The Poisonmaster

The Poisonmaster

Written on September 25, 2015

    The man vanished into a dim alley, which was silent, dark, and menacing. It was no more than a gap between two old terraced houses built many years ago, bleak and uninviting, especially in November. You couldn't see the far end, for a large, heavy oak gate had blocked it off many years ago to stop the thieves and misfits of the area, cutting through to the wastes that lay beyond the rear of the old, boarded up houses. The walls ran with slime, which covered the now long-forgotten graffitied brickwork. Bold footsteps echoed from the man’s heels, and moths circled above the flickering street light.

    The man is husky, large in comparison to the angular alley. His mouth and nose exhaled warm steam as he mumbled incoherent words; eyes darting from empty corridors and ghostly-lit windows. Charcoal strands of hair sat awkwardly on his oversized head, he was presumably 40; his barely visible neck is tied loosely by a black tie. A gold watch strapped onto his wrist, and he wore a silver ring on his ring finger. The man didn’t pay attention much to his nicely ironed suit, and the mud that puddled on the grimy floor stained his trousers.

    The man twisted on a rusted knob on one of the lusterless back doors along the length of the shaft, which somehow still responded perfectly to the man’s demand, and cracked open after a few seconds of hesitancy. The man pulled the door open and admitted himself into the room behind it. The room was small, and completely void of anything. A triple-locked door was all that room contained. The man straightened his posture, dusted his shoulders, and cleared his throat.

    “Open the door, Mr. Zhuravlev, time is precious for me.” The man huffed impatiently.

   The locked door immediately clicked three times from the inside, and appeared a small man was about, as we learned, the man is Mr. Zhuravlev. He was both short and bony. His green eyes sparked, almost in a frantic way, towards the man. Mr. Zhuravlev smile can’t be much wider--- it seemed to reach his forehead. The wrinkles spilled on every patch of his skin, his lips were cracked and he slouched forward. He wore extremely casual clothes, one could mistake his attire for pajamas.

    Mr. Zhuravlev bowed deeply to the man, dwarfed by his immense frame. The man did not bow back, nor did he return any signs of regard. Mr. Zhuravlev beckoned for the man to enter through his door, and once he did,  Mr. Zhuravlev locked the triple locks and hid the key somewhere in a second.

    “I’ve heard rumors, that you have every poison there is in the world.” The man said, almost dubiously, and settled himself down to a seat, and stared dumbly at the surroundings. He was unimpressed with the appearance of both Zhuravlev and the housings. This room was somewhat more pleasant to look at, with sofas, coffee tables, and books. The strangest aspect of the room was the fact that it was entirely surrounded by bottles on shelves, thousands of them. In varied colors and sizes. The man shifted uncomfortably, and glanced toward Mr. Zhuravlev, who is hurrying to the kitchen. The man added, “that you have even helped many criminals.”

    Mr. Zhuravlev zoomed out of the kitchen, returning with two cups in his hands, and nodded with an even broader smile that revealed his wrinkles again. “So tell me,” He placed the two cups on a marble surface. Mr. Zhuravlev gave a cup of coffee to the man, while he sipped the other. “Who is this that you want to kill? Because I only help those whom I deem killing.”

    The man fumbled the cup with his fingers and kept his eyes on the fingers. He cleared his throat and swallowed painfully. “My wife, of course, there’s no other that I would want to harm.” The man went on, complained about how his wife was adamant about taking his assets with the divorce, though the main reason he wished for was to remarry. The man took off his silver ring and placed it on the table. He blabbered to a point where he desired to stop, then he stopped to check if Mr. Zhuravlev was following his gist. The man drained his cup of coffee and slammed the cup furiously on the table after he was done.

    The old Zhuravlev was still smiling, his teeth now dark from the coffee. Mr. Zhuravlev was even extraordinarily pleased than usual because he sat a little taller than he normally did. he said eventually after a smirk, “Well, after hearing your reason, I thought that you deserve the poison.”

     The man shot up from his seat, his face much cheerier, and demanded, “Well? What are you waiting for? Give it to me!”

    Mr. Zhuravlev sat calmly as if he did not see the urgent request from his customer. Wearing the same enigmatic smile, he said in a lifting tone, “I’ve already given it to you. It was in the cup.”

    The man has planned this before he came into this room, he predicted that this might happen. The man suddenly lost his composed eagerness and his eyes were seething with rage, he felt like he’d lost all of his dignity. He’s betrayed by a retired, vulnerable, old man! His jaws were clenched, but his face was white as paper. In a quick thought, He smoothly pulled out a gun toward Mr. Zhuravlev, the tip of the pistol inches away from the wrinkles on the forehead.

Time felt as if it went still at that moment, as if one could feel the sweat trickle down the man’s neck--- or as if one could almost smell the tension in the air. Both men seemed to be staring straight into each other’s soul. Age is truly a mask, as it hides emotion; undoubtedly the man could not interpret Mr. Zhuravlev thoughts, but Mr. Zhuravlev was irrationally enjoying the fear that’s radiating from the normally intimidating giant in front of him.

    The gun had not scared Mr. Zhuravlev, it had only made him chuckle, breaking the silence. “Go on, mister, shoot me. Do you really think you could find the antidote in all of these bottles?” Mr. Zhuravlev gestured to the bottles on the shelves, each shining dangerously into the man’s eyes. “If you choose falsely, you can end up having a much quicker, painful death.”

    The man spat, speaking through his teeth, “How much for the antidote?”

    The old man laughed again in his infuriating voice. Glee ran through his green eyes. “Not much. Two thousand dollars. Not much for you, if you value your life. You know, an old man’s got to live, too. I prevent murders.” Mr. Zhuravlev shoved the man’s gun away and examined his gold watch. The man unwillingly took out his wallet, and counted 20 of 100 bills, and threw them on the floor next to Mr. Zhuravlev feet.

Mr. Zhuravlev cracked a grin so tiny, it was unrecognizable. The action revealed the old man’s true identity--- he never was a vulnerable man, despite his physical appearance. His wits act as his weapon and shield. 

    The man glared at Mr. Zhuravlev as he paced around the room. “Oh, I was forgetting to tell you. You know, the logical thing you would do after I hand you the antidote is to shoot me, right? I give you my words, you can not outsmart me, for that I can give the police your plans to murder. I need to ask you a favor. Could you spread the rumor that I have every poison there is in the world? Thank you.” Mr. Zhuravlev’s kind smile vanished, and the man felt a shiver run down his back. Mr. Zhuravlev picked out a blue bottle from the shelves.

    “I enjoyed trading with you, though I don’t suggest you to come back anytime soon.”