Peter
Georgiy laughs when he is nervous. He laughs when he lies too. A week ago he squealed like a hyena grabbing the dead Mexican’s wrists. He dragged the small man— his name was Luis— painting the parquet floor red.
Before rolling Luis in black plastic he unhooked the gold pendant from his neck. He won’t need this, Georgiy said, stuffing it in his pocket. I ordered him to put the pendant back on the dead man's neck.
Ever since he was a boy running in heavy diapers, Georgiy liked to take. Steal. Murder isn’t enough. He grabs and boasts his thefts and wears shiny stolen things.
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