HORROR DIARY: CreepyPasta

CreepyPasta #9: WHERE POWER LIES (Part 2)

"Professor Volkov is incredibly interested in your opinion of the situation," I said.

"Please ask the professor why, exactly, I should transfer my alliance? Why not just increase funding to my current clients and spread him thin?"

'Idiot Americans. He thinks I just throw dollars around and hope they fuck like rabbits? We're completely changing production. Three times as fast! At a fraction of the cost!'

Volkov chuckled and raised his glass to Barth. 'Salyut!' The man was a hell of an actor. 'Tell him if he continues to be a coward, he'll be the worst kind of coward. A poor one.'

"The professor says he plans to produce three times as fast, and reduce production costs."

Barth bunched the white tablecloth between his lanky fingers as he peered over Moscow. The sky was blotching in spots of grey. "Pity. The rain is coming," he said, "ask the Professor if the necessary changes will compromise security."

Volkov dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief. 'Well, well! The American does have a brain! The changes may send some red flags, but I'll have my profit withdrawn and my inventory sold well before the investigations roll in. But we need him to trust us. Tell him that's the best part! Tell him the new production eliminates human error and the manufacturing is untraceable!'

For the first time Barth's shoulders released and he leaned back as he drew a breath. I paused and gnawed my bottom lip. The game they were playing was dangerous at this point. Clearly they were wrapped in the filthier side business, and Volkov was making me dive in head first.

Barth let his head sink into the crux of his chair as he peered into the showers pelting the glass.

'Well, boy? Translate it! What are you waiting for, why do you think we're paying you? Don't you fuck this up or I'll make sure the next time you sleep, it'll be in a grave.'

"Professor Volkov says," I paused, and Barth looked at me with a raised eyebrow above a thin smile. His eyes were an acidic shade of green. "He says he was promised production would be untraceable, but he invites you to hire investigators to look into it yourself."

"Yes. Yes. A wise decision." Barth raised his glass by the stem and swirled the golden drink, breathed in the fumes, and sipped. "Tell the Professor I'm overwhelmed at such an opportunity, but we need to be strategic. Tell him to proceed, and once he begins the operation, I will cut my ties and fund his project. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm afraid that's all the time I have. Thank you Mr. err —"

"Murphy," I said, "Francis Murphy. It was a pleasure, Mr. Barth."

"Please, call me William," he said as the waiter brought his slip for the wine, "I trust you can mediate for Professor Volkov in the future? I will certainly be in touch." He signed his bill and stood stiff. Then he handed it to me. "Would you please give this to the waiter for me? I do apologize." And he walked out, pencil-like, his loafers clucking the marble floor, as if to let everyone know he'd gone.

'Well? What did he say? What did he say?!'

I told the Professor he'd agreed, and he would fund his operation once it had begun.

'Ah excellent! Wealthy men we shall be! And you! You'll be paid soon, in advance even!'

Volkov hopped down and stumbled when he landed, before trotting through the restaurant whistling a tune, his head cocked upward.

The rain was heavy outside now, and just before I got up to leave, I glanced at Barth's check and laughed as the drops popped against the window. On the bottom, with excellent penmanship, he had signed his name, William H. Barth. Below the signature he left his phone number, and then, in perfect Russian, uznayte gde sila — learn where the power lies.