White Niggers
Prologue
Saturday, August 15th, 2020, 15:00
Hasenauer Straße 50, 18th district of Vienna, Austria
When they chop off his head, I don't want to ruin my shirt. Not with his blood. I step away from him to avoid any splatter.
The room is full of people. Mostly skinheads. At least twenty of them. Yet it is silent. The only sound you hear is the ticking of the old wall clock.
Tick-tock.
He is about 16 feet from me. Tied to a chair. A gag in his mouth.
Tick-tock.
Two people stand next to him. Uncle Joe and some guy with a mohawk.
Tick-tock.
Uncle Joe swings an axe. The blade stops less than an inch in front of his neck. His eyes are bulging. His breath is rasping. His nostrils flare.
Tick-tock.
Uncle Joe wears an apron with a print of sunflowers on it. Also because of the blood about to be shed. Bones to be shattered. Tendons to be cut.
Tick-tock.
Uncle Joe starts talking to the guy with a mohawk. It is hard to follow their conversation because they are talking in that Viennese dialect.
Tick-tock.
The guy with the mohawk disappears and comes back with a handheld circular saw. Uncle Joe takes it and turns it on. Maneuvers it around. Smiles for the first time today.
Tick-tock.
My glance slides to Lisa who stands next to me. She never looked better. Even in that green uniform from the mental asylum. A true sex bomb. Marina Sharapova's body with Maria Zakharova's brain.
Tick-tock.
I wonder: When he took her hostage, did he think he would end up like this?
Tick-tock.
I've known him for over a year now. Worked with him, in a way. He must have had a protective demon. He got away with lots of shenanigans that would have put most people in prison.
Tick-tock.
Today the protective demon shirked on the job. Or maybe it had a day off, because it's Saturday.
Tick-tock.
Whatever the case, the hostage-taker turned into a hostage. The ropes are tight, the blade is sharp, and the motor noisy.
Whirr-whirr.
Uncle Joe is enjoying himself with the saw. Turns it this way and that. Selects the optimal angle at which to cut off the head.
Tick-tock.
Even if Uncle Joe loses interest or gets melancholic again, one of the skinheads will complete the job.
Tick-tock.
His shirt is so wet from the sweat that you can see the hair on his chest through it. It sticks to his body.
He is looking at me. He tries to say something. But the gag sits tight, and the only thing I hear is him whimpering.
Tick-tock.
Even if I wanted to help, I am out of ideas and out of energy: the party last night. The raid in the morning. The whole hostage business. Too much.
Besides, how could I overpower twenty skinheads?
Tick-tock.
Transparent droplets slide down his cheek. Don't know if it's sweat or tears.
Tick-tock.
Unless he is a magician, he is not coming out of this house in one piece.
Or is he?