Hippo 15

[4:52 am.]

     [Exterior of Novak Deli.]

Five men — JAKOB NOVAK, OSKAR NOVAK, and their three associates — emerge from the deli. One of the men pushes OSKAR's wheel-chair; JAKOB stands in front as they stride down the back alley that leads to their automobiles.

OSKAR

(in Polish)

You should have killed that Negro dog for disrespecting us.

JAKOB

(in Polish)

I think it's about time we started looking into finding a place for you to stay, father. One of those nice country homes. Somewhere you can rest and relax and grope the asses of fat nurses all day.

OSKAR

(in Polish)

I did not build this organization with my blood, sweat and tears so you could roll over on your back and bare your belly to the first —

JAKOB rolls his eyes.

JAKOB

(in Polish)

Where were these brave words when that blonde little shit spat out Chappell's name, old man?

OSKAR grunts and makes the sign of the cross.

OSKAR

(in Polish)

Do not speak that name. Do not —

OSKAR abruptly stops speaking. JAKOB scowls, not turning around.

JAKOB

(in Polish)

Why? Do you piss and shit yourself every time you hear it?

No response. JAKOB stops.

JAKOB

(in Polish)

Did you piss and shit yourself now?

No response. JAKOB frowns, and turns.

JAKOB

(in Polish)

What —

Half a dozen feet away, JAKOB's men writhe in silent anguish on the ground.

Wisps of smoke curl up from their faces. They claw at their own throats and chests as the long threads of soot emerge from their lips, nostrils, and the corners of their eyes. Their torsos heave as they try to breathe. They are on fire, burning from the inside out.

OSKAR is silent, his eyes wide, staring up at his son. A figure stands behind his wheel-chair. She is cloaked in shadows; her head is engulfed by a black, opaque flame. The flame is as featureless as night, pure as pitch — and reveals no trace of her face save for one.

Her eyes. They are silver-green, devoid of pupils or iris — and float in the dark fire that has consumed her.

JAKOB

(in Polish)

Mother of G —

She lifts her .45 to JAKOB's forehead and squeezes the trigger. The muzzle flashes; the bullet strikes — but the pistol does not make a sound.

OSKAR

(in Polish)

— no, no, no —

The woman lowers the still-warm muzzle of the pistol down to OSKAR's shoulder. He cries out in shock, jerking back in his wheel-chair and reaching behind him to claw at her clothes.

OSKAR

(in Polish)

— you fucking mother of a whore, you fucking — you'll burn in Hell, you'll —

When she speaks, her voice is like a deafening whisper.

WOMAN

Konrad Gorzycki waits for you, Oskar Novak.

OSKAR

(in Polish)

— die, you'll die and I'll fucking — I'll — I'll —

OSKAR stops struggling. He now stares up at the woman, arms extended, his expression shifting from rage to shock.

OSKAR

(in Polish)

— I'll... Konrad?

WOMAN

He was your first. You didn't know how to do it properly, then. Not yet. The wire kept slipping through your fingers; your hands were greasy with sweat. It should have been quick, but it was twenty minutes before he stopped breathing.

OSKAR's hands slide down from her.

OSKAR

(in Polish)

...How — would you —

WOMAN

You weighted his corpse down with your boat's anchor and threw him overboard. When you returned, you told them he had suffered a terrible accident. You comforted his family; you comforted his widow. And in time, you took her as your wife.

OSKAR stares, slack-jawed. His arms fall limp at his sides.

WOMAN

You thought no one would know. You thought no one would remember. But Konrad remembered, Oskar Novak. For sixty years, he has been waiting patiently. Waiting and praying for his friend to remember him. Waiting and praying for his friend to come back home.

OSKAR

(in Polish, whispering)

— n — no. No, this isn't — no. What — what — what are you?

WOMAN

(whispering)

Let's not keep him waiting any longer.



[6:11 am.]

     [Exterior of Novak Deli.]

The sun is rising; orange blades of light wash across the alleyway behind the deli. They illuminate four corpses in total — all burnt beyond recognition.

At the end of the alley, an empty wheel-chair rests on its side — its wheel lazily spinning in the morning glow. The chair is wet, and currently laying in a large puddle of salt water.

At the edge of that puddle — poking out from a seam between two slabs of concrete, like a persistent weed — is a single human fingernail.

It has been freshly torn from its root.

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