-9 traffic rush.
"If they could keep it at the edge for five years.They're the actual voice of this war....
It's not that I've never thought of it, years ago when the workshops and one-use slug shooter first came to view. Back then everyone thought the Russkies would respond more hurriedly.
Especially when those greedy bastards are deliberately changing Lesnaya into the second Glen avenue.
There was always talk at the lanes about who was moving what to the east or who was popping off at the wrong place. Every act of detail and twitch of thumb spells war.
It keeps on happening for half a decade like pay-to-watch nunciatas at 10th street.
And it became the new normality, makes you wonder what the fuck are they thinking and if the skirmishes pilling up for more than 50 months are more digestible than the alternative.
I ain't buying Enzo's bullshit, but I know as well there are people chaining the Qins and the Russkies from scorching half of Euforia.
A warm touch on my lower lip with a whip at the end made me stop writing and lower my gaze to the spark climbing on the filter.
I snuff it off between my index and thumb before flicking it to the trash can, tracing a spinning trajectory above my bed. Hitting the rim of it, a plaster of grey ash and white rolling paper stamped on the bin.
Getting off the hard wooden floor to light another in front of the window side just in time to catch a flash of light instigated at the other side of Central Park, close to the west entrance where the cab dropped me off.
Some pessimistic ideas of its origin materialize before I get back to the journal to add a lousy summary of the situation with the Zhang dao currently at uncle's shop and the other one sold in an auction without a record of its former owner.
I place it back between stacks of cash in plastic bags and close the safe, restoring my bed, and head downstairs for a little something to clear my head.
***
I cross the coffee stand to the record player under my TV. Recollecting on how it got here as I rummaged through the cabinets. At the tail of that train of thoughts is forever resenting either myself or Vera before feeling stupid for even reminiscing in the first place, just like between 'At Last' and 'Runaround Sue' I always ended up with 'Velvet Underground' while avoiding Leonard Cohen, still too early.
I took the cig out of my mouth and placed it at the edge of the table. Placing the sleek black vinyl on the planer and switching it on, I turn the volume wheel on amp up to maximum.
First came the continuous crackles through speakers by the turntable's sides until they blear into G choir. Putting the cig back into my mouth, I grab the violin case by the door and strap the Pardini on my back after checking the safety.
I drag the spare furniture on top of the room corner and dig my fingers in the seam of wooden floor to reveal the hatch.
I slung the violin case on my back and climbed down to the fourth floor. Leaving the hatch open, simplistic tone and drawn-out melody sounds just loud enough to cover the shit stirring in my mind as long as you pay no mind to the lyrics.
***
Stepping into the workspace with the lights on, blinds down. I take a drag and puff it out at the white incandescent above so the place wouldn't look so utterly bleak at night.
Turning on the tube light on the wall gave the black debris and screwdrivers in the left corner tool box a sharp, unnatural gleam.
As procedure. Unloading the mag, the one in the chamber before switching the slide lock and getting to work. Luthier's batch is hot as hell for a reason. A piece from him. Let it be a .22 Rugur or a .38 Makarov, you can expect them to work as intended. Since the old man got a strict standard for everything.
And so does the one in my hand. Lining the barrel's end at the LED light, I can tell the edge of grooves close to chamber had hints of worn out, but the rifling itself is fine. The slide's finish was patiently redone for I can't find a vent or crack on either side but the smooth execution still proved it was used many times.
Luthier went through a heap of trouble just to make sure every part of it was renovated instead of replaced. The only part that wasn't original is probably the recoil spring.
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I sit back looking at the mess in front of me, the furthest layer of ashes on the cigarette lost its ember as the sparks burn further down leaving it to falter. I put it back on my mouth.
Savor of mint and spice lingers on my parched mouth and itches the back of ear while guitar choir and indecipherable lyrics keep coming down from the open door to my left, sometimes loud, sometimes faint. Either is my focus somewhere else or that's just how it goes.
I press my left thumb on the magazine release and racks the slide back couple of times making sure all is well, aiming the shallow iron sight at the four-leaf clover on the tube light. With a twitch of knuckle, the firing pin cocks. If there's a round in I'd be cleaning shatter pieces on the ground and off my face.
The former owner must have the tightest trigger discipline ever or thought he's a cowboy.
Under the bleak white light, the under barrel engraving cuts deep into the metal. Sharp notches biting in my thumb, grazing by.
It's not an engraving. Engravings wouldn't damage the model, but these words were drilled in deep.
Casios belli.
Whoever the owner, was very convinced of these words.
I take one last puff before squashing the cig by the toolbox as it breaks in half, a spoonful of tobacco mingled among black debris. Holding the screwdriver and nibble the tool to insert it through the opening, millimeters from the trigger itself.
Push the tool in hand to the screw on the left I tighten it clockwise no more than half a turn before trying it on the clover again. The force needed to pull the trigger increased vaguely, but the crisp click from dry firing felt delayed.
I spent the next 10 minutes or so adjusting the three screws in front of the trigger until the 'wall' disappears and the pull before the reales are restored.
The former owner almost unscrewed both of them to get the fastest trigger pull possible. Safe to say he had shot himself at least once.
Clutching my left palm against the grip, line of sight right above the white dot between my eye and the tube light. Feeling a notion away from pulling the trigger.
Fast is never the point, you can be the fastest and still get send down by someone with their piece already in hand. What you need before a trigger pull is the time of a thought. Slow enough to second guess, fast enough to swipe away the afterthoughts.
A clean zap happened as my fingertip reached the guard, like a machete to a metal pipe or the crack of a whip against leather. Putting it done, I bring up the box of 9s luthier commandeer with the product to fill those three empty magazines.
Pushing the rim of the next round vertically at the point of the former one and again and again. The destructive words above are barricade by narrow opening, all that's auditable is the half-awake intonation and simplistic melody that swings around the vision you formed in your head as it keeps on playing.
An untold amount of time passed till I'm done. Inserting one of them in, racking it back, and adding one more to the mag before turning on the safety.
Causa latet, vis est notissima.
The metallic-grey words on the frame looked like a statement next to the serial number. An omen.
I lean the two extra mags on the wall against workbench and strap the Pardini behind to clear the space for the embroidered wooden box. The quartz dagger lies there quietly, spider web of carvings gives the weapon a dazzling outlook but doesn't outshine the fact that its handle made it a bitch to carry.
The most optimal choice is under the armpit, by the ribs for easy access, though I don't think I have the sheath for it. And not too thrilled by the idea of cutting myself. Arms are unlikely either, I'm almost certain Maurizio loathes wide sleeve.
This makes ankle the only option. Strapping it downwards with the handle against my ankle and the blade pointing at my calf. Since it has a curved handle with a straight edge blade, storing and accessing would actually be easier this way and the rear wouldn't hump the opening of my trousers.
But I sure as hell ain't going to duck tape that on my socks like a moron. I grab the box of parabellum to the heavy steel door at south southeast corner. The thing, which is fully black and does not fit even the minimum furniture in this floor. A strip of metal rebars screwed on four edges, cold-rolled steel surfaces reflects the color of gasoline under sunlight with a surprisingly normal-looking door handle sticks out a bit further than it should with an electronic code pad above.
Ivan once laughed that code pads are a joke, to which I agreed. Just like every preservation methods in existence.
I punch in the rearranged code for the safe under my bed to the pad, six digits later the locks retract silently. I force my shoulder by the handle and lean the entire weight of my torso on for it to waver clumsily to the other side.
Squeezing through as soon as the opening's wide enough. Pushing aside the hard body armor on the hanger hook on the top shelf and a box of 7.62 on the cabinet to my left showed a square fireproof box with 'high voltage' warning sign.
I press it open to reveal the same set of siren systems from the fifth floor and a manual switch to open the vault door from the inside. Switching off the alarm, I take a step back and hold the still-moving steel door from advancing any further. The crack on the right wall's noticeable enough.
This room is right under my bathroom while the whole building has the same layout the size of it ain't much to complement its density. Three sets of metal cabinets on three walls, all filled to the brim. It used to be for the arms that I ain't got enough room for upstairs, (mostly to luthier and my lack of judgment)
Rifles and shotguns of all sorts and purposes leaning on the front, an entire cardboard box of stripped parts from pistols and attachments, a set of hard body armor hanging on the top shelf to the left with boxes of 12 gauge, 45, and cans of 7.62 behind it. I add the box of 9mm on as well.
On the right are the manual maneuvers. Bayonet, machetes, bent daggers, an old leather suitcase stuck between shelfs, a .22 with silencer on, bottles of wine with labels infested with mold, bottles of bourbon with no labels at all and the only revolver in the whole building. (Yes, it's Malcom.) Some military-grade flashlights I added about a year ago shortly after I bought the record player. And a sealed plastic box at the northeast corner.
Every now and then ought to be items too hot to keep or of no use to me. Most of the time I could get rid of them at the lanes or the market, but there'll always be unlucky days where you end up with something you don't have a single clue what to do. Here is also where those things went. Years later, place's a post soviet junkyard and looks good enough for me to open a pawn shop of my own.
I push a series of Russian dolls at the right lower shelf aside, to start trying out the sheaths. After some rummaging, I settled for one made in hard leather and about the same length though the original design was for a hunting knife with a wider blade.
The quartz dagger fits wobbly with a small part of the handle sunken in, but it wouldn't matter. The thick sheath has an extra strap of leather and a buckle sewn in to hold the knife.
I strangles the part where the blade curved into the handle tightly. Far from perfect but sufficient enough. To choose a belt of the same saddlebag color as the sheath before stepping out of the vault and dragging the handle on the way. The door swings slothful till I've sat back down on the workbench does it shut. The bolts automatically lock in without a sound.
I place the sheathed dagger by the wall before kicking my right foot on the bench. I press the end tip of belt just above my ankle, close to the calf. And round it spiraling upwards so it won't overlap and derail the result. After three and a half circling, the buckle meets the tip again. I grip both ends and pull as hard as possible till it feels identical to my usual carry, though I can't do anything about the lack of flexibility and the weight.
With my right hand holding them in place, I extend the left towards the toolbox for a Phillips screwdriver and stab a white crack where the prong touches the end of leather strap and throw it back in the toolbox before I lose the balance in this pose.
28 cm from the buckle to the white marker.
I lay it flat on the bench and reach for the hobby knife that I don't even remember its presence in the box. I hold the knife between my index and thumb for a clean cut about one and a half centimeter to the right of the mark.
Throwing away the rest of the belt by those violin cases on the left. I was lucky enough to find a nail corrosion by the brown stain around the tip. But not a hammer, so I pick up the spare mag leaning by.
Pressing my thumb on the first round while the free hand nibs the nail in place. The magazine made an ominous noise of cartridges grazing each other, which made me dial it down to light tabs til the nail could stand without support. I put the tool down and with my index and middle finger to pull the nail off. Now there's a new notch on my workbench among others.
Restraining it onto my leg, the freshly cut leather is rough around the edges but tight enough to stay in place under the calf. Finally, I brought up the leather sheath back up.
A hunting knife's is usually designed as daily carry so a large number of them also have another notch to strap it on belts and jeans pockets, and this one's no exception. With the same extra strap of leather on the back adorned with a buckle.
Holding it downwards, it took some effort to clasp it ob the belt. The straight edge of the dagger stretches to the middle of my right gastrocnemius, I adjust the sheath closer to the front so the carved handle won't poke out of my trousers. I can feel the edge of my eyelid twitch for this thing looks like a goddamn boomerang.
I iron out the wrinkles on my trousers before standing up to stroll around my place like a 6th grader in flea market.
The tip of the sheath occasionally stabs my leg, the leather belt is nowhere near as comfortable as the polyester one I kept daily, especially with an extra buckle pressing on my shank. Then again, dressing in a fucking suit and boots probably feels just as cumbrous.
I walk from the kitchen to the front door repeatedly, imagining I'm on the neon streets, the damp metro, a pitch-black ally, the hallway to Club 57.
The sway of hands deliberately widens and so does the space between my every step. My hands sway back from the hip to the waist, nigh to my heel. I put the image of a faceless bystander five steps ahead and made him walk towards me as well.
Two steps we took, one to go, double the arm's reach. As my left feet scratch the floor and my right heel leaves the ground along with my right hand swaying to my hip. While the center of my body moves forward to my left foot, the right foot kicks back completely, the trouser sleeve is lift up by gravity. My right hand grips the carved handle as my thumb unbuckles the lock. The grip fits surprisingly well in that moment.
Pulling it out felt natural and swift as it leaves the sheath along with the movement of my mass. Within the period of a step and a half, I buried the dagger in the person's abdomen.
I look down the transparent dagger shining a confused glint under illumination, griping it normally the handle bents like the grip of a saw-off shotgun. Heedfully knocking its spine, the brittle piece clinks like crystals intended to. Accommodate by the eccentric handle means it's only suitable for stabbing soft spots.
Hitting a bone could make it snap in two.
I think about if a broken grip's enough for a refund at Glasgow while resting my feet back on workbench to slot the knife back in, buckle it, and loosen the belt off my leg. A round of purple strip appears on my leg like the shackles of an inmate in Garrison.
***
I put the shabby-as-hell knife sheath in the embroidered wooden box and the extra mags in my pocket, the 9 mm on my back, the violin case dump along with the rest by the west wall. Up the ladders, the A side of the record just finished. And I still don't know if Lou Reed's talking about self harm or sex fantasies.