Sergy the Vigilante

It is nice here in this park. The bench is firm. And it’s a sharp cold like the little town in Siberia I grew up in, but without the wind. They will find me soon. I can see the tower in the distance. It is white with a militant blackness at the top. Five years in Attica was enough for me to know this prison, they are the same. I’ll go, no problem. I’m old, the mean ones will leave me be in there. And no doubt, there will be my countrymen that will understand the stars on my knees and shoulders.

This one was worth it. Necessary. And it’s not White Swan. These Americans can’t know what that is. Soft in the core, all of them, like good bread. That soft prison, that’s where I’ll end my days, the few that I have left. Seventy years is good though. And I had at least forty that were good. Maybe ten that were just nothing, neutral, bland work in the cold factory. Twenty in the White Swan, those were the worst.

The little neighbor girl, named Savannah, alive and wild like that vast plain in Africa, for her parents and for the crime of her life taken by something that looks like a man, but is less than an animal, that’s what I’ll tell them when they find me and ask why. Just that and no more. In Siberia, we knew what to do with those like that. This, how they say, technocality, that is why that monster walked out of court free. And he took her in the worst way. He didn’t even flee town. He went straight home to that sagging dump of his dead mother’s. What kind of man? None that belongs on this earth. I dug out the old suit, the dark gray Armani that we all wore in the old days in Moscow, after the collapse and men with balls and brains could take their futures back. It didn’t fit right because I’m hunched now, but it was enough for that dumb bastard to mistake me for a lawyer instead of a wolf. He let me in his house and I sat in his kitchen smelling the garbage rot mirroring his putrid existence. “Coffee, why yes, thank you,” I said. His back turned then, fussing like a woman with the filter, I don’t have the speed anymore, but the power is still in my arms and shoulders. The rope dug deep into his throat, an old hemp job, no nylon for this slug. I didn’t bother with gloves.

I’ll get caught and take it like a man, not like that son of a fly’s shit. There wasn’t even the spark of those who fight to live in him. Just a few minutes of pointless struggle than a weak resignation. I poured the acid over his face and his manhood, but I didn’t feel much satisfaction really.

And now I’m here in this park, listening to the sirens wailing towards me, a place that means freedom and home to me. I stare at that other place that means consequences and I accept what I’ve done.

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