I've kept a journal for months now, but things have gotten interesting, more to write about other than the odd, "Find criminal" or "Caught criminal" or "Investigating Currently" notes that I just jot down. Or the odd reminder note during an investigation to contact someone. I'm gonna break it down by the hour, because mechanically it produces a more effective method. My wife, Elizabeth Noel. My son, Afanasi Baev. The Immortal Storyteller. My daughter, Arina Baev. Peaceful Storyteller. I hope you both witness a new world. A free world, where tyrrany doesn't rule the people of the Motherland. Marx wanted a country where the country supported it's people, made them work in unison to produce a powerful force. I can already see that Stalinism is creating a society that forces it's people to work like dogs and be fed the same shit that the rats gnaw on.
What I do, I do for you my loves. My job pays well, the job you don't know I have. An informant for the Russian mob on police activities for the Russian Police. A Gun-Smuggler. And now, I've been hired by a crazy old man who claims there are 'lycanthropes' whatever that means in the Black Forest.
Here was my day:
5:30am - Wake up, stretch out, work out.
6:30am - Shower, Shave, Shit.
8:00am - Walk into office, get a call from врач. The Doctor. He said he wanted to talk about things, needed some eyes to spare his the, and I quote, "Useless boring shit that you do everyday." Such a polite man, I see. We set up a meeting for 1:00pm.
10:30am - I get a call from Boris. He wants information regarding police activity on Кровь Сербии, or the Blood of Serbia. They were a western expansion from the head core of the Russian Mafia. And tended to leave messes for me to clean up. I informed him that he should probably stay quiet in Pankow, the sector that I lived in. He should also dispose of the body in the most effective way possible.
12:00pm - I eat lunch. It's something with less meat, which I'm not accustomed too. It's a Salad. My wife made it for me.
1:00pm - I meet up with the Doctor, he called me from the station and told me to bring Jacques in, he was interested in some paper that he wrote on an incident he had while fighting the germans during the war. Patches, I call him. After all, the eye is the hardest spot to hit on the human body. And he was somehow able to get something in there deep enough to fuck it up. Idiot. During our conversation we decide to team up, I agree to be an investigator and supply arms in order to fund this crazy mans investigations. But who knows? Maybe there's something too this. Maybe we'll discover something to change the world...
... Maybe I'm just further enabling this man's delusions.
1:15pm - I get a call from the office, apparently there's a body in an alleyway. Fucking mafia.
1:30pm - It's not the mafia, it's something else, as I come into the alleway the man is up against the wall with some sort of sanskrit drawn around him. His skin has been flayed away from around his chest, rather like a sweater-vest. His eyes have been carefully removed, my guess is to not damage him. Apparently, he was found originally in the french quarter. But he's Russian.
2:30pm - We finish investigating what amounted to a dead in, and drag the druggie... I forget his name, but he's American. He's got charm, and I bet he wracks in the ladies and whatever diseases they carry. He split up afterward and I'm dropped off at a hole-in-the-wall by the name 'Black'. Simple, straight to the point, and hiding more than it's fair share of criminals. I meet with Boris there. We discuss a firearms trade. An Kalishnakov for a box of twenty year old whiskey. I buy him a bottle after he tells me that he knows an organization by the name of 'Parliment' and head off for the French District.
4:00pm - I show my ID and tell the border patrol my business in france occupied germany. They let me pass, but I feel eyes on the back of my head.
5:00pm - I ask my way around town, and wind up in a rather shitty part of the French area. Figures, the germans humiliate them and they take it out on the honest public. I run into Patches coming back with a few scrapes and bruises. He lost to homeless men. Honestly, the man has no balls. I'll see to it that those homeless men talk. With, or without their tongues. After all they need hands to write. But I suppose I could take a few hands too and leave the tongues. There are four of them, so he says. Four hands, two tongues. Sounds like a fair trade.