The Algorithm of Chaos

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15

As I was zeroing in on the W Group’s HQ, that morning, my thoughts careened back to the start of our affair, as if I needed them, the fucking recollections. My girlfriend Ninka was who kicked it all off. The fucking bitch with any of her holes all ready for rapid deployment sooner than Jack Robinson yells his „knife!“, yet you can always rely on her, who aced all field-tests in this pot-holed life.

Well, there we hanged out at our usual cafe when she sez from her ipheezy , ‘Yo! Check out the macho!’

‘What?’ sez I, ‘Your ex flashes his fresh selfie, huh?’

‘Fuck you!’, Ninka sez, ‘Don’t remind me that fuzzy Kwazzimodo!’

Then I took a look, well, yes, a grabbable ugly&sexy. A thick beard cut close to his map, merry eyes, not a pain in the arse, you know.

‘Yo! Nink!’, sez I, ‘Wanna bet this Ace be mine?’

Ninka’s visage contorted yet she kept zipped up being well in the know none of them would ever get off the hook if I’ve framed the guy for a bit of having fun with him.

Nothing’s easier than hooking them if you ask me. ‘Supreme potshots-taker’ called me my the last but one ex. Also not a dullard was he. Because they are like eager champignons, up they strain out of themselves, up onto their toes, ‘Me! Pick me, girl, please, into your basket!’

The follow-up is a dead cinch. You find this mushroom on Facebook and make sure to click-like his avatar mug, then add a couple of “wow!” emojis under wise shit on his timeline, which they share year after year with wolf packs in the background, like, “The herd tremble when a gangsta wakes up!” or maybe “The rules of justice are set up by the strong!” Here and there sprinkle wink emojis or in the sunglasses to make a dead kill. And that’s it! Check the stopwatch, in no later than half-an-hour he knock-knocks at your account with the friend request if he was active at the time, sure thing. Anyway, the hunt is done within 24 hours.

No cat has a loophole the moment he cast eye on my avatar, see? The tits like a cruise icebreaker front for rich tourists visiting polar seas, the face at proper angle, in three-fourth, the lips wear welcome smile of both expectation and promise. The guy’s fever shoot up and now he can think of nothing but iboning me thru FB messenger.

Messenger’s where I X-ray-check them. If that’s a gasbag or touched in his head with political and climate changes he gets unfriended without a further notice. Go play with yourself, asshole! Also the guy who every other day rolls out selfies of him leaning on a new BMW or Porsche, it’s certainly an auto mechanic who I promptly ditch – we need no alky here! And the rest of them needs an attentive approach and sustained attention.

In short, after a week of texting and pics exchange he was not sieved out and I went out for the kill in earnest. Who wouldn’t if smack bang in the middle of winter season he buys you a one week tour to Sochi… Or Turkey it was? Anyway, you can see some sea in the selfies and pics though I never go farther than knee-deep, the goods gain the angle for the needed advantage and besides I have jitter sabout the bitchy sharks.

‘Next time,’ sez he, ‘We’ll ride the Venice gondolas and walk the Elysian Fields in the Capital of the World’.

He knew the Geography tip-top.

‘Next time’ means slotted in between his business trips which the HQ pretty often sent him to.

Not only the Geography, he also knew a thing or two about fucking. Yes, he could find means and ways to make you floating before you cum. A romantic lover as promised by his beard. Nothing like those rich papas’ dudes who know only doggie style and prostitutes.

All the girl needs is seeing she’s treated as a person then she will have you banging high. I mean not bad was he at sex. Though it depends on a girl, you know. Keep admiring his bone, moan and stuff, it revs them okay, pride puffs up their genitals anatomy. Well, and at orgasm or simulating it let you go and scream like crazy and then just lie, like, undone and weary, ‘O, God! You two have almost killed me, babe, you and your one-eyed beast’. Or some other shit like that hooey. And he’d be laying himself out to keep up to the plank you put.

At first, I was, like, his call girl in between his business trips. They lasted differently from a month up to half year in those two years of our free love relationship. And then I moved to his place, after his divorce. The ex-wife had taken the kid but he paid no alimony because there was an accident and the boy died. True to God, I never wish people grief in the family, still it’s good she had no excuse to chafe his nerves in a damn litigation.

That was our natural wedlock. He comes back home from his trips and we shake bones till the next departure. He had a fine body, not a beefy body builder yet sinewy he was. A Captain in the army, before he switched to working for the Group so he kept himself toned up, morning runs and stuff. He had just two tattoos, as if there are guys who don’t sport them. Yet not too gaudy, a usual skull on his left forearm and two lines on the right one “Seek fo Your Shore”. Yeah, at times we got ecstasy high or used Viagra, not often though. The high was fine, no denying, yet not all yours because the stuff somehow ripped off its share and the next day you are busted empty and dried up and wanting not a thing at all. Same as after a big C recreational party.

We were getting along quite okay. Neither an alky nor a junky was he. It’s only that at times as if black-outed, even at the table. The eyelids wide parted and some icy glint in his fixed eyes, a kinda zombie.

‘Hey, man! Where are you?’

‘Sorry, babe, my fault, veered off to thinking’.

‘Of what?’

‘Regardless’.

O, sure, big boys, big secrets. Till you’re laid up. Tender strokes, no direct questions, no haste. He’d tell you all, night after night.

He said the hardest is to clip your first one. More so if they’re unarmed. You kinda have a fit of wanker’s cramp before his pop-out eyes. Then, in a moment, there’s no man already but a heap of meat, riddled, oozing blood. But after it goes without a hitch. Automatism. The trick is not to look into their eyes.

So he left the army and landed in the elite W Group who provide their services for no matter who, be it a private person or a state government willing to fork out MM’s to feel securely protected. Syria, Africa were his business trips’ destination, for the most part.

‘Ever fucked a black virgin?’

‘You’re mad keen on fucking. Nothing else there in your screwed up head’.

‘What’s there to secure in fucking Syria?’

‘Oil fields’.

‘And in Africa?’

‘Mines. Gold mines, diamond mines’.

‘Against who to secure?’

‘Terrorists and Americans who conspire with them against our Homeland’.

Now, who’s head was screwed the wrong way up? I couldn't help rubbing his nose in.

‘Do you really need it? You’re not in the army’.

‘A regular for a day is a regular for life. See?’.

‘Fuckin’ A,’ sez I, ‘Hard to miss an ass wider than on Ninka, my best friend. When our fucking Homeland squats to shit its ass’ shadow overcast half Africa.

‘Politically ignorant bitch!’ sez he. ‘I’ll drive it home to you the hard way!’

And he sprawled me on the rug.

When this “Special Operation” started I went to war together with him. ‘Enough,’ said I, ‘of your uncontrolled business trips. You have to stick it in every other day, cuntfucker. But now it’s right here and no visa needed. You’ll be having regular meals, well groomed and off insanitary bunker fucking.

The day before departure we went to a restaurant in a yacht moored in the Moscow-River. They do rip off their patrons there yet nothing doing, romantic things are costly. While there he proposed to me officially, like in TV serials, with a diamond ring from a small box. He told me that in the W Group HQ he’d left a memo for their big shots to consider me his widow, just in case. The Group paid a sizable compensation to the families of killed personnel.

‘Fuck the compensation,’ sez I, ‘it’s you I need, not their G’s’.

So I went there, rented a house and to the war he was going by his camouflaged Land Rover as a field commander.

War’s a fuckin’ A madhouse. They had driven there all kinds of sorts. Both Russian army and W Group, and volunteers from prisoners. No matter what was the crime and stretch, a volunteer gets pardoned and if they don’t kill him in six months he goes off, a free citizen of our great Homeland. And Caucasians too, wild bearded each of them, cackling in God knows what tongue. And Syrians, employees of W Group in their country. All the horde raised so as to free Ukraine from the cussed fascism.

What makes it worse, everybody’s uptight because it’s a fucking war. Half of them drugged or drunk, you see it in the look of their frost-bitten optics, and every mudak carries this or that firearms and there’s no telling when or what will go off in their contused brains. Yet, the dreariest of all that you start coming to terms with the fucking madhouse, kinda get used, like, become one of that crazy crew.

I used to wearing the fatigues and felt myself how rude it made me. Switched over to the army argot. Who fucking cares to watch their mouth? You put it over straight and loud for them to get it quick. Not much trouble about bugging. They did not dare, even if on high, I flashed W Group chevron on my sleeve, the merry skull, and the motherfucker switched over to eating his own shit.