Cop/Killer Part Two

"Killer" by Lucio 'Budding Psychopathic Flower' Valentino

I wake up the next morning with the sun in my eyes, and for those first few moments of consciousness it's just another morning without work. I can turn over, lie in bed for a while longer and get up when I'm hungry or I need to urinate. Maybe I'll go for a run through Golden Gate today, but I've been pretty good about exercise lately, almost obsessive in fact. It might be nice to just laze around and take it easy for a day. Maybe I'll just stay inside and catch up on my reading. Or listen to some music and do some painting. I think I'll definitely make it a point to pick up some zongzi for lunch.

These half-thoughts sluggishly crawl through my drowsy head for all of about 10 seconds before I remember why it is that I've been so obsessed with exercising lately. Why I've devoted myself to making sure that I'm as fit as humanly possible. Why I've been taking karate and jujitsu classes. Why I want to make sure I could outrun a wolf and take down a bear. I remember all of it, and then I remember last night.

I remember that I'm officially a killer.

I'm not shocked though. I don't jump out of bed, and I don't suddenly wake up and spring out of bed or anything like that. I just soak in it. I'm calm; thoughtful; even a little proud of the fact that I was able to do it. Sure it was a bit anticlimactic. I choked him and he died, and it was over in about 10 minutes and that was it. However, given the nature of killing, I certainly can't expect for any sort of recognition or a pat on the head or anything, even if I wanted it.

And I don't.

After a minute, I realize that I need to have a bowel movement, so I get out of bed and tread over the bathroom.

While I'm sitting on the toilet, I start to think about what I should do today. I'm a little bothered to find that, now that I've finally killed someone, I'm not really sure what to do. So much time has passed since the thought first entered my head. A fleeting thought, one that I was sure everyone must contemplate at least once in their lives: could I kill someone if I wanted to? Of course, like any sane person, I dismissed the question as a ridiculous one at best, and one I would not like to think about at worst. Over time, though, I was intrigued, and a little bothered, to find just how much more relevant the question seemed to become. Such a chaotic world that I'm living in. Who's to say that I might never need to do it?

And after that night, the answer became clear.

Before I worked up the nerve, I would lay awake thinking and calculating. Before last night, killing people seemed like something I could only do if I had the perfect plan. Before that bum drew his last breath, my entire scheme seemed incredibly methodical, but now, it feels as though I’m swimming in the middle of the ocean, and there’s nothing but small wavy lines of water on every horizon.

I have no idea where to swim.

How do I make this work, really? Do I go out and kill every night? Several times a night? Do I leave town now before I kill again? Are the police already hunting me and am I simply unaware of it? So many questions that I wish I could have answered, but given that killers don't exactly have any "Frequently Asked Questions" pamphlets floating around, I suppose I'm on my own.

And the question that bothers me most: do I practice and plan? With each kill, I expect to become better, to refine my method. It is only natural. But do I find my victims first and then meticulously plan their demise, so as to better ensure my survival? Do I enhance my own situation so that they stand no chance when they find me at the end of their lives? Do I use forethought?

Before I can think on it for too long, I reach the logical and correct solution: no. I am a killer now. In time, the number of people I kill will grow and grow, stopping only when someone stops me.

But I will never be a murderer. Murder is unnatural, a creation of man and a line that was crossed in the animal kingdom eons ago. It continues to be crossed every day, and years ago, on that night… It is a line that will always be just in front of me, if I continue to walk this path, and each step forward will always bring me closer to crossing it.

And I won't.

That thought triggers something, and I realize that today is a good day to prepare. Prepare for the long road ahead and the task that I will soon undertake. I wipe and flush and then proceed to wash up and get dressed.

Two errands today, at least, before I can settle in and relax at home. I don't know what my little escapade from the night before has wrought, so I figure I had better go and buy as many daily publications as I can. Even though I don't really have an idea how murder makes its way into the media when it's very low profile, or so I hope, I would suspect that there will be nothing in the papers today. Still, better safe than sorry, and I think I should see if there’s any scent in the air of what I have done.

Secondly, I will need to buy some supplies for tattooing. I almost scoff at the thought. I wish I were capable of being more original, but I don't believe I can deny that they will serve their purpose. When I am caught, I will hide nothing. I will of course, confess to everything, and the lucky guy who brings me in will even have all he needs in plain writing. More to the point, however, I will have constant reminders. Reminders of who I am to help ebb the onslaught of who I will become, and to stop who I fear I might become. Reminders that I will carry with me always, so that I can never forget.

And I won't forget.

I grab my wallet and keys and head out the door and down the creaky apartment building stairs. In the lobby, I see Mrs. Kim outside, walking toward the glass door, and I go to hold the door open for her.
"How are you doing, Mrs. Kim?" I ask her.
She gives me a gentle and wrinkled smile as she walks through the door.
"Oh, I doing just fine. I just went out for walk this morning. It was bit cloudy earlier, but I hope it get sunny, later on."
She sort of hobbles over to the elevator and pushes the button. She turns back to face me and smiles again, a bit hunched over.
"I see you later!" she yells as I'm leaving.
I think about how easy it would be to kill her.
I turn around and I smile at her.
"And I, you!"

_____________________________________________________________________________________

"Cop" by Bryan 'Inexplicably Fascinated With Russians' Thaxton

Just another shitty dive bar in downtown SF.

I picked this one in particular for a couple of reasons. First off, it's not too far from the Montgomery St. BART. Which is good because I do not intend to drive home tonight, even though my car is parked not more than a block or so away. Secondly, I've never been to it before, which means the chances of me running into a familiar face are slight. Third, the alcohol is not outrageously priced, probably because the place couldn't justify it if they tried. Although that doesn't seem to stop a lot of places in this city.

Tonight, I feel like being lost.

I brood over my Jack and Coke while trying not to think about work. The fact that it's more Coke than Jack doesn't help. The last six months, I've felt like I've been swimming against a current, one growing stronger and stronger. I'm not sure what it is; life just really feels like a dull, maddening roar right now. The days feel like they're all blending together into one quiet, beige nightmare. Not even a nightmare really; more of a Purgatory than a Hell.

I remember as a kid, thinking this job was going to be…I dunno, something magical, for lack of a better term. I remember watching old detective shows and wanting to be a part of that puzzle-solving fantasy. It sounds stupid, but I used to watch Quincy all the time and dream about one day becoming a lieutenant like Frank Monahan, except not retarded. Even then I was smart enough to realize that the shit Quincy pulled probably wasn't realistic. But the fantasy, of solving murders, of proving my prowess and superiority, always remained. Call it intellectual vanity, for lack of a better term. I always wanted to be the man with the answers to the tough questions.

That's the problem with this job. The questions aren't tough, at least, not in the way I'd thought as a child. Not intellectual but moral. Don't get me wrong. San Francisco is a beautiful city, and a far cry from a degenerate shithole like D.C. But that doesn't stop me everyday from seeing sights that just make you a littler number inside. The urban puzzle is not found in solving the perfect case, apprehending the brilliant sociopath through critical thinking. Shit, 85% of the cases that I come across, I know exactly or at least have a good feeling about who the prime suspect is.

And it's always stupid shit. It’s never a cunning bank robber or some kind of masterful killer. It's fucking Joe or Jose or Tyrone shooting his girlfriend because that hoe be triflin' or because I drank too much and she wouldn't shut the fuck up. It's a gang shooting, or a hit and run. Or like last night, it's a homeless guy strangling another for a bottle of cheap booze. The problem has never been who or why, but how. How do we get civilization to be civil?

Nowadays I hate my fucking job, because it seems like no matter how much effort I do or don't put into it, everything stays the same.

"Why so glum, straynger?" a man with a thick Russian accent says, seated next to me at the bar. He's a tallish sort of man, with very short hair and an unkempt but likewise short beard, jet black. He has a friendly grin plastered on his face, his arms resting leisurely on the bar. His clothes looked dated; his black wool coat seems to be near threadbare in places but remains more or less functional. His shoes would probably be dressy if he treated them as such, and they are partially obscured by black slacks, which appear to be perhaps a length too long. He reaches for his drink and his hands, rough but deft, are covered in small tattoos, in bluish-black ink.

I ignore him, and continue drinking.

"Is eet because the laybor of the day was partikularly unkind?" he continues, undaunted.

His words sort of flow in a peculiar way, the accent of one language imposed on another. It's sort of humorous, but also has the effect of drawing you in, to follow how he handles the English terrain.

"You could say that."
"A-ha, I deed say that, my friend."
"I am not your friend. Stop talking to me."
"Even more reason why I should be talking to you!" he says with a wide smile. This guy just won't give up. "Everyone ees friends with Vitaly!"

He's the sort of guy or girl in a bar who holds you hostage in a sort of conversational prison; the more you try to get through the bars, the more aware of just how trapped you are. You can either go with it or flee; in this case, my jailor is a 6'1 Russian with what looks like Bratva or vor v zakone tattoos. But he doesn't seem to have a threatening air about him, and I'm not at the bottom of this Jack and Coke yet anyhow.

I'm pretty sure this isn't a gay bar (one develops a radar for that in a city such as this) so he's probably just being friendly.

"Wat is yoor nayme, friend?" he asks.
"Sam Overbeck."
"Vitaly Vishnevskiy. Yoo can call me Vitaly, or Vivi if yoo are, ehhh how yoo say, a sweeshy man."
"A swishy man?"
"Yeas, yoo know, ehhh, wan who does not kare much for the laydies. A sweeshy man."
"You mean a fag?" I'm hoping this will opt me out of the conversation by default as a bigoted asshole.
"Haha, exahktly, a faggot! Yoo know wat I am saying." He says this with unusual exuberance, like he either has no idea of its derogatory nature, or does not care.
"How drunk are you right now, Vitaly?"
"Ehhh, too much to walk but not too much to fly."
"You are a pilot?"
"Yeas, of course. I am a pilot, yoo’re a pilot, yoo know. We are flying everyday, and eef we keep our eyes open, we can fly to many interesting playces."
"Wait, are you actually a pilot?"
"Yeas I jus told yoo, am a pilot." This does not clarify things, but I wouldn't be surprised either way.
"Those are some interesting tattoos you got there, Vitaly."
"From another time. More eenteresting but also more stoopid, yoo know?"
"I think I understand."

And I suppose this is how you make friends with a maybe current, maybe ex-vor v zakone-slash-Bratva muscle, possibly pilot, definitely drunk Vitaly Vishnevskiy. Or Vivi, if you are a swishy man, which I am not.

The next couple hours sort of expand and contract, an effect no doubt of the alcohol consumption, but also due in part in attempting to follow the words of my newfound friend. Hearing him talk is sort of like watching the bouncing ball bump along the words of a singalong, if the ball were a bit lopsided but still keeping pace.

"I am too drunk to drive, my friend," Vitaly says, taking great pains to not cross drunk and drive as we step out onto the sidewalk.
"Don't worry, I'm a cop, I can drive you home," the words straining to come undone and slur off my tongue.
"Militsya!" he says with an accusing laugh, intoxicated and a little too loud, pointing at me haphazardly. I point him in the direction that I'm pretty sure I parked in, and we start walking.
"So what do yooooou do?" I question, forgetting in my haze if I asked.
"I am jack of all trades, yoo might say," he replies simply. He says it in his own way, which lacks any implication and thus invites all. He has this way about him, in which you can't tell just how lucid he is in his drunkenness. He could either be very drunk, or very calculating, or capable of both at the same time.

"You live around here?" I ask, opening the front door of my car.
"Yeas, Reechmond Deestreect ees very russkiy yazyk. But mostly yevrei." It's unclear whether Vitaly realizes he's speaking in his language, let alone if he's speaking in it coherently. I start the car and head down the street. Vitaly instructs me to turn around, until we're on a main street. From there, we head down maybe six blocks away from the bar we just left, well within walking distance. I pull to a stop outside of street full of apartment buildings, of various sizes, shapes, and states of disrepair.

"Deed I ever tell yoo about the time I pushed my boss' face through a weendow?" He says with a laugh.
"Uhh, I don't think you should be sharing that story with me, Vitaly. I dunno if that’'s safe.”
"Why not? You don't look like FSB."
"This is your stop," I say abruptly. I certainly would hate to be killed by the probably gangster who accidentally told me too much.
"Thank you for the drive, my friend. And for the ehhh, how you say, cheet chat." He says, patting my cheek gently with his outstretched hand in a gesture I can only assume (hope) is an eastern European thing.

"See ya around, Vitaly."

Once he's through the door, I pull into a nearby lot to make a u-turn. Throwing it into reverse, I promptly slam into the front of an expensive-looking BMW.

Goddamnit.