Wednesday, July 5, 2017

                                                                         The Weaver

                                                                          Chapter One


Hands are tied behind to a rusty lift hook, inside of an abandoned shoe factory that once used to manufacture military boots for the red army during the WWII.  On my knees, sackcloth wrapped around my face I could feel blood dripping and falling on the floor. Part of my eyes are not fully covered. Someone had the grace to make me see what I’m facing and where I am in. The uncontaminated, pure, distilled fucking horror.
Ears are deafened by the barking of a 180 pound caucasian shepherd trained to rip my head off if i move an inch. The dog was raised by an Azeri crime boss solely for the purpose of feeding his enemy’s balls to his top combat dog ‘Kazim’. The dog developed a profound taste for human testicles and particularly that of his master’s enemies and would chew them down like marshmallows.
The distance between my face and the full teethed dire wolf like beast is just centimeters away.
 I’m praying to gods from the times to the inca, to whoever they sacrificed in machu picchu and even the Greek gods, so loud thinking I could wake one of them to come down and save me …or any damn miracle. Tease of dismay that slaps my consciousness now and then realizing that the miracle I’m begging for is just not going to happen because I-fucked-It-up real nice this time.
I think of adjusting my body weight because I’m tired of being on my knees for almost 10 hours now, then i won’t see my face or perhaps myself in the mirror again. If that chain which is holding back the dog breaks, I better be prepared to feel the most excruciating pain that i could ever imagine. I will peacefully embrace the sweetness of death and watch the monster eat me limb to limb.   
I have lost all of my communication with my unit and they have no trace of me. I last saw few men take my tactical equipment and my SAT phone. I got nothing other than the cloth around my face. The only thing I feel and have is the cocktail of pain, fear, sadness, no hope and the breath of the chained demon laughing in front of me and the coldness of -15 degrees and stranded somewhere on borders of Kazakhstan.

When you conspire with the KGB and sign up as a double agent being undercover for 3 years for a drug operation to bring down a Serbian drug mogul, you rather sign the pact with the devil.

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