i got a gun, i got a girl
HI SO I WROTE A STORY FOR EYAIYULETIDE OR SOMETHING. IT IS FOR deutscheami BUT IS NOT NEARLY AS AWESOME AS SHE IS. It has robots and (future) Russia and con men because I am nothing if not predictable. I apologize in advance for anything I have gotten ridiculously wrong about: eyai, Russia, crimes, economics, and everything else.
Also: SO MANY THANKS TO nextian. I owe her like five million firstborns for making this presentable, so I better get on that babynapping. <3333
HOW TO SUCCEED IN CRIME WITHOUT REALLY TRYING
MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION, ‘96
It goes like this:
Andrei Vladimirovich is old enough to remember serial numbers. This means that he has stoically survived the quiet but thorough reorganization of his country’s government, one economic collapse, and Eurovision ‘94. And yet, each time Konstantin Nikolaevich opens his mouth to complain, Andrei finds it very difficult to resist the temptation to toss his own key into the Volga.
“Andryusha,” Kostya whines, albeit a little muffled on account of how he’s sticking his head into the refrigerator, “Andryusha, brother, we are out of everything!”
“No,” says Andrei, as correcting a clear falsehood is an urgent enough priority to interrupt his trawling of the newsfeeds. “There are still the savings in the bank. As you would know, if you ever did the accounts.”
Kostya ignores this last swipe. “That’s comforting,” he concedes, slamming the refrigerator door, “but unhelpful, since some of us, right now, need to eat.”
“I am not responsible for the flaws in your manufacture.”
“You will be,” Kostya says darkly, “when I’m wasting away on your floor.”
“Technically, I am not responsible for you at all,” Andrei observes.
“Sometimes I hate that you found a sense of humor,” says Kostya, which is just hilarious. However, it also sounds like the lead-in to another one of Kostya’s prolonged bouts of whining, so Andrei pointedly tunes him out and starts compiling a list of potential money-making schemes.
Five minutes and twenty three seconds later he cuts Kostya off mid-complaint by clamping a hand over his mouth. “I have a plan,” he says, over Kostya’s muffled protests. “We will go into business after retrieving the Kudrin File.”
“What?” Kostya protests, after Andrei lets go so he can breathe. “Fuck, no, I am not getting involved with government shit again--“
“This plan is twenty percent less risky and fifty three percent more lucrative than art forgery,” Andrei says reasonably, shutting Kostya up again, “which was the next option.” His face flickers briefly into a grin. “Besides, most likely the file is still sitting at the bottom of an evidence locker at the station.”
“Remind me to explain the concept of ‘reassuring’ again,” says Kostya. “Later. Maybe after we’re shot.”
MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION, ‘95
FSB Colonel Kuznetsov settles himself on the edge of the table, watching the nervous young man in the wrinkled suit try to look inconspicuous. It’s hard, because he’s in handcuffs.
“Isn’t Federal Security Services kind of an overreaction?” he says finally, still blinking a little at the harsh fluorescent lights of the interrogation room.
“The FSB operates under the optimal level of paranoia,” Kuznetsov says. “Do you know why you’re here?”
“I assumed you’d tell me.”
Kuznetsov just looks at him. It’s a very effective look, especially coming from someone who really only needs to blink as a courtesy to other people.
“-it was a wallet!” the young man wails. “That’s practically jaywalking! I was going to dump it anyway, there wasn’t anything worth anything inside, how is this even a big deal?”
It’s expected, so Colonel Kuznetsov grabs the prisoner by his shirt collar and drags him up out of the chair. “Because,” he says, conveniently close to the young man’s ear, “it becomes a big deal when the wallet belongs to the Minister of Economic Development and Trade.”
“… Who?”
MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION, ‘96
Dmitri Vladimirovich Kudrin stops experimenting with how visibly bored he can look when his colleague whacks him over the head with a rolled-up report on the economy.
“Ow!” Dima says, just to be annoying. “What was that for?”
“For being completely useless,” says Timofei Vladimirovich. “Or did you think the economic analysis was going to write itself by the three o’clock meeting tomorrow?”
“I would consider it a rare yet charming quality in an economic brief-“ Dima begins, but then Timofei hefts the report again. The Minister of Economic Development and Trade sighs, exaggeratedly, and leans back in his chair. “Fine, fine, Tima, I recommended throwing out protective tariffs and dropping the discount rate, there’s already a copy sitting in your inbox, and you are no fun.”
“It’s preferable to ‘non-functioning.’”
“Ah,” says Dima, “but you miss out on glowsticks,” but Timofei has stopped listening in favor of conducting a serious examination of the state of the nation’s industry, presumably since melting Dima’s key down for a paperweight isn’t an option.
Unfortunately, this also leaves Dima time to run through the list of things to do to entertain himself that don’t overlap with things that will end in a public relations nightmare. He’d prefer that Tima not spritz him with a spray bottle like after the nightclub incident.
He spends a few minutes debugging the code for his heroin .app, while Timofei shoots him disapproving looks at regular intervals, but approximating downers with programming just isn’t that hard for a genius. Now, his work on cocaine, that was a different-
“I’m just popping out to Lubyanka Square,” Dima says, giving Timofei a little wave just as he swivels around.
“What-“
“It’s been a year,” Dima explains cheerfully. “I think I can be discreet,” he finishes, and sweeps out the door.
Timofei Vladimirovich, now apparently doing triple duty as Long-Suffering Minister of Industry, Economic Development and Cleaning Up After Dmitri Kudrin, wonders if just letting himself wind down today would be easier.
MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION, ‘95
“Now, do you want to take another guess at why you’re here?”
“Because I won a one-way ticket to Siberia for stealing from the government?” the prisoner tries, dejectedly.
“No, your tax evasion is stealing from the government,” says Colonel Kuznetsov, dropping the young man back into the chair. “This,” he says pleasantly, producing the flash drive that until now has been sitting snugly inside a monogrammed wallet, “is the one-way ticket to Siberia.”
There’s a long pause while the prisoner stares dumbly at it. “… Is that supposed to be trade secrets or foreign exchange rates or something?” he says, as Colonel Kuznetsov begins to suspect that maybe the unbelievable incompetence isn’t hiding a brilliant con, but more stupidity. “I swear, I was just hoping for a credit card.”
“Trade secrets,” Colonel Kuznetsov says flatly.
“… Is that a trick question?”
Kuznetsov sets the flash drive down on the table. “You don’t know any programming, do you.”
The young man stares at him like he’s crazy. “I used to be a bartender.”
“So you robbed the Minister of Economic Development and Trade,” Colonel Kuznetsov continues, “looking for an American Express, and were disappointed when you found extremely sophisticated code apparently designed to produce an altered mental state similar to the effects of cocaine.”
“-what?”
Kuznetsov sighs, and says, flatly, “It runs coke on your computer.”
“Why the fuck would you want to run coke on your computer--“ the young man begins, and then, as realization dawns, “-oh.”
“Yes,” says Colonel Kuznetsov. “’Oh.’”
“What the hell,” the prisoner says, at it starts to sink in, “the minister of the economy is eyai--“
“More accurately, the government is,” says Colonel Kuznetsov, before the prisoner can discover whole new octaves of panic, and calmly produces his keyring from his pocket before the young man can say anything stupid like ‘what.’ “Please take my word for it that mine is the small one next to the key for the Aston-Martin, I would prefer not to take my shirt off on the first date.”
The prisoner knocks over the chair as he tries to scramble backwards.
Fortunately, Colonel Kuznetsov claps a hand over his mouth before he has a chance to do anything truly obnoxious. “Konstantin Nikolaevich, this is exactly why you’re here. Because you are a terrible con.” He smiles. “And I could do it better.”
There’s a long moment where Konstantin just gapes as if Kuznetsov has just started speaking Turkish, and the colonel decides that even if cutting a deal with a criminal mastermind would have been more profitable, making sure this incompetent idiot doesn’t get himself arrested for shoplifting is about upholding standards.
“I will be confiscating fifty percent of the take on all future operations,” he says, as he drops Konstantin against the wall and retrieves the handcuff key. “Any negotiations will end with you on the next train to Siberia.”
Ten minutes later Andrei Vladimirovich and Konstantin Nikolaevich, newly minted business partners, have disappeared into Moscow, leaving the flash drive sitting alone on the table in an empty room.
MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION, ‘96
“I don’t see why this plan demanded that I be the eyai grunt,” Kostya hisses, as they stuff the security guard back into the closet and retrieve Kostya’s clothes.
“One of us has a long history of successfully impressing upon people that he is a thinking individual,” Andrei says, without his expression actually shifting at all from casual, “and one of us should probably be melted down for scrap metal. You can do the calculations.”
“Sometimes you say very hurtful things, Andryusha.”
“Only sometimes?” Andrei says, as they slip out a back door and into the street. “I will have to work harder to fill the quota.”
Kostya snorts. “I don’t have to take this abuse.”
“You do,” Andrei points out, “if you want to see any of the profits we will be making from our very lucrative new drug cartel.”
“I prefer to think of it as a public service,” says Kostya. He grins as they turn out of the alley and onto the street, all casual. “A government’s not broken in until you have a few ‘drugs and hookers in hotel rooms’ scandals.”
“I question your grasp of politics-“ Andrei begins, but can’t finish insulting his partner’s intelligence over the sound of the limousine screeching to a stop in front of the station. They pointedly do not freeze when a young man in sunglasses, designer shoes, and a suit with a Vinnie Pukh tie climbs out of the back.
“Morning,” says Kostya.
“Morning!” says Dmitri Kudrin, Minister of Economic Development and Trade and part-time aspiring virtual drug lord. He saunters inside.
Later, Andrei will insist that it is Kostya’s fault that they are Russia’s most wanted. Kostya maintains that Andrei is a dick.
Also: SO MANY THANKS TO nextian. I owe her like five million firstborns for making this presentable, so I better get on that babynapping. <3333
HOW TO SUCCEED IN CRIME WITHOUT REALLY TRYING
MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION, ‘96
It goes like this:
Andrei Vladimirovich is old enough to remember serial numbers. This means that he has stoically survived the quiet but thorough reorganization of his country’s government, one economic collapse, and Eurovision ‘94. And yet, each time Konstantin Nikolaevich opens his mouth to complain, Andrei finds it very difficult to resist the temptation to toss his own key into the Volga.
“Andryusha,” Kostya whines, albeit a little muffled on account of how he’s sticking his head into the refrigerator, “Andryusha, brother, we are out of everything!”
“No,” says Andrei, as correcting a clear falsehood is an urgent enough priority to interrupt his trawling of the newsfeeds. “There are still the savings in the bank. As you would know, if you ever did the accounts.”
Kostya ignores this last swipe. “That’s comforting,” he concedes, slamming the refrigerator door, “but unhelpful, since some of us, right now, need to eat.”
“I am not responsible for the flaws in your manufacture.”
“You will be,” Kostya says darkly, “when I’m wasting away on your floor.”
“Technically, I am not responsible for you at all,” Andrei observes.
“Sometimes I hate that you found a sense of humor,” says Kostya, which is just hilarious. However, it also sounds like the lead-in to another one of Kostya’s prolonged bouts of whining, so Andrei pointedly tunes him out and starts compiling a list of potential money-making schemes.
Five minutes and twenty three seconds later he cuts Kostya off mid-complaint by clamping a hand over his mouth. “I have a plan,” he says, over Kostya’s muffled protests. “We will go into business after retrieving the Kudrin File.”
“What?” Kostya protests, after Andrei lets go so he can breathe. “Fuck, no, I am not getting involved with government shit again--“
“This plan is twenty percent less risky and fifty three percent more lucrative than art forgery,” Andrei says reasonably, shutting Kostya up again, “which was the next option.” His face flickers briefly into a grin. “Besides, most likely the file is still sitting at the bottom of an evidence locker at the station.”
“Remind me to explain the concept of ‘reassuring’ again,” says Kostya. “Later. Maybe after we’re shot.”
MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION, ‘95
FSB Colonel Kuznetsov settles himself on the edge of the table, watching the nervous young man in the wrinkled suit try to look inconspicuous. It’s hard, because he’s in handcuffs.
“Isn’t Federal Security Services kind of an overreaction?” he says finally, still blinking a little at the harsh fluorescent lights of the interrogation room.
“The FSB operates under the optimal level of paranoia,” Kuznetsov says. “Do you know why you’re here?”
“I assumed you’d tell me.”
Kuznetsov just looks at him. It’s a very effective look, especially coming from someone who really only needs to blink as a courtesy to other people.
“-it was a wallet!” the young man wails. “That’s practically jaywalking! I was going to dump it anyway, there wasn’t anything worth anything inside, how is this even a big deal?”
It’s expected, so Colonel Kuznetsov grabs the prisoner by his shirt collar and drags him up out of the chair. “Because,” he says, conveniently close to the young man’s ear, “it becomes a big deal when the wallet belongs to the Minister of Economic Development and Trade.”
“… Who?”
MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION, ‘96
Dmitri Vladimirovich Kudrin stops experimenting with how visibly bored he can look when his colleague whacks him over the head with a rolled-up report on the economy.
“Ow!” Dima says, just to be annoying. “What was that for?”
“For being completely useless,” says Timofei Vladimirovich. “Or did you think the economic analysis was going to write itself by the three o’clock meeting tomorrow?”
“I would consider it a rare yet charming quality in an economic brief-“ Dima begins, but then Timofei hefts the report again. The Minister of Economic Development and Trade sighs, exaggeratedly, and leans back in his chair. “Fine, fine, Tima, I recommended throwing out protective tariffs and dropping the discount rate, there’s already a copy sitting in your inbox, and you are no fun.”
“It’s preferable to ‘non-functioning.’”
“Ah,” says Dima, “but you miss out on glowsticks,” but Timofei has stopped listening in favor of conducting a serious examination of the state of the nation’s industry, presumably since melting Dima’s key down for a paperweight isn’t an option.
Unfortunately, this also leaves Dima time to run through the list of things to do to entertain himself that don’t overlap with things that will end in a public relations nightmare. He’d prefer that Tima not spritz him with a spray bottle like after the nightclub incident.
He spends a few minutes debugging the code for his heroin .app, while Timofei shoots him disapproving looks at regular intervals, but approximating downers with programming just isn’t that hard for a genius. Now, his work on cocaine, that was a different-
“I’m just popping out to Lubyanka Square,” Dima says, giving Timofei a little wave just as he swivels around.
“What-“
“It’s been a year,” Dima explains cheerfully. “I think I can be discreet,” he finishes, and sweeps out the door.
Timofei Vladimirovich, now apparently doing triple duty as Long-Suffering Minister of Industry, Economic Development and Cleaning Up After Dmitri Kudrin, wonders if just letting himself wind down today would be easier.
MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION, ‘95
“Now, do you want to take another guess at why you’re here?”
“Because I won a one-way ticket to Siberia for stealing from the government?” the prisoner tries, dejectedly.
“No, your tax evasion is stealing from the government,” says Colonel Kuznetsov, dropping the young man back into the chair. “This,” he says pleasantly, producing the flash drive that until now has been sitting snugly inside a monogrammed wallet, “is the one-way ticket to Siberia.”
There’s a long pause while the prisoner stares dumbly at it. “… Is that supposed to be trade secrets or foreign exchange rates or something?” he says, as Colonel Kuznetsov begins to suspect that maybe the unbelievable incompetence isn’t hiding a brilliant con, but more stupidity. “I swear, I was just hoping for a credit card.”
“Trade secrets,” Colonel Kuznetsov says flatly.
“… Is that a trick question?”
Kuznetsov sets the flash drive down on the table. “You don’t know any programming, do you.”
The young man stares at him like he’s crazy. “I used to be a bartender.”
“So you robbed the Minister of Economic Development and Trade,” Colonel Kuznetsov continues, “looking for an American Express, and were disappointed when you found extremely sophisticated code apparently designed to produce an altered mental state similar to the effects of cocaine.”
“-what?”
Kuznetsov sighs, and says, flatly, “It runs coke on your computer.”
“Why the fuck would you want to run coke on your computer--“ the young man begins, and then, as realization dawns, “-oh.”
“Yes,” says Colonel Kuznetsov. “’Oh.’”
“What the hell,” the prisoner says, at it starts to sink in, “the minister of the economy is eyai--“
“More accurately, the government is,” says Colonel Kuznetsov, before the prisoner can discover whole new octaves of panic, and calmly produces his keyring from his pocket before the young man can say anything stupid like ‘what.’ “Please take my word for it that mine is the small one next to the key for the Aston-Martin, I would prefer not to take my shirt off on the first date.”
The prisoner knocks over the chair as he tries to scramble backwards.
Fortunately, Colonel Kuznetsov claps a hand over his mouth before he has a chance to do anything truly obnoxious. “Konstantin Nikolaevich, this is exactly why you’re here. Because you are a terrible con.” He smiles. “And I could do it better.”
There’s a long moment where Konstantin just gapes as if Kuznetsov has just started speaking Turkish, and the colonel decides that even if cutting a deal with a criminal mastermind would have been more profitable, making sure this incompetent idiot doesn’t get himself arrested for shoplifting is about upholding standards.
“I will be confiscating fifty percent of the take on all future operations,” he says, as he drops Konstantin against the wall and retrieves the handcuff key. “Any negotiations will end with you on the next train to Siberia.”
Ten minutes later Andrei Vladimirovich and Konstantin Nikolaevich, newly minted business partners, have disappeared into Moscow, leaving the flash drive sitting alone on the table in an empty room.
MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION, ‘96
“I don’t see why this plan demanded that I be the eyai grunt,” Kostya hisses, as they stuff the security guard back into the closet and retrieve Kostya’s clothes.
“One of us has a long history of successfully impressing upon people that he is a thinking individual,” Andrei says, without his expression actually shifting at all from casual, “and one of us should probably be melted down for scrap metal. You can do the calculations.”
“Sometimes you say very hurtful things, Andryusha.”
“Only sometimes?” Andrei says, as they slip out a back door and into the street. “I will have to work harder to fill the quota.”
Kostya snorts. “I don’t have to take this abuse.”
“You do,” Andrei points out, “if you want to see any of the profits we will be making from our very lucrative new drug cartel.”
“I prefer to think of it as a public service,” says Kostya. He grins as they turn out of the alley and onto the street, all casual. “A government’s not broken in until you have a few ‘drugs and hookers in hotel rooms’ scandals.”
“I question your grasp of politics-“ Andrei begins, but can’t finish insulting his partner’s intelligence over the sound of the limousine screeching to a stop in front of the station. They pointedly do not freeze when a young man in sunglasses, designer shoes, and a suit with a Vinnie Pukh tie climbs out of the back.
“Morning,” says Kostya.
“Morning!” says Dmitri Kudrin, Minister of Economic Development and Trade and part-time aspiring virtual drug lord. He saunters inside.
Later, Andrei will insist that it is Kostya’s fault that they are Russia’s most wanted. Kostya maintains that Andrei is a dick.