Peter Nípeter had the hair as white as the snow
that surrounded him. He carried 73 winters on his back, which was as right as
the cane he never had to use. His eyebrows were always a messed up welter torn
into a frown, just as his lips were a thin line that always looked at the
floor. The wrinkles on his face were as deep as the simple void inside his head
and, camouflaging among them there were a few scars – not as many as in his
body, but enough to show him as a fierce man. His muscled and tattooed arms
were even scary. Well, Peter Nípeter had always been a though man.
Every
night at 21 o’clock he received a call that he used to answer with his most polite
and sharpen voice. That call was followed by a road on hammer which took him to
any place in Russia. He was always left at the doors of dark garages emplaced
in dark streets of darker towns. Inside them, he used to tighten muscles, creaking
knuckles and gaze at the guy who were tied to a chair that time. He always used
to drunk a shot of vodka directly from the bottle before starting the talking
thing. Anyways, he was not a talkative man. In fact, if you quit all the
threatening stuff from his lexicon, you would say that he was indeed a
tongueless man.
Peter
Nípeter never was a break-noses guy; he always preferred the tortures related
to eyes. He was a sensible man who didn’t want to waste his time, and offering
the men needles pointing to the eyeball as a rule made them start quickly spilling
the beans. But let’s not bring this into confusion, he didn’t liked violence;
he just wanted the money and didn’t care too much about the other human
animals. This routine normally took from him two hours. That’s how he arrived at
midnight by his house, where he washed himself harshly.
Every
morning at 5 o’clock he was already awaken. He ate a slice of wonder bread and
drunk a shot of vodka before walking his huskies for seven miles. When he
returned home, covered with snow, he drunk another shot of vodka and took some
almonds from the tree in his garden. He used to read some religious book,
holding it high with only one hand, switching the hand every time he had to
turn the page while the other lifted a weight. After that, he used to train
with his guns. Peter was the best sniper all over Russia.
There
was only one soft thing in Peter Nípeter, and that was his blue heaven eyes
every time his look caressed his eight years old blondie sweetheart
granddaughter. He used to pick her up from school every day at 17’00. Then,
they both used to talk about the life, boys, studies, universe and everything
else while they walked to the cemetery, enclosing to her parents’ grave. They
died because of an eye disease.
After she left a couple of flowers there, Peter
just waited until the next call.
