Welcome To The Revolution (standard:mystery, 1835 words)
Author: Nightfyre	Added: Mar 05 2003	Views/Reads: 3689/2429	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A bank robbing partnership goes south.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


The light revealed two large paintings of Moscow and St. Petersburg on
the south and west walls. Both pieces of artwork mesmerized Mr. 
Norwood. They reminded him of his days at Cornell, studying for his 
history degree. Amazed at the detailed architecture, Jack asked where 
Svetlana had come across the pieces. 

“My father gave them to me when I left old country as reminder of my
roots. He tell me a person who forget where he comes from isn't worthy 
to go anywhere.” 

“Sounds like a pretty intelligent man. Where did he study?” 

“My family didn't go to school. We worked to come to America. That was
our only goal. After war, we just prayed to get out of old country. 
Education was luxury. One none of us cared to work for. Coming here was 
only thing that mattered.” 

“When did you come here?” Svetlana began to describe the events of the
last fifty years, none of which was too interesting to Jack, who 
surveyed the rest of the room. He could faintly make out the fireplace 
and towering bookshelves on the east wall. The shelves looked like they 
were truly worth something at one point, made of thick oak and 
beautifully designed. Time and neglect, however, deteriorated the wood 
and the books it held. Moisture must have softened the wood and caused 
the majority of the damage. It also seemed responsible for the 
offending stench that hung in the air like cigar smoke. 

The furniture, like the paintings, looked as if they had come directly
from Russia. The complex patterns and colors of the sofas made it all 
too clear. They were the highest quality pieces in the room. No fading, 
no rips from cat claws, nothing that indicated they had ever been used, 
let alone damaged. 

“You want to ask me questions, yes?” Svetlana asked. 

“This house doesn't seem to be the most modern around. May I ask how
long you have lived here?” 

“I come to this house thirty years ago. I work as housekeeper for six
years before I purchase house from previous owner. Then, about twenty 
year ago, my son was killed in car accident.” 

Mr. Norwood smiled weakly; just enough for Svetlana to catch it. It was
a gunshot to the head, lady. Svetlana paused when she noticed the 
smile, peering into his eyes as if examining his soul. “Since then, I 
try to sell house for retirement money.” 

“Is that the reason you're asking so much for the house?” Mr. Norwood
inquired. 

“When you live in house for thirty years, there are many memories you
give up in selling.” Svetlana glanced around the living room as if for 
the final time. “Lots of memories in this house for me. That is main 
reason I ask high price for sale.” 

I can't wait. Go for it, Jack. “Six and a quarter,” Mr. Norwood spit
out. 

The sudden negotiation surprised Svetlana. “Mr. Norwood. Are you sure?
You haven't seen but this one room.” 

“I know...” Just then Mr. Norwood realized he was stuck. Think, dammit.
Think. You MUST  make this sale. “You see, my father-in-law was 
diagnosed with Alzheimer's and my wife and I are going to let him live 
with us. The three of us, along with our four children, are too much 
for our townhouse. We need someplace bigger, and my wife likes an 
antique look in a house. Just like this place.” 

“You have a wife? She is not here to help decide about the house?” 

“I work with contractors and such, overseeing houses and stuff like
that. That gives me some pretty decent experience in judging quality. I 
guess she just trusts me to make the decision.” 

Svetlana decided she had to take the deal. “You are willing to pay six
hundred twenty-five thousand dollars for this house?” she confirmed. 
“But your wife trusts you to make such big decision without her?” Mr. 
Norwood nodded his head silently as an enormous smile grew on 
Svetlana's face. 

“I wish I had her confidence in such a matter.” 

“May I ask where you're going to live after selling? I mean, it sounds
like so much has happened for you here. It's difficult to imagine 
finding another place after being here so long.” 

“I have friend with spare room until I find a place. It will work out.
Can I get you some tea?” 

“Yes, that would be nice.” Svetlana stood up and walked to the kitchen.
Mr. Norwood got up and began to follow her. “Please, allow me to help 
you.” 

“No, no. Quite all right, thank you.” Svetlana continued into the
kitchen as her guest took his seat. 

That was easy. 

And a hell of a lot cleaner than Fyodor. 

A few minutes later, Svetlana walked back into the living room with an
antique Russian tea set and two cups, filled to the brim. 

The two made small talk for a few minutes, discussing Mr. Norwood's
spouse and children. Svetlana glared at Mr. Norwood, who appeared to be 
concentrating deeply. A single bead of sweat careened down his cheek as 
a sickening feeling arose in his stomach. It was as if he swallowed a 
piece of bubble gum that his body couldn't digest. Must be that chili 
dog. Last time I eat on the run. 

“This tea is really quite excellent,” he said after taking in the last
drops. “Is it a native type?” 

“Yes. My grandmother teach me to make it when I was little girl.”
Svetlana could see his face blushing; a headache brewing inside his 
skull. Just then Mr. Norwood began convulsing, as if trying in vain to 
vomit. He succeeded. Ears ringing and heart pounding like mad, Mr. 
Norwood collapsed to the floor. 

The poison in his tea was taking effect. 

“What did you do?” Mr. Norwood begged. “What did you do to me?” 

“Potassium bromate. That's the secret ingredient.” Mr. Norwood wasn't a
chemistry expert, but those two words didn't sound like natural 
ingredients for tea. “A poison I attained from the beauty supply store. 
This is what you get for killing my son Fyodor eighteen years ago.” 

“But you said your son was killed in a car accident,” he gasped. 

“I lied. I knew my son was a bank robber with another, and I knew he
kept his money stashed here. Three years of bank robbery can provide a 
very tempting amount of cash. So I marketed the house for a high price. 
Anybody willing to pay that much for this shithole must know the secret 
about the money. That or they're so stupid they don't deserve to live 
anyway. You, my friend, fill both the criteria.” Mr. Norwood then fell 
flat on his back, straining his lungs for air. “In 1917 we revolted 
against our government. You may know it as the Russian Revolution. 
Politicians treat people like crap, people revolt, government pays the 
piper. You killed my son, you bastard. Welcome to the revolution.” 


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