The Fat Boy from Tbilisi! Final chapter! - Sunday fiction

Fifth 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

Fourth Chapter
https://steemit.com/writing/@ralph.clayton/the-fat-boy-from-tbilisi-chapter-4-saturday-evening-fiction

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Chapter {5}
{Bavarian Sausages and Potatoes}
There is a continuous dripping sound in the background, it could be water or perhaps something else. It’s actually blood, it’s slowly dripping out of my head as I hang upside down. I’ve been unconscious for the last couple hours. I was hit with an iron bar straight in the back of my head. It seems that negotiations broke down and now here I am.
About to watch destiny unfold right in front of me.
My most feared nightmare is about to come true. It’s not that I’ve been afraid to death of becoming a sausage for years really. This new acquired phobia is fairly recent, perhaps just a couple days old. But indeed I’m extremely traumatized by the fact that I’ve failed to impress Mr. Abram.
Now the grinder is all that’s left for me.
Here I am, upside down. In the distance I see my nemesis, the sausage grinder. It’s industrial size, big enough to fit a human. I just can’t imagine, are they going to put me whole? Or maybe chop me in to little pieces.
I hope they put a bullet in my head first.
They wouldn’t be so cruel as to just throw me in like that into the grinder. Don’t they have a little humanity left inside of them? Or is it all just dirty business. Perhaps if I beg them hard enough, eventually they’ll agree to not make me suffer.
“Please Mr. Gangster, don’t make me a sausage.”
The whole concept seems comical.
I’m actually about to start praying again. I think this is the right place and time to become religious.
“Dear god save me.”
I can hear the grinder in the distance. It seems to be working hard, perhaps they are warming it up. Maybe they are throwing in the pork pieces first, along with fine herbs and spices. Quality control you know.
How did I get here?
Where in my life did I take the wrong turn, it’s hard to say. Regrettably I won’t even become Rufus the thug, how utterly disappointing. I won’t have my gangster grave, with big golden letters. Sadly I’ll just end up in a plate, next to some boiled potatoes. Perhaps with some ketchup and mustard, and also some rye bread.
Who knows, it’s all up in the air.
This macabre recipe.
Time is what I don’t have. I want to go to a peaceful place of quietness. In my childhood, there used to be a fabulous garden next to my house. There were some amazingly tall birch trees, white as snow. I used to climb them to the top, until grandma came out of the house shouting at me, telling me to come down.
“Peter get the fuck down.” Says grandma.
I didn’t listen, I stayed on the tree.
This is my happy place, on top of these white trees. I could see the whole town in the distance, surrounded by endless forest. At night there was only the pitch-black sky above me, and the enchanting stars shining brightly in endless combustion.
The cold wind blew and hit my face. The mellow scent of the wild vegetation, completely hypnotized me as I peacefully stargazed. I was in my small little paradise which now I yearn for. My happy birch tree, where are you.
It all seems so long ago.
The question remains, where exactly did my life turn to shit? Which path has lead me to this homemade abattoir, where did I take the wrong turn? Perhaps it’s doesn’t matter anymore.
I should make peace with my god and accept my fate.
“Dear god, take care of my cat.”
“Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.”
A cellphone is vibrating. Then a tune starts playing, it’s a classic thug song from the 80s. These criminals are old-school soviet gangsters. Pretty cliché if you ask me.
I can see a shadow in the distance approaching. Sounds of footsteps are getting closer and closer, until they stop, right in front of me. I’m only able to see the shoes of this guy, I’m actually upside down. That’s a very nice pair of burgundy shoes, really fine leather and they even look handmade.
It’s Dmitry’s shoes.
“You backstabbing borsch eater! You came to finish the job?” I loudly shout as much my voice allows me.
No reaction.
He’s just standing there, smoking another cigarette. He makes perfectly round rings of cancerous smoke as he slowly puffs them out of his mouth. Such an addict.
“Relax Bratan, I’ve saved your ass once again.” He says. “I convinced Mr. Abram to pay your debts, now you belong to us.”
What for real? Just like that?
The iron chains that bound me are slowly being removed by Dmitry. I can’t describe my relief, I’m saved! I shall not meet the grinder today, perhaps another time.
Grouchy my cat, daddy is coming home.
In the distance I see the grinder, it’s now being turned off. It’s incredible how thin the line between life and death is. Perhaps life is just like that, you could die any moment. You actually don’t really think about it.
But it’s all there in front of your eyes.
To be or not to be a sausage. It could happen tomorrow.
30 minutes later I’m back inside the black Mercedes and now I’m riding back to the city. This whole situation feels like an eerie nightmare or perhaps a magical dream yet to finish. I’m now an apprentice, a hardcore thug in the making. Dmitry is my teacher and the Fatso is my patron.
Who would have ever thought?
Out of necessity and desperation I’m reborn into a new life. Peter is now dead, my old self died in the sausage factory. Peter has become a sausage and I have become a thug.
I’m Rufus the thug, the badass is born.
The gangster life awaits me, my majestic future unfolds.
Remembrance is the key, indeed for all.
Remember me, for what I am not.
Cliché.