The Fat Boy from Tbilisi! Chapter 4 - Saturday evening fiction

Fourth chapter of the story.
Audio at the bottom.

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First Chapter
https://steemit.com/writing/@ralph.clayton/the-fat-boy-from-tbilisi-chapter-1-thursday-fiction

Second Chapter
https://steemit.com/writing/@ralph.clayton/the-fat-boy-from-tbilisi-chapter-1-friday-morning-fiction

Third Chapter
https://steemit.com/writing/@ralph.clayton/the-fat-boy-from-tbilisi-chapter-3-friday-evening-fiction

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Chapter {4}
{Destiny Unfolding}
So here we are, a series of bad decisions has lead me to this particular place in time. Why couldn’t I’ve just been a decent and honest man. Instead I gambled my way to endless monetary perdition. I owe more money than a crack addict. I’ll never make that much in my life, and now because of this I belong to him. What I pathetically call “life.”
I’m his property now.
Abram the fat Jew, the Oligarch.
We are inside his studio. This very luxurious room, it has an antique wooden interior. Just by looking at it, I feel guilty that I might just spoilt it with my dirty shoes. My peasant blood sure has never seen anything like this before. In the center of the room there he stands.
Mr. Abram, my savior.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you sir.” I say.
Dmitry is standing next to the big glass windows overseeing the wild Russian forest in the distance. He’s smoking a Cuban cigar, a Cohiba Esplendido.
Damn that lucky bastard, he sure is the right hand of the king. Maybe one day I’ll be just like him.
It all depends on my luck today.
Mr. Abram is seating on a large leather sofa, he’s attentively looking at me. Very graciously and carefully he plays with his long curly beard. He seems to be thinking, to be or not to be. In this case, to kill me or not to kill me. Dmitry put in a good word for me, it has to count for something.
“Sir, it’s an honor to meet you.” I say with a very nervous sounding voice. “Are you aware of my predicament? Of why I’m standing here in front of you today?”
The room is silent.
Mr. Abram is staring at me, he just keeps on scratching his old beard. His intent is absolutely unknown. Maybe the Fatso is hungry? Perhaps he’s carefully plotting how to masterfully turn me in to spicy Bavarian sausages. A spoon of salt, along with some oregano and paprika of course.
It’s all part of his devilish ingredient list.
Finally the man opens his mouth. “Yes, yes, I’m aware of your situation.” With his left hand, he signals the butler to come over.
“I’m a bit hungry, would you like some sausages?” He says while playfully smiling.
A very unfamiliar and spooky feeling runs down my spine. I feel adrenaline rushing through my blood. Perhaps this is his secret signal for the butler to rapidly bring the chainsaw, and at last start the macabre spectacle. This is the end, I should jump out the window. Dmitry, how could you betray me?
Perhaps I’m just paranoid.
“No thank you, I’m fine. I actually had a big lunch.” I gracefully and politely reply.
Mr. Abram looks somewhat disappointed. It seems that he expected me to be his dining companion. At least for the moment.
“How about your Dmitry, care for a tasty sausage?” The Fatso says with a polite voice.
Dmitry is just enjoying his cigar next to the window. It seems that delightful cancerous smoke with a hint of Havana beats eating with the boss.
“I’m fine having my smoke.” Dmitry replies.
From where did all these urban legends about Mr. Abram’s sausage factory come from? It sounds hilarious, just the mere concept of the happy Fatso Mafioso having his own Weiner factory. I mean, he’s not even German nor Italian, although he’s got a big Greek complex. If that counts.
Well it turns out, it’s mostly all yellow press. One day it was all over the newspapers. A fragment of a finger was found inside a Bavarian sausage made by a local factory. Just in the outskirts of Moscow, in Odintsovo. This place is probably 10 minutes by car from Rublevka.
All kinds of wild speculation occurred as to the origin of this finger. After some DNA testing, the lucky owner of this finger was identified. A lowly criminal from a local gang that’s been missing for a couple months.
It was all rightfully stirred in the media as…
An organized crime killing.
So, one thing leads to another. Mr. Abram is the biggest fish in town that coincidentally lives right next door to the sausage factory in Odintsovo. You start connecting the dots and presto. A theory is created.
We got the Frankfurter Würstchen Mafioso.
It just couldn’t be more ironic and hilarious if you ask me. This is how the legend was born, the wicked Moscow sausage maker. Mr. Abram sure has a reputation, enough to piss your pants on the spot. If you were to stand in front of him.
Just like I am right now.
I’m standing next to him, ready to piss my pants.
It’s not joke believe me, I’m Rufus the wannabe thug who’s scared to death of this puny little man. A lot of times, it’s all about reputation. It can be far more intense than truth and reality itself.
Sadly I still don’t know when this train will crash.
“Yes delicious, indeed” Mr. Abram licks his fingers as he munches down tasty sausages.
“So tell me young man, have you got any experience in this business?” He tells me as he stares directly in to my eyes. “The dirty business, if you know what I mean”
Does he want the truth? Or does he want me to say exactly what he wants to hear? In reality, I’m just another hopeless gambler. Young and stupid, ready to do anything to survive. What’s so special about me? Well, at least I’ve got guts.
I’m standing right here, in front of him.
Ready to strangulate destiny with my own two hands.