《The Bratislava Intruder》 Nota Bene As Lucia settled herself into her workstation¡¯s seat, her colleague, Barbora, saw in her face there was something she wanted to share. ¡®What¡¯s up?¡¯ Lucia came close to shrugging it off before it tumbled from her tongue. ¡®Did you park in the lot as usual this morning, Bara?¡¯ ¡®Sure. Why?¡¯ ¡®Go through the underpass?¡¯ ¡®Oh. Yeah. The woman with the baby?¡¯ ¡®It¡¯s horrible. Freezing cold morning and a woman selling Nota Bene with a baby in a pram.¡¯ ¡®Wait a minute. You get a look in that pram? You sure it was a real baby?¡¯ ¡®It was crying, poor thing.¡¯ ¡®Jesus. How can someone let a baby lie there in a pram for hours in this temperature?¡¯ ¡®I don¡¯t know. Maybe the baby is homeless too.¡¯ ¡®Get real, Lucka. How can a baby be homeless?¡¯ ¡®I don¡¯t know. Maybe because its mother¡¯s homeless.¡¯ ¡®And what¡¯s a homeless woman doing carrying a baby around with her? Anyway, how do you know it¡¯s really her baby?¡¯ ¡®What do you mean?¡¯ ¡®Well, maybe she borrowed it, you know, to attract more sympathy, sell more magazines, get more money. I mean, that¡¯s why so many beggars have dogs, yes? Same principle applies.¡¯ ¡®And who is she going to borrow a baby from?¡¯ Bara rolled her eyes. ¡®Oh, Lucka, you are so na?ve.¡¯ ¡®What¡¯s up, girls?¡¯ They looked up to see Mirek had joined them, their mutual workstation neighbour. ¡®I¡¯m trying to give Lucka an education on the homeless.¡¯
¡­ you know, to attract more sympathy, sell more magazines, get more money. I mean, that¡¯s why so many beggars have dogs, yes? (drawing by Tom¨¢? Roller)
¡®Jesus. Homeless. Well, it¡¯s a simple equation for me.¡¯ He produced and unwrapped a takeout McMuffin. ¡®Who doesn¡¯t work, doesn¡¯t eat,¡¯ he concluded, as he chewed off a mouthful. ¡®Yeah, but we¡¯re talking about a baby, Mirek,¡¯ Lucia protested.Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work! ¡®A baby? Oh hell, why didn¡¯t you say? Well, the way I figure it, if it¡¯s old enough to drink titty milk, it¡¯s old enough to flip burgers.¡¯ ¡®Mirek, eat your breakfast and keep your asshole occupied,¡¯ urged Bara. ¡®So anyway, who would lend a homeless person a baby, for god¡¯s sake?¡¯ ¡®Mafia,¡¯ spat Mirek through a semi-masticated splatter. ¡®Mafia??¡¯ ¡®Mafia,¡¯ he intoned more assertively, then finally swallowed his outburst¡¯s hindrance. ¡®All those beggars in the street, the money people give them. They don¡¯t get it.¡¯ ¡®What do you mean they don¡¯t get it?¡¯ ¡®Because they¡¯re pimped.¡¯ ¡®Pimped?¡¯ ¡®That¡¯s right. At regular intervals someone from the mafia comes and collects their takings.¡¯ ¡®It¡¯s true,¡¯ said Bara. ¡®Someone I know saw it happen too.¡¯ ¡®Really? Who?¡¯ ¡®Someone I know. The people you give the money to, they don¡¯t get it themselves.¡¯ ¡®No, that¡¯s not always true.¡¯ Mirek¡¯s muffin was competing with the conversation for his attention. ¡®The elderly ones are pimped, the disabled, cripples, amputees, the most pathetic ones.¡¯ ¡®Like with babies,¡¯ offered Bara, helpfully. ¡®Exactly! The ones who depend on someone. That¡¯s howcome they¡¯re there on the streets for so long. You throw a healthy intelligent person like one of us out on the street like that, any normal person wouldn¡¯t last a month.¡¯ ¡®Eugh, I tell you, I couldn¡¯t go a week without washing my hair.¡¯ ¡®I¡¯m a bit lost here. So you¡¯re telling me not everyone who¡¯s homeless is pimped by the mafia?¡¯ ¡®No. The ones who know what they¡¯re doing are earning more than the three of us put together.¡¯ ¡®That¡¯s not possible, surely?¡¯ ¡®Oh yeah. I personally know about one woman who is begging in the centre of Brno and was pulling in more than 3,000 euros a month, living in a three-plus-one by herself, home cinema, walk-in wardrobe, the works.¡¯ ¡®What? You went to this person¡¯s apartment?¡¯ ¡®Not me. But someone I know did.¡¯ ¡®I heard that as well,¡¯ Bara said. ¡®I mean that beggars make a lot more money than working people. I heard some of them can take more in a day than the rest of us make in a month.¡¯ ¡®Are you serious?? I thought they were supposed to all be drunk all the time.¡¯ ¡®Exactly,¡¯ chorused Bara and Mirek. ¡®Have you ever been able to get drunk as often as they do?¡¯ concluded Bara. ¡®Why are we talking about homeless shirkers anyway?¡¯ Mirek wanted to know, licking his fingers then wiping them on his jeans. ¡®It¡¯s just that I saw a woman selling Nota Bene with a baby in a pram this morning.¡¯ ¡®Oh, her. She¡¯s been there for months.¡¯ ¡®For months?? But shouldn¡¯t somebody do something? I feel sorry for the baby.¡¯ ¡®Me too,¡¯ offered Bara. ¡®A woman as uncaring as that shouldn¡¯t be let anywhere near a child.¡¯ ¡®What¡¯s going on, gang?¡¯ The three looked up to find Tomas had arrived for work. ¡®What are we debating here?¡¯ ¡®Tomas,¡¯ asked Lucia, ¡®tell me, what do you think? Did you go through the underpass on the way to work?¡¯ ¡®No, I come from the other direction.¡¯ ¡®Oh yeah, of course. It¡¯s just that there¡¯s this homeless woman.¡¯ ¡®Maybe homeless,¡® cautioned Mirek. ¡®OK, maybe homeless woman, selling Nota Bene, with a baby in a pram, and she¡¯s been there for months.¡¯ Tomas looked like he was sucking on something distasteful. ¡®I say she¡¯s with the mafia,¡¯ declared Mirek. ¡®For all we know, the baby might even have been kidnapped. One thing¡¯s for certain. She¡¯s not getting a cent off me, I¡¯m not sponsoring no babynappers.¡¯ Bara contributed, ¡®And she won¡¯t be getting any money off me either. Bitch deserves locking up if you ask me.¡¯ ¡®But shouldn¡¯t we call someone?¡¯ begged Lucka. ¡®I mean, the baby.¡¯ ¡®Nah, absolutely no point at all,¡¯ underlined Mirek. ¡®She¡¯s been there for months. Authorities are bound to be aware of it. For all we know, if it is a mafia thing, they¡¯re being paid off.¡¯ ¡®Well, what did she say, anyway?¡¯ asked Tomas. ¡®Who?¡¯ asked Lucia. ¡®The homeless woman. Or the woman selling Nota Bene? What does she say about her reason for being there?¡¯ As one, the rest of them shrugged. ¡®I don¡¯t know,¡¯ said Lucia. ¡®I guess no-one asked her.¡¯ Slavo the Insatiable Hunter Slavo was on a mission. Slavo was on a quest. Slavo had plans, and plans demanded action. Slavo worked hard, though almost everyone who knew him by sight would readily disagree. Slavo was a creature of habit, a man of routine, regular as clockwork and dependable as the rising of the sun. Well, almost. For Slavo¡¯s putting in his appearance at his places of employment each day was in itself every bit the miracle the dawn is to both the religiously devout and the unshakably atheistic alike. You could set your watch by Slavo, not to mention count your lucky stars. Slavo¡¯s day began at the Apollo Business Centre, bright and early, and despite his carriage there being his feet, he arrived before a great many of the polished chrome alloy-wheeled cum deskbound had turned up for their morning coffee and tentative first glance at their awaiting e-mails galore. From Apollo, his next appointment was at Karadzicova and the towering edifices of the CBC and VUB. Banks were important to Slavo and many a time he had acted as an adviser and mentor to those employed at such an establishment, often helping them arrive at the most agreeable decisions of their professional lives. The shopping centres were high priority too, especially Eurovea, and his engagements took him to the finer hotels in addition to many business establishments before his work was finally over for the day. And then, of course, there were bus stops, so many bus stops, and even the new laws surrounding them did not stop them being the bounty they so often were. Even then, Slavo was an opportunist investor, a man with a nose for fortune and opportunity, and a tireless devotee to making each day pay. He was ever on the lookout for the next chance to come his way. He was well-recognised as he went about his daily business. Sometimes this recognition even earned him a bonus. A few regulars with a similar habit as him ¨C in one sense, at least ¨C would donate to his cache, others would be so disturbed by what they saw that they would immediately be forthcoming with examples of what he was after, though it never succeeded in stopping him going though all the motions that bought their disgust in the first place. Time to time people might even say something to him like ¡®Have you any idea what you could catch from doing that?¡¯ But Slavo reasoned that if he was doing what he was doing then the kind of thing they were warning him about was dwarfed by other dangers and risks.
As he sidled up to the Crowne Plaza, he saw a golden opportunity suddenly present itself and he homed in quick to take full advantage before anyone could thwart his plans. A suited important-looking businessman of one sorry kind or another (Slavo had never noticed a happy-looking one) was engaged in a conversation on his cell phone that was clearly raising his temperature and further spoiling his mood. Impatiently spitting vexations into the mouthpiece, along with smoke he no longer noticed he was inhaling or exhaling, he exhibited an impatience which all so often served Slavo well. Almost literally stamping his feet, the suit cast his final staccato aspersions, terminated the call, threw the still smouldering half-smoked tab into the free-standing ashtray outside the hotel¡¯s entrance, and stormed into the lobby ready to punch the free market world on the nose. He did not even catch a peripheral glimpse of Slavo, who might as well have not existed as far as the suit was concerned, but Slavo picked up his spat-spittle-wet half-spent black lung from where it landed and immediately took a long firm drag, checking the brand as he did so. Unbelievable. Gitanes. Strong, French and expensive. This was a real find. Slavo held the smoke in his lungs, its relative strength causing him to hack, and involuntarily coughed the grey-white plumes out into the air. Managing to regain enough composure to finish the cigarette, he did so in as savouring a manner as he could manage, tasting, inhaling deeply, holding the smoke in his ravaged lungs. But all too soon, as it always was with even the full virginal unstarted offerings he too seldomly came across, the lung dart had burned down to the filter, to become something that actually truly belonged in an ashtray and no good whatsoever to the likes of Slavo anymore. He tossed it onto the ashtray¡¯s holed lid where it disappeared through one of the openings. Then he lifted the lid off the ashtray¡¯s bowl, seeing what it had to offer forth in its fertile environment beneath.Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. Disappointingly, after a good sift through the lipstick-stained and crumpled remnants of gaspers sitting in clumps of ash, he managed to salvage only two butts with enough meat left on them to be turned into refries. Cursing under his breath, he slid the holed lid back into place just at the moment a managerial looking employee came shambling toward him intimidatingly. ¡®Clear off, you¡¯ve been told! I warned you I didn¡¯t want to see you back here again!¡¯ Slavo looked at the pressed-trousered and tailored jacket wrapped cloud of thunder quickly closing the distance between them. Yet he did not flinch or take a step away from the oncoming wannabe evictor. Slavo had not bathed in what must have been a year. The clothes he wore, which were filthy when he found them, had never been washed. His grime-encrusted features and aggressive hum acted as protection, as they often did for the homeless, ensuring the hotelier pulled up short and kept a prudent distance out of fear of contamination, not to mention disgust. ¡®Can¡¯t say I ever want to see your face again either,¡¯ he responded, and pocketed his findings as he slouched off under his own steam.
His next port of call was the bus stop at the technicka univerzita. Students were invariably smokers, at least at some point in their academic lives. And students were rebellious enough and determined to impress their peers enough that they disregarded the smoking ban now imposed at bus stops. And when the student¡¯s bus came and he was not done with his cancer stick, what was he supposed to do but toss it onto the ground by where he waited? After a good rooting around like a sniffer dog picking up scent, Slavo struck gold with a halfie, as well as three butts with long enough stubs to render them worthy of collection. People might wonder why Slavo did not just ask for cigarettes or beg and scrimp his takings enough to buy a pouch of the cheapest rolling weed he could find. But, although he had been known to err as far as the first method was concerned, begging or buying his smokes were not really his style. For one, plenty refused to give up one of their stogies and this did not make him feel any better about his situation. He preferred the non human engagement method of mining smokers¡¯ oases and feeling the sense of satisfaction and achievement the times he did come up with the goods. Also, Slavo¡¯s history and future prospects were such that he chose to spend as little time as possible thinking about either. He was a man who lived in the moment in a world obsessed by anything but the present, unless it was fleeting vacuous fads. Slavo needed to keep busy, to focus, to occupy himself as the hunter he was, this was his way of being in the zone, keeping the demons that had been and would come at bay. As the day wound its way though its cycle, and the workers and shoppers of Bratislava treadmilled their repetitive way through theirs, Slavo¡¯s path took him across the Danube to Aupark, where he took it upon himself to help the staff of McDonalds pick up around the outdoor seating what their diners had left behind. Sitting at one of the tables there, wiping the ketchup smears from their faces and wanting a nicotine fix to destroy what scant vitamins their meal had contained as they washed it down with plastic cups of arabica, Matej and Lenka discovered they only had but one cigarette between them. ¡®I¡¯ll go inside to the tabak and buy some fresh ones,¡¯ announced Matej.
The picture is part of Ronald and Donald comic book.
As he was doing that, leaving Lenka to sip her coffee and wait in the sunshine, she spotted Slavo with a small handful of part-smoked cigarette ends in one grimy hand. As she continued her morbid appraisal, she saw him spy another, smile to himself, then deposit the saliva-dampened, semi-smoked fag ends he had picked up off the ground in his filthy jacket pocket. She half expected him to come over and ask her for a whole smoke or some spare coins, but he disappeared in the direction of the park, possibly to smoke the bounty he had just found. Matej returned, fresh from having handed over his money to Philip Morris, a regular sponsor of the tobacco giant and the untold death and suffering they caused every day. As he reclaimed his seat, he noticed a shiver pass down Lenka¡¯s spine. ¡®You are cold?¡¯ he asked, incredulously. ¡®No, no. It¡¯s just that I saw this guy.¡¯ ¡®What guy?¡¯ asked Matej, as he handed Lenka a Marlboro which she promptly put in her mouth. ¡®A guy picking up cigarette ends off the ground,¡¯ she spoke around the cigarette. Matej leaned forward and gave her a light. ¡¯And then he put them in his pocket.¡¯ Matej lit his own Marlboro. ¡®In his pocket?¡¯ he asked. He took a swallow of coffee, leaned his head back, and exhaled a white lingering cloud. ¡®Man,¡¯ he said, ¡®some people are disgusting.¡¯ The Proselytizers ¡®What about him?¡¯ The man in his early-twenties turned to see who his counterpart, of same age and sex, was singling out. Sure enough, there was one solitary figure, slumped on a park bench in Sad Janka Krala, looking like he might as well be balanced on the edge of the world. Thin, slightly emaciated, gangly-limbed, wearing a T-shirt with a design not yet visible from this distance and angle. Bespectacled, unshaven, forlorn-faced, he looked about as threatening and dangerous as an abandoned runt of a litter of kittens. ¡®Let¡¯s move in,¡¯ the second of the pair replied. They were both fit, muscular, bodies well-nourished and sports-strengthened. And their physical condition was dwarfed by their determination and resolve. Daylight was waning and the evening was turning unseasonably cold. The park¡¯s visitors had thinned out and this particular corner was free of any but the three of them. Over by the park exit that opened onto the playground and outdoor cafeteria to the rear of Aupark, parents were leading their children out of the brief respite of greenery and back into the more familiar features of this concrete jungle. An in-line skater was making circuits around the pathways off in the distance. Otherwise there was no-one within earshot or clear view of what was about to go down. The seated man was barely aware of the lengthening shadows of the pair as they merged with that of his own. Instinctively, looking as reluctant as he was surprised, he turned to take in the two men, now standing over him, looking down. ¡®Hey there,¡¯ hailed the first of the men. ¡®How are you doing?¡¯ The seated man, whom, they now saw, was about the same age again, flicked his gaze between their faces, took in their attire, quickly appraised them, briefly scanned the park around them, then sat up straight as if wakened from a dream. ¡®I¡¯m good,¡¯ he tried to assure them, and cracked a smile, a materialisation neither of the standing pair had expected to see appear on such a victimised visage. ¡®Yeah?¡¯ the standing man responded, sceptically but politely. ¡®Well, would you object if we take a minute of your time?¡¯ As he spoke, he took in the design on the seated¡¯s T-shirt. It was a zombie, one he recognised from his brief forays into popular culture as coming from The Return of the Living Dead, a speech bubble rising from him encapsulating the capitalised exclamation-pointed BRAINS! The seated man took in the standing ones¡¯ garments¡¯ decoration in turn. He read the name tags on their white dress shirts as he replied. ¡®No problem at all, Elder Cox, Elder Bell. I¡¯m Juraj, by the way. And I speak fluent English.¡¯ He stood and extended his scrawny arm. The Mormons pumped it in turn in their own. ¡®I¡¯m Steve,¡¯ said Elder Cox. ¡®I¡¯m Brian,¡¯ said Elder Bell. ¡®Nice to meet you. Where in the States you from?¡¯ ¡®Texas,¡¯ replied Steve. ¡®Utah,¡¯ replied Brian. Then, as a chorus, Juraj and Brian said, ¡®Where else?¡¯ There was a moment of laughter and the ice dissolved. ¡®Where¡¯d you learn to speak English so fluently, Juraj?¡¯ asked Steve Juraj shrugged. ¡®Self-study mainly. I like reading English books.¡¯ ¡®You do? What kind of thing you like to read?¡¯ ¡®Well, for one, I¡¯ve certainly dipped into The Book of Mormon a time or two.¡¯
Both missionaries raised their eyebrows to the skies. ¡®You have?¡¯ exclaimed Brian, trying to keep further scepticism out of his voice. ¡®Sure. I mean I can¡¯t claim to have read it thoroughly from Nephi to Moroni, but certainly the small plates I¡¯ve been through pretty much word for word.¡¯ The Mormons exchanged a glance. This was the first they had been in conversation with an unknown member of the public who was able to command some LDS terminology in literally months. Wanting nothing more than to be an encouragement, and with their very last intention being to frighten Juraj off, Steve tried to deftly slip in a test question, to check the authenticity of Juraj¡¯s claim. ¡®Which of those books spoke to you the most, Juraj?¡¯ Without missing a beat, Juraj came back with ¡®It would have to be the Book of Jacob.¡¯ ¡®The Book of Jacob, hey?¡¯ ¡®That¡¯s right. Especially The Parable of the Olive Tree.¡¯ Both Mormons were now not just baited but hooked. ¡®Mind if we sit down with you?¡¯ Juraj welcomed them to do so, and thus they bookended the unshaven youth, their spirits raised as they took the weight off their feet. *** In another part of town, a brief but sober meeting of another kind was about to take place. One man hurried to the rendezvous site. His name was Josef Baca. Senior Police Lieutenant Josef Baca. *** ¡® ¡®¡¯¡­behold ye shall have joy with me because of the fruit of my vineyard.¡¯¡¯ ¡® ¡®Man, that is incredible,¡¯ exclaimed Brian, in almost rapturous delight. ¡®Do you know how seldom we come across people, especially in Slovakia, who can actually quote a single thing from The Book of Mormon?¡¯ ¡®What do you make of the parable, Juraj?¡¯ Steve asked, excitedly. ¡®Well, for me, it¡¯s always been quite straightforward. The lord of the vineyard is God, the servant Christ. The branches are men like you and me, capable of bearing good fruit or bad. The roots of the tree represent scripture. The pruning represents how the righteous will be separated from the sinful.¡¯ ¡®Well, Juraj, that¡¯s a valid interpretation,¡¯ encouraged Steve. ¡®Maybe a little oversimplified in some people¡¯s eyes, but I¡¯m delighted you¡¯ve given it some thought.¡¯Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. ¡®I guess you have a hard time here in Slovakia, right? Probably in Bratislava most people, or the ones who bother to speak to you at all, will tell you they¡¯re atheists, right?¡¯ ¡®That¡¯s right.¡¯ ¡®Except I don¡¯t think they¡¯re really atheists. It¡¯s just the biggest faith is Catholicism, of course, and most just assume that if they¡¯re not that, atheism¡¯s the only other choice. If you ask me, they¡¯re really more like agnostics.¡¯ ¡®Well, you might have a point there, Juraj.¡¯ ¡®Of course, critics might tell you The Book is anti-Semitic. They might make mention of Joseph Smith having fourteen wives. They might mention the archaeological and DNA inconsistencies when it lays claim to the American Indians being the descendants of the tribes of Israel.¡¯ He looked back and forth at the Mormons¡¯ faces, who were trying to be unemotive though showing a crack in their cool. ¡®Am I right?¡¯
¡®Well, sure,¡¯ said Steve, matter-of-factly as he could, shrugging for emphasis. ¡®But those are arguments we¡¯ve heard many times before.¡¯ ¡®Of course you have. Standard Gentile cannon fodder, right? Well, I hope you tell them that American Indian DNA ¨C for example, the Sak and Ojibwa tribes ¨C contains the X halpogroup, which is the marker for Israelite DNA.¡¯ Steve and Brian exchanged a half-concealed glance at each other, with Juraj¡¯s head centre stage and between their own. ¡®It¡¯s said there were no horses in the Americas during the 3,000 years The Book spans, and yet for all the Bible¡¯s mention of lions in Palestine, nothing but two bones have ever been found.¡¯ Steve and Brian were simultaneously experiencing a tingle through their bodies. It was as if Juraj had been Heavensent for them. It was if he had begun mentoring them on their own faith. *** Nadporucik Baca was greeted, perfunctorily, by Jan Turcek. Dr Jan Turcek of University Hospital, Director of its psychiatric ward. *** ¡®Of course, Mormons haven¡¯t permitted polygamy for a century. And if Joseph Smith claims God spoke to him and permitted he take plural wives, and that is singled out and criticised by LDS critics, how come people don¡¯t use the same arguments so outspokenly against Abraham, David, Solomon, Moses or Saul? Hell, and let¡¯s not even start on Islam. Mohammed is history¡¯s most famous paedophile, but not remotely famous for being someone who slept with kids.¡¯ By now, the Mormons had started to squirm a little. ¡®Well, we don¡¯t want to cause any aggravation.¡¯ ¡®Oh I didn¡¯t mean any either, excuse me. I¡¯ve got an idea. Why don¡¯t we all say a prayer together?¡¯ ¡®Well, that sounds a good idea,¡¯ said Brian, and they prepared to do exactly that. *** ¡®This is a photo of Robert,¡¯ said Dr Turcek, handing it to Lieutenant Baca. ¡®This was taken earlier this year. This is the T-shirt he was wearing when he eloped.¡¯ The snap showed an unshaven spindly young man wearing a T-shirt with a zombie design. ¡®You say he goes by various aliases too?¡¯ ¡®He does. Sometimes he is Michal, sometimes Edgar, sometimes Juraj. But it¡¯s not that he¡¯s lying about his identity. He believes each time that¡¯s exactly who he is.¡¯ ¡®And the condition he has is called?¡¯ Dr Turcek sighed. ¡®Michal has Dissociative Identity Disorder. It is more commonly referred to as Multiple Personality Disorder. Clearly we haven¡¯t got time to go into much detail, but in a nutshell he has several different personalities.¡¯ ¡®Like schizophrenia, but worse?¡¯ Dr Turcek toyed with a pen on his desk to help steady his nerves. ¡®A little like the common perception of schizophrenia, yes. It affects up to five percent of the population, and is much more prevalent among women than men.¡¯ Baca chuckled. ¡®Yeah, you can say that again.¡¯ ¡®To give you the briefest background on Robert, as himself ¨C as in when he goes by his given name ¨C he is utterly dependent and depressed, and also racked with guilt, which may or may not be due to some early childhood abuse. This is the prime reason we must find him quickly, because he is incapable of looking after himself. Coupled with the fact he has no money upon his person, and that he is ill-dressed for the weather conditions, I¡¯d say it¡¯s imperative we find him today.¡¯ ¡®We¡¯ll do our best.¡¯ ¡®Just so you can give your fellow officers a briefing, Robert is extremely well-read, a voracious consumer of information. He has an acutely high IQ and is also fluent in several languages. He is nobody¡¯s dummy, even when he¡¯s barely capable of feeding himself.¡¯ ¡®I see.¡¯ ¡®When he goes by the name Michal, he is an undercover detective, following up leads on an unsolved case, employing detailed knowledge of forensic procedures.¡¯
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¡®Interesting.¡¯ ¡®As Edgar, he is an eccentric millionaire, roughing his way around Europe to give himself a break from his opulent life in his various palatial homes.¡¯ ¡®And Juraj?¡¯ asked Baca, impatiently, referring to his hastily scrawled notes. ¡®Juraj is a theologian desperately seeking salvation, with a tendency to latch on to whatever religious ideology those in his midst are trying to sell. A few months ago he was located and secured having persuaded Jehovah¡¯s Witnesses of his adherence to their doctrine so convincingly, he was among their ranks holding up copies of Strazna veza at Trnavske Myto.¡¯ ¡®OK. One more question. Is he dangerous?¡¯ ¡®He has no history of physically harming anyone else. He is more a danger to himself through physical neglect. He does, however, have a tendency to panic, which is why I would like you and your officers to wear kid gloves when bringing him back. Oh, and he likes to hang out in parks, which might well be a good place to begin your search.¡¯ *** Steve and Brian prayed with Juraj, persuaded him to attend a forthcoming service with them, and even got him interested in a soccer game their church regularly held. Finally, after an hour plus of what to them seemed to be highly fruitful discussion, they even invited him to the shopping centre food court and treated him to some refreshments as they topped up their own energy levels. Eventually it was time for them to part company. Elder Cox and Elder Bell were soon due back at the meetinghouse in Grosslingova. After pumping Juraj¡¯s hand with aplomb, they said a heartfelt and encouraging goodbye. As they headed back toward HQ, they took one more sweep through the park, just to see if their radar detected any more lost souls they might be guided to. They were feeling buoyed after the relative success with Juraj, who showed more promise and likelihood to follow up on a meeting than perhaps anyone else in Bratislava they had thus far proselytized to. As they made their way past the Gothic arbour, a police officer noticed them and quickly homed in on the pair. ¡®You boys seen this guy around here today, by any chance?¡¯ He handed them the photo of the man they knew as Juraj. The missionaries exchanged a troubled glance. ¡®Yes,¡¯ said Elder Bell. ¡®We actually had dinner with him in the food court of Aupark about twenty minutes ago.¡¯ ¡®You did?¡¯ The officer looked hopeful, and quickly blurted an instruction into his radio. Done, he turned back to the missionaries. ¡®OK, we¡¯ll check if he¡¯s still there. In case we aren¡¯t successful, do me a favour and call me on this number should you see him again.¡¯ He handed Elder Bell a business card with Nadporucik Juraj Baca printed on it. Just as he was leaving them, Elder Cox could not resist asking, ¡®Lieutenant, is there a problem with this man? Is there anything we should know?¡¯ Baca made a circle with his forefinger at his temple. ¡®The guy¡¯s nuts. A looney tune. Mad as a hatter. A total whacko.¡¯ The missionaries frowned, indignant. ¡®He didn¡¯t seem like that to us,¡¯ spoke up Elder Cox. Baca took in their attire properly. He read the name tags on their shirts, under the inscription CIRKEV JESIZA CHRISTA SVATYCH NESKORSICH DNI. ¡®Nah,¡¯ he said, turning again to go. ¡®I guess not.¡¯ Afraid of what might await the man they knew of as Juraj, Elder Bell called after the disappearing cop, ¡®In fact, he seemed to us like a perfectly sane man.¡¯ Without breaking stride, Baca retorted without looking back, ¡®Yeah.¡¯ With a chuckle in his voice, he added. ¡®I guess he probably did.¡¯ Petrzalka Panelak Intruder When the foreigner moved into the Petrzalka panelak, he was almost immediately looked upon with caution. Maybe it was the forwardness of his politeness, the bright delivery of his accented ¡®Dobry den¡¯ or ¡®Nech se paci¡¯, or the way he held the elevator door open for those behind him in the queue, causing lone females to think twice before stepping into its confines with him. Maybe it was the shabby straightforwardness of his clothes, his oft perceived of as privileged nationality offset by his wardrobe or lack of, or just his general unguarded openness, his soul searching eyes, the absence of suspicion that rendered him so suspicious. Of course, there were exceptions. The thirty-something couple in the apartment next door pumped his hand with enthusiasm upon their first meeting, and this genuine exchange of pleasantries compensated for their dog¡¯s mournful howling each time they left it alone in what passed for their home. The blonde middle-aged pickled-livered soak along the corridor was also convivial; one of those nice drunks rendered a friend to all by the bottle. He even exchanged a nod and a ¡®Cau¡¯ with members of the block¡¯s only Romani family, which did not help ingratiate him with the building¡¯s tenants at large.
He even exchanged a nod and a ¡®Cau¡¯ with members of the block¡¯s only Romani family,
He came and went at odd times during the night and day, sometimes laden down with a rucksack, at others walking burden-free. He was almost exclusively alone, and little to no noise emanated from the garsonka he occupied, the owner of which was living in the States and a virtual stranger to the bytove druzstvo presiding over all like sharp-beaked watchful hawks. It did not take long for the conspicuous stranger to cause his first upset, although it did take a bit of cajoling until a male occupant of the same eleventh floor was persuaded to make his and his peers¡¯ grievances known. As he was making his way out of the apartment one afternoon, the cudzinec decided to take the stairs down to the ground floor as opposed to the lethargic and temperamental elevator. Making his way to the fire door at the entrance to the stairwell, he encountered a man and woman standing at the open window in the corridor, blowing smoke out into the wind which immediately returned the offering to the corridor at large. After an unreturned ¡®Zdravim¡¯ and finding the fire door locked, as he often did and to his consternation, he fumbled with his keychain to locate the appropriate one. As he inserted the key into the lock he caught sight of the woman none-too-discreetly nudging her male counterpart. As the key was turned and the door swung open, a gruff voice accosted him in his tracks. ¡®You have to lock the door after you.¡¯ The newcomer looked back, struggling a little to translate the words into his own language, but not helped by a lack of comprehension of the sense of what had just been said. ¡®Pardon?¡¯ ¡®You have to lock the door behind you,¡¯ was repeated, a little more sternly and quickly, it¡¯s deliverer¡¯s tone suggesting he had surprised himself in the daringness of it. ¡®This is a safety door,¡¯ the cudzinec returned. ¡®A fire door. For emergencies.¡¯ The man started to bumble, unsure of how to continue, and the woman brought up the cavalry. ¡®It must be kept locked.¡¯ ¡®A fire door should never be locked; it defeats its purpose.¡¯ ¡®You need to lock the door. There are thieves, gypsies, homeless.¡¯ The two sentences were tagged together as if they formed part of a common sense instruction. The cudzinec looked around him theatrically, casting his glance up and down the stairwell. ¡®I don¡¯t see any.¡¯ ¡®No, because we keep the door locked.¡¯ ¡®To get into the building it¡¯s necessary to have a chip.¡¯ ¡®This is Petrzalka. We have to be extra careful. We don¡¯t want criminals getting in here.¡¯ ¡®But locking this door is illegal. By locking the door, you make yourself a criminal.¡¯ ¡®I AM NOT A CRIMINAL. YOU MAKING A JOKE OF ME? You hear that, Lubos?¡¯

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Lubos puffed out his chest, a little, but to the cudzinec if looked more for the benefit of placating the woman than intimidating him. ¡®You keep the door locked.¡¯ He jabbed the air with his forefinger as he stabbed his words in the stranger¡¯s direction. ¡®Any undesirables get in here, it will be your fault.¡¯ ¡®I don¡¯t know what an undesirable is in your world, but I definitely won¡¯t be locking the door. If you have a problem with it, contact the police, but the only people you¡¯ll be incriminating are yourselves and possibly the building¡¯s owner. Dovidenia.¡¯ He turned and continued down the stairs, the woman coming to the top of them to cast down her Parthian shot. ¡®You come to our country, you respect our ways. You keep the door locked or you will be in trouble. What neither of them knew right then was that she was right. He was indeed going to get into deeper trouble in the building, and soon at that. A few weeks after he moved into the place the newcomer found himself face to face with a fresh obstacle, a further hindrance to his getting in and out of his apartment and the panelak itself. He was not sure if he himself was in part being held responsible for this particular modification of the building, though he assumed his presence and attitude were likely a contributory factor in this, the latest security update. In addition to the chip necessary to open the doors to the building (which also included opening them from the inside) and for the elevators, and for the door to the stairwell (from either side), plus the fire doors kept locked where they met with each floor, barred gates were installed, two on each floor, each protecting three apartments from thieves, gypsies and homeless, and bandits and dragons and trolls, and common sense and altruism and logic all in one. It was indeed a sturdy and effective barrier. The fresh blockades went up while the oddball from foreign climes was away for a week, likely on business involving some form of nefariousness. It was only the good grace of the couple from next door that saved him being completely prevented from to-ing and fro-ing via this portal.
each barred gate protecting three apartments from thieves, gypsies and homeless, and bandits and dragons and trolls, and common sense and altruism and logic all in one
¡®Ahoj. Do you have a key to the gate?¡¯ the male of the couple asked, fortuitously coming out of his apartment to take their dog for a walk at the same moment the misfit exited the elevator on floor eleven.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. The misfit was too agog taking in the gate at first to answer. ¡®No,¡¯ he said in incredulity. ¡®No, I most certainly have not.¡¯ ¡®You didn¡¯t know it was being put in place today?¡¯ ¡®I had absolutely no clue.¡¯ The cudzinec couldn¡¯t take his eyes off the prison-like new feature. ¡®I am not so surprised. Here, we have a spare.¡¯ He fished in his pocket for his key fob and removed the extra. ¡®One gift for you.¡¯ The cudzinec blinked. ¡®Thank you. Thank you very much indeed. Without meeting you I would have been barred entry from getting fully home tonight. Quite literally.¡¯ ¡®Think nothing of it,¡¯ replied the man, and took his four-legged friend for his eagerly anticipated stretch. All was relatively calm and peaceful in the panelak for a few more months. The cudzinec cum oddball cum misfit cum weirdo cum darebak came and went, virtually unchallenged even when he came and went, even when he left the emergency door to the stairwell unlocked, which he did every time. The gates across the hallways on each floor seemed to allow the former challenging couple to sleep a little easier. He often left the barred gate unlocked too, but seeing as the kind-hearted couple and the agreeable drunk were the only other occupants it offered ¡®protection¡¯, no-one voiced a complaint about this either. Then, one early Tuesday morning, at 03:28 to be precise, there came a serious intruder problem at the Petrzalka address.
The adjoining apartment to one side was vacant at the time of the blaze. The tenant was yet to move in but her father, a pan Varga, whom had purchased the place on her behalf, had zealously and painstakingly gone to lengths to ensure just the right shade of walls, variation of parquet, kitchen tiling, and bathroom suite, not to mention a growing list of minutiae that even a royal palace would be hard pressed to satisfy, were being taken care of. Pan Varga was by now racing against the clock in the seemingly infinite process of preparing it for his daughter¡¯s apartment warming party, which, as she had insistently informed him, was now a mere three weeks away. The place not having had its prefabricated core altered since its original construction in the sixties, pan Varga had even gone to the discomfort of procuring planning permission to rebuild its walls ¨C his daughter, already on her third smartphone in a year, had a fixation with all things new. It was during the demolition of the threshold wall between the reception hall and living room that a breach had occurred in the wall separating the two properties, damage for which pan Varga had obsequiously apologised to both his daughter and the neighbour, promising to both to get this repaired post haste. As it happened, the neighbour had received the news with markedly less ire than his daughter, the former being as intoxicated with liquor as the latter had been with wrath at the news. The fire groping its way across the floor of the comatose neighbour located this breach and reached its fingers through to next door, showing no sympathy or concern over the work that had been done to restore the place, but clearly misinterpreting the tenant-to-be¡¯s intended celebration and wishing to be the number one guest to arrive. Not only did the fire find slecna Vargova¡¯s potential pad to be, it also located the turpentine, paint thinner, and lacquer being used to help make it so presentable. Pan Varga would never later recall if he had properly contained these substances after he had finished using them for the day. But the fire wasted no time in noticing and taking advantage of his haste, distractedness and absent-mindedness. The neighbour to the other side of the fire¡¯s source apartment, an elderly pan Horvath, was woken by the choking sensation of toxic fumes and heavy smoke filling his bedroom. His eyes smarting and breathing all but impossible, he managed to grope his way to his apartment door and opened it onto the corridor beyond. At this stage, fire itself was not an obstacle preventing him from reaching the emergency stairs, but the barred gate was. Here the smoke was particularly dense and murky, and he slapped at the area of wall he believed the lightswitch should be located, but for some reason it eluded him. Holding his breath, his lungs by now almost as painful as his eyes, he yanked his keys from out of the door lock of his apartment and readied himself to insert the appropriate one into the lock of the barred gate. He found the gate by touch, it being by now shrouded in smoke so thick, that even were he able to open his eyes anymore, he would not have been able to locate the lock by sight. Finally, dizzy now as he grew increasingly oxygen-starved, his fingers found the lock. Now all he had to do was locate the appropriate key and insert it into said lock. Hands shaking, he tried key after key, trying to marry them with a lock that stubbornly refused to yield to his desperate requirements of it. His jittery hands and rapidly deserting self-control further encumbering him, the keys were suddenly lost with a jangle somewhere on the floor beneath the billowing clouds of smoke. He did not give up. He got down on his hands and knees to try to find them. He groped and searched and fumbled, and still he did not give up. His determination would be duly but unspokenly noted by those in the fire crew who would find his body where it lay curled beside the impenetrable gate when they went about their business later that night. The cudzi clovek entered the building, in which the rest of its occupants were almost exclusively asleep, and immediately smelled smoke. Wary of using the elevator, he used his door entry chip to open the fire door at ground floor level and stepped through it. He bounded up the stairs, the smoke growing stronger, confirming what he suspected. He rushed back down to the ground floor and went in search of a fire alarm. His gaze scoured the walls of the entrance hall. He went to the area where the mailboxes were located. He gave the entire ground floor public space a second sweep with his eyes. Nothing. He pulled his phone from his pocket and called the fire service, giving them the address. This done, he went back through the fire door and ascended the stairs again. Where the fire doors were locked, he unlocked them. He also raised the alarm by ringing the doorbells where access was possible and shouting out a warning of what was happening in the building. After doing this for four floors, the smoke grew thick enough that he backed off. He could hear the siren of the fire truck getting closer and he went outdoors to wait with the others assembled there. That night saw just the two fatalities, but several inhabitants were taken to hospital suffering from smoke inhalation. One of these, a child, would sustain permanent brain damage from the oxygen deprivation he had endured. Others would recover, but a few would have breathing difficulties that would plague them the rest of their lives. The official inspection of the building as part of the inquest into the blaze and its victims would conclude the building¡¯s owner be taken to court and held accountable for causing, amongst other criminal acts, unlawful deaths. A fortnight later, with the building and tenants as returned to normality as could be, Lubos and his partner were again at the window of the corridor on the eleventh floor, smoking. Another neighbour came to join them, and remarked that the cudzinec had not been spotted since the fire had broken out, in a tone that suggested there might be something juicily suspicious about this. ¡®You don¡¯t know?¡¯ exclaimed the already smoking female. ¡®The fire investigators wanted to speak to all tenants about what happened, and they tried to locate him but he was nowhere to be found. They got in touch with the apartment¡¯s owner in the States, and it turns out the owner didn¡¯t know anything about any tenant living there. Says he doesn¡¯t know how he got the address and keys in the first place.¡¯ ¡®You serious? I always thought there was something fishy about him.¡¯ ¡®We all did. Well, turns out we were right. He was effectively squatting. He shouldn¡¯t even have been here in the first place.¡¯