[Bob_Blackstone]

A Little Red Phone

Valdimir Petrov stood and gazed at the phone in my office. After hearing this man's stories, I could sympathize, so I quickly stashed it in my drawer. He was one of a dying breed, ex-KGB and member of an elite squad. Stalin had a very sick mind. Sometimes he would call his victims up at midnight and have them meet him somewhere. Their last human contact would be Joseph Stalin. Not that the family cared; they died soon after. It was Vlad's job to clean up the loose ends. That's the reason the guy was afraid of the phone.

Allow me to introduce myself, I am Bob Blackstone, a Private Eye. Vlady boy here was one of my only clients in months.

"So Mr. Petrov, what do you know about all the people that have disappeared?" I could see my informant's face slowly contort into a mask of disgust, but he relaxed enough to answer.

"We, well, that is the reason they 'disappeared'. You see we were all in the KGB." The disgusted look then contorted into utter rage. "All of us were in Stalin's murderous little midnight hit squad. As children, he used us to kill for him. His best assassins were children."

The feeble old Russian man swept his arm across my desk, scattering all the pictures and files I gathered for this case, not to mention the numerous trinkets some of my clients sent in as thanks. Personally, a check or maybe some food would be much appreciated. Honestly there's only so many ways to make Ramen.

"You don't understand what they are planning."

"You must calm down if I am to offer any of my services to you." The odd little man simply swore in Russian and spat on my floor. Quickly his demeanor changed.

"I apologize for the mess. I should have kept my temper. Back in the motherland, I would be sentenced to Siberia for that outburst."

"Well welcome to the good ol' US of A. Here we just send you a bill."

My patience had really started wearing thin. I looked up to the little clock in the corner of my office. 8:30. Damn, it was getting late. I started to rub my temples. Damn my luck, this job was starting to give me gray hair.

"Mr. Petrov is there any way this conversation can continue tomorrow? Tonight think of any other members of your hit squad and try to get them to come in. If not, I don't think there's much else I can offer you besides a name of a bodyguard I know."

"Da. I shall try to contact my squad, and I shall call you tomorrow for an appointment."
"Yes, that would be good. Thank you. I look forward to tomorrow."

The old man sighed, gathered his coat and his hat, then reached into his pocket and drew out an armband.

"Take this. I have no children. Maybe you can hold on to it."

After he left, I turned the small piece of fabric over. On it was the Soviet sickle and hammer, but with one alteration, a skull was underneath the Soviet symbols. This was part of the uniform that Vlady boy had worn, while he and his comrades killed Stalin's dissidents. I reached into the drawer of my desk and brought out a half empty bottle of bourbon and a glass. I set them on the desk. After deep thought, I placed the glass back in the drawer. The glass couldn't hold enough for me. I promptly took a strong drag out of the bottle. Leaning back in my chair, I regarded Vlady boy's story.

These horrific tales were not what was scary about this case. No, it was Petrov's eyes. Those eyes were as cold as a Siberian iceberg, but sometimes they burned hotter than anyone thought possible. They were that sort of soulless haunted blue. I shivered and thought of an old legend. When you stare into a person's eyes, you saw their soul and vice versa. With that thought, I brought the bottle to my lips again, this time sparing none of the inhibition reducing drink.

Not really wishing to visit my old pals at the precinct, at least for a DUI, I hailed a cab, gave him my address, and sooner than I thought the driver stopped me and asked what sort of case I was working on. Severely inebriated, I told him.

"Hey, Mac, it's best not to stick your neck out for people. It's a helluva lot easier to get it lopped off that way."

"I'm shorry min goood mahn Iv godda dood it." My own voice severely slurred voice echoed in the cold Chicago night.

After that colorful exchange, I stumbled in my door. My ever vigilant Boxer, Mjolnir, sat at the door in rigid attention until she saw it was me. Then she broke into a fit of yelps and repeatedly rolled over.

"Shhhhh, Molly. Daddy's head hurts. I unceremonially fell on my couch, grabbed the remote, and turned on my TV. The couch got crowded fast as Mjolnir assumed her position on it. Seriously, try lying on the couch with a full-grown boxer on you. It ain't that easy. What's funny is she never does it when company's over. I have a weird dog. Well, I guess that's God's way of punishing me for her name, Mjolnir, after the mighty hammer that the thunder god of Norse mythology, Thor, wields. Who says I don't have a sense of humor? She is my blunt instrument for smiting my foes. After some odd hours of mindless drivel of people eating rats on Survivor, Conan O'Brien Making fun of the President, and then the late night infomercials start to run. Thankfully, blissful unconsciousness came. Only Molly's tugging me off the couch woke me up. The phone was ringing. Odd it was late, who in God's name would call this late?

"Your nose is too big in my business," said a voice that I knew somehow, yet didn't. The thick, guttural Russian accent made it worse, but that chilling sentence was all that I heard before all hell broke loose. My door crashed in and a behemoth of a man stood before me in all black except for the red sickle, hammer, and skull. Over his shoulder, I saw more like him, big and scary looking. Instant hangover removal, just have a couple dozen Russian commandos break into your home. Personally I'd choose the hangover.

"Shit."

Before I could dive for my Smith & Wesson .38 Chief's Special, Mjolnir earned her name and sunk her teeth into Comrade Commando's frail neck, and blood sprayed everywhere. As soon as I landed, I drew my .38 and more Russian commando ninja dudes, or whatever you wish to call them, came pouring in through my windows and the smashed door. Shit, Shit, SHIT. I only have six rounds and there are more than six really pissed off badass Russian commandos. Hmm what to do....

Molly answered for me by tearing out another's throat. Some of the soldiers leveled their weapons at her. The revolver barked six times and six commando's chests exploded in turn. Thank god for armor-piercing rounds. Like a man possessed, I dove and grabbed an assault rifle from one of the fallen commandos and let it roar into the night. The loud constant roar steadied my nerves, but that comforting roar died into a clicking noise, letting me know that I was officially screwed, but no one fired. A steady rhythmic sound of heavy foot falls echoed through my hallway. Those foot falls belonged to a man many thought dead.

"No. NO! You died in like the 50's," I shouted as the steady cold fear raced down my back liquefying my backbone. I fell to the floor, then huddled next to the bullet-riddled corpse of my dog. That face, even the mustache, all the same, untouched by death. His eyes were the same haunted eyes as Vladimir's but these contained more malice, a tyrannical gaze that seemed to ooze evil. Trembling in the gaze of those soulless eyes, I stood to meet this tyrant on level, but quaking, ground.

"Ahh, comrade? What is death? Or life? Science has found a way for me to rise like the Phoenix, and as strong as a Bear." How many times do you stare into the face of a person who nearly brought the western world to its knees? How many times do you look Joseph Stalin in the eye?

"Well, now you see your system has failed. You cannot try to rebuild the USSR." I reached in my jacket's inner pocket, causing several commandos to tense up, and pulled out my flask. Slowly, I unscrewed the cap. The mix in my flask was not a drink but a crude Napalm. Hey, who doesn't carry around Napalm in a flask? Ok, just me.

"So Comrade, do you drink?"
"Ahh.. Vodka, no?"

I nodded in affirmation, then he extended his arm to accept the flask, which I poured on him. "You shall regret that move, Capitalist Pig."

I found out that he wasn't kidding about being as strong as a bear. When his fist connected to my jaw, a loud crackling snap confirmed the shattering of my lower mandible.

"Only thing I regret is using a move this dirty."

Stalin's head cocked quizzically.

"Hey, a little red phone is ringing Stalin and its ringing... just for you."

Then I swiftly drew my lighter and sparked it, sending them all into oblivion. As the fire consumed their bodies and the flames licked away their flesh, I leapt out of the window, landing in a nice soft dumpster.

I looked at the little lighter in my hand, kissed it once, then climbed out of my make-shift safety net. After I shook off the filth, I stared off into the bitter night. Red lights of the fire engines flashed in the distance. I pulled out a cigarette, lit it with the still warm lighter, and took a deep drag. This was not going to be easy convincing the guys at the station about what happened.

I never got the chance. A black van drove up, and a man in a suit got out. I'll never forget what he said, because it changed my life. As sure as meeting a dead man.

"Welcome to S.T.A.R.S, Agent Phoenix." Before I could protest or question, a dart was sticking out of my neck. The numbing liquid spread quickly as I fell to the frost-covered street.

[JirQUEST]

i am like... WTF?

a lot of street lingo in the story, and it reads like a typical gangster style. not that it's wrong. it might turn out to be fine for this context, but for now, it sounds too raw.

it is also quite disbelievable how the boxer can take out the first man and escape the wrath of revolvers, going again for another.

as usual with many others, more show instead of tell might be good. there are some issues with tautology as well. a lot of things are also left unexplained... but given that this is the first of many to come, i presume u will explain them soon. keep trying