Post by Immanuel Taylor on Jun 8, 2011 13:33:01 GMT -5
Vitali Khodorkovsky’s body is both a mosaic of tattoos and a labyrinth of tales. There was, of course, the documented tattoos such as the Orthodox Cross on his chest, the Russian texts scattered around his body, the “Hard Currency” Dollar Sign in-between his thumb and index finger, the stars on his knees and chests, and the epaulettes tattoos on his shoulders. And there were unnoticed ones, such as the two cathedrals sketched on his back with their crosses, Orthodox, protruding from their domes.
Vitali was tired, as always. He was always tired but tonight was different. Vitali was charged tonight and ever since he caught a glance of Immanuel Taylor at the Mission Dolores. Vitali followed Immanuel into the obscure little café behind the church but lost him when Immanuel stopped at a grocery store on his way home. Vitali waited for a full hour before he entered the store and realized that there was another entrance at the back.
Vitali is in his small room in the Hotel Tropicana in Valencia Street in the Hispanic majority Mission District. He is mostly naked, for no observable reason. His tattoos, numerous and labyrinth in their composition, have a certain dirty shine to their reflection by that sole lightbulb in the room. Vitali was working, as always. He was always working and tonight is no different. The military file of Immanuel Taylor, obtained by Mark Rivera via a network of nepotism, lay wide open at one end of the table. A notepad with several notes being inscribed into it is in the middle.
Vitali had analyzed and interpreted it and is in the process of finalizing his notes regarding it. Vitali diverted his attention to Immanuel's EUW application, which he now quickly grabbed from a stack of paperwork and checked the corresponding notes he had taken on previous occupations. A lot of them were menial, the occasional construction work, furniture mover, a few divergent ones like a desk job but other than that nothing alarming. Immanuel kept a subscription to a local gym, which explains why he is currently able to hold his own in the literal wrestling ring. Vitali witnessed Immanuel’s title match at Back 2 Roots, seeing Immanuel in a world of weaponry and barbarism and had made two conclusions.
Firstly, Immanuel did not belong there. That was obvious, the man was struggling, clearly, even a man with zero wrestling experience like Khodorkovsky could see it. But Immanuel knew how to take care of himself in a fight, that was the second conclusion. He persevered, like a soldier. With that word in mind, Vitali brought closer Immanuel's military folder and ,after taking off his eye glasses and rubbing his eyes, put his reading glasses back on and went through a final analysis of it with his weary, experienced and aged eyes..
Immanuel Taylor was stationed in one of the many Observation Posts set up around the Saudi-Kuwaiti border amidst worries that Hussein would order an invasion of Saudi Arabia after annexing Kuwait. The file even specifies that out of all the US Divisions deployed to this territory, the specific three deployed were the Special Forces, the Navy SEALS, and the Marine Corps Reconnaissance. The file does not specify which Immanuel was in. Vitali had noticed that many, many aspects of this folder were purposefully left out, making Rivera's acquisition of it not that much of an achievement.
Still, Vitali was able to quickly take note of all these details, no matter how confined and limited. Rivera needed the folder back as soon as possible thus it was pivotal to take careful written notes of all of these. So, Immanuel gets stationed in an Observation Tower along the Kuwaiti-Saudi border due to fears of a possible invasion of southern Saudi Arabia. This would make Immanuel part of either three of the previously mentioned military divisions.
The file does not specify whether Immanuel engaged in combat. It skips directly to his dismissal. An Other Than Honorable discharge, considered to be the most disgraceful. No chances of reenlistment in the military, no veteran benefits, and you can't keep the uniform. The file does not state what Immanuel did, staying true to its overall ambiguous tone.
Vitali removed his eye glasses and rubbed his eyes. So far, this was the easy stuff. Finding the anomalies and errors, singling them out. Vitali’s expertise still was not called for, it would come in need once Vitali finds something to focus on. This isn’t the first time Vitali Khodorkovsky was hired to investigate an individual with a shady past. He did it multiple times, from inside a prison in Zhytomyr to the city itself to East Germany to Chicago to, currently, in San Francisco. Vitali’s body itself, with its multiple tattoos and tattooed Russian text, is a physical fleshy testament of his journey on this earth.
Of course, the further away from the Fartherland he got, the more Vitali learnt that a new identity could be subjected to….certain modifications. He lied about the KGB part of his life. If there are three things about Russia the average non-Russian knows its Vodka, Communism and KGB. Vitali didn’t drink alcohol, a habit he distanced himself from a long time ago and was never in the KGB. Vitali used his official Komsomol graduate certificate and a forged certification from the Nakhimov military cadet school and a similarly forged one from KGB Higher Intelligence School. For the latter, he was even able to buy a replica of the white diamond-shaped “academy” badges and a photocopy of the blue hard-cover award diploma. Vitali had stocked up on all the necessary tools to maintaining his façade after the Berlin Wall fell and he ventured outside, into the real world, away from whatever was left from the dissolution of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, away from the Fatherland.
Communism itself, the third in the trilogy of stereotypes, was something Vitali knew very, very intimately. He was one of them, one of the mass of young, proud Communists born into the collectivist culture of the USSR. It was that, along with some very sharp observations, that led him to be arrested and imprisoned.
Vitali's mind, as if by reflex, immediately changed the subject, and zeroed in on both the EUW folder and the military one, along with the Cahier notebook filled with astute notes. Vitali grabbed Immanuel’s photo, the most recent one from the EUW biography folder, and held it up. It was obvious Immanuel is not a native American. His skin betrays him. He’s too white, too…European. Vitali opened the military folder and, after a quick scan, pondered on how the very white Immanuel looked when he was still young. There is no photo. Vitali went through his notepad and took note of Immanuel’s documented birthplace. Baltimore.
Vitali leant back on his very uncomfortable chair and crossed his legs. He thought about that, about Baltimore. Immanuel grew up there and enlisted there. Vitali opened one of the drawers attached to his wooden writing desk and took out what looks like a velvet hand-purse. He clipped it open and took out an assortment of items. An American, Israeli, and Romanian Passport were bundled together by a wristband. They were followed by a handful of hard cash in a variety of currencies and a notepad filled with numbers of essentials services. Vitali opened another drawer and extracted a Desert Eagle handgun along with a smaller black Makarov pistol, placing both next to the picture of Immanuel Taylor.
Baltimore. There’s no harm in going there. Checking out the affiliate military offices there, doing other investigative work. Money was not a problem, far from it. In fact, there would be no plausible obstacle here. Everything is smooth. There is no hurry. No hurry at all.
There is no hurry at all. His flight to Baltimore, from the San Francisco International Airport to the Thurgood Marshall airport, leaves tomorrow at 4:25 AM. Vitali Khodorkovsky, dressed in a heavily black attire, is standing in front of the historic Mission Dolores in San Francisco and it is neither late or early. The sun is no longer visible and there is this stillness to the atmosphere. Some shops at the Hispanic Mission District are closing own and others are just opening up. The current encompassing stillness is in sharp contrast to the annual Carnaval festival that was very recently held here, which Vitali witnessed just as he was returning from a meeting with Mark Rivera, the man who is currently funding Vitali’s investigation of Immanuel Taylor.
The investigation itself has led Vitali to buy that ticket to Baltimore and, in the short interval in-between, Vitali has the privilege of having an evening to himself, an evening to spend as he sees fit. The Mission San Francisco de Asis boasts of being the oldest standing building in the city of San Francisco and the only intact mission chapel out of 21 established under a man with a Spanish-inducing name. A Mr. Franciscan friar Father Junipero. Vitali immediately felt a tinge of nostalgia. He loved and continues to love sites such as these for historic purposes rather than religious ones. The excellent Church of Christ the Savior on the bank of the Moskva River in Moscow immediately came mind, along with the Eastern-tinged Church of St. Duke in Zhytomyr, and the ethereal-looking Church of All Saints at Sverdlovsk. Vitali especially enjoyed the gothic-looking Berlin Cathedral too.
Vitali Khodorkovsky himself is not a religious man, even though his body has a very large Orthodox Cross tattooed on it. Vitali didn't get it out of religious obligation but for what it represented and the pain that you would have to go through to get one such as it on your chest. For Vitali, it was a re-birth, not in the religious sense but more in a very literal sense. It had been the first one he got when he was imprisoned for Social Parasitism and it stayed there when he joined the Vors, when he kept fluttering about tattoos on his body like it was body cream.
Vitali walked around the Mission Dolores, walked through the Cemetery on its right and took a long glance at the Serra Statue. It did not make him think. He completed his encirclement around the structure and ended up at the entrance where the strictly brown double doors, enclosed in a mass of white columns and an overall white façade, were slightly opened. Vitali had gone in before, this isn't the first time he's here as he spotted Immanuel when he was exiting the church, and thus made his way up the stairs. A reverend, in the stereotypical attire minus the white collar, stood there with a cigarette draping from his lips. Vitali approached him.
"Albano?"
"No" The reverend lighted his cigarette. "He's gone for the day. You can go in if you want but we're not doing any services"
Vitali nodded, and taking a hint from the nameless reverend's distanced attitude and his nicotine habits, made his way inside the church. The interior of the Mission Dolores is strikingly different fro the pale white exterior. The minute you enter you are confronted with a rich assortment of Gold-and-Red mosaics, including the cover of the door (from the interior only). Vitali made his way inside and took off his jacket, black in color of course with his Desert Eagle stuffed in the right inner pocket, and sat on one of the many benches. A sculpture of Jesus Christ is present at the very front, surrounded by many bland-looking trees left over from the past Christmas and very likely to continue to exist till replaced by fresh ones for the upcoming Christmas. Vitali sat down and nothing more. It was enough to be here, to be in the midst of historical entity.
The nicotine reverend made his way inside and noticed Vitali's tattoos. He gave him a quick glance and decided to sit beside him. Vitali nodded and removed his jacket and placed it to the left of his position.
"Albert Memmi" the nicotine reverend extended his hand. Vitali shook it and fingered Dunhill as the priest’s
"Reverend Memmi"
"Albert. Just Albert"
"Albert" Vitali relaxed his grip "Vitali Khodorkovsky"
"Yeah" Albert said, pulling off a little smile. He took a glance at Vitali's tattoos extended on his arms. "So what are you supposed to be? A Born-Again Ex-Convict?"
"I'm not a religious man" Vitali's English is fluent and clear and his speech is stern and confident.
"That's half an answer. What about the other part?"
Vitali switched to silence. Memmi smirked before taking out a roll of Halls mints and popping one into his mouth to get the smell of tobacco, the smell of vice and sin, out and away from him. Vitali made no qualms about showing the tattoos on his arms and he truly felt unashamed.
"Alcatraz?” Memmi said, mockingly.
"Zhytomyr. Ukraine. USSR."
Memmi made eye contact, the first time doing so, and looked deep into the eyes of Vitali Khodorkovsky. A sudden chill crept up his spine and he realized that he is staring into the eyes of a man who has been in many places, in many situations, and in many worlds. Vitali Khodorkovsky is a killer and thief. Memmi not only saw it but felt it. He glanced at the tattoos on Vitali’s arms and hands and then made eye contact one more time with Vitali.
"The blood of Christ cannot wash your sins.” Memmi said in a very clear tone. “You have no place here”
Vitali didn’t respond and, honestly, wasn’t shocked. He got up and put on his jacket, keeping the presence of the Desert Eagle in mind. He made his way out of the Mission chapel and was back into the streets of San Francisco, the streets of the Mission District. The previous stillness of the atmosphere was replaced with a sense of festivity and a strong touch of cultural vividness. Vitali looked behind him one last time at the Mission Dolores and proceeded to turn and walk away. He does not belong there. He has no place there.
Vitali was tired, as always. He was always tired but tonight was different. Vitali was charged tonight and ever since he caught a glance of Immanuel Taylor at the Mission Dolores. Vitali followed Immanuel into the obscure little café behind the church but lost him when Immanuel stopped at a grocery store on his way home. Vitali waited for a full hour before he entered the store and realized that there was another entrance at the back.
Vitali is in his small room in the Hotel Tropicana in Valencia Street in the Hispanic majority Mission District. He is mostly naked, for no observable reason. His tattoos, numerous and labyrinth in their composition, have a certain dirty shine to their reflection by that sole lightbulb in the room. Vitali was working, as always. He was always working and tonight is no different. The military file of Immanuel Taylor, obtained by Mark Rivera via a network of nepotism, lay wide open at one end of the table. A notepad with several notes being inscribed into it is in the middle.
Vitali had analyzed and interpreted it and is in the process of finalizing his notes regarding it. Vitali diverted his attention to Immanuel's EUW application, which he now quickly grabbed from a stack of paperwork and checked the corresponding notes he had taken on previous occupations. A lot of them were menial, the occasional construction work, furniture mover, a few divergent ones like a desk job but other than that nothing alarming. Immanuel kept a subscription to a local gym, which explains why he is currently able to hold his own in the literal wrestling ring. Vitali witnessed Immanuel’s title match at Back 2 Roots, seeing Immanuel in a world of weaponry and barbarism and had made two conclusions.
Firstly, Immanuel did not belong there. That was obvious, the man was struggling, clearly, even a man with zero wrestling experience like Khodorkovsky could see it. But Immanuel knew how to take care of himself in a fight, that was the second conclusion. He persevered, like a soldier. With that word in mind, Vitali brought closer Immanuel's military folder and ,after taking off his eye glasses and rubbing his eyes, put his reading glasses back on and went through a final analysis of it with his weary, experienced and aged eyes..
Immanuel Taylor was stationed in one of the many Observation Posts set up around the Saudi-Kuwaiti border amidst worries that Hussein would order an invasion of Saudi Arabia after annexing Kuwait. The file even specifies that out of all the US Divisions deployed to this territory, the specific three deployed were the Special Forces, the Navy SEALS, and the Marine Corps Reconnaissance. The file does not specify which Immanuel was in. Vitali had noticed that many, many aspects of this folder were purposefully left out, making Rivera's acquisition of it not that much of an achievement.
Still, Vitali was able to quickly take note of all these details, no matter how confined and limited. Rivera needed the folder back as soon as possible thus it was pivotal to take careful written notes of all of these. So, Immanuel gets stationed in an Observation Tower along the Kuwaiti-Saudi border due to fears of a possible invasion of southern Saudi Arabia. This would make Immanuel part of either three of the previously mentioned military divisions.
The file does not specify whether Immanuel engaged in combat. It skips directly to his dismissal. An Other Than Honorable discharge, considered to be the most disgraceful. No chances of reenlistment in the military, no veteran benefits, and you can't keep the uniform. The file does not state what Immanuel did, staying true to its overall ambiguous tone.
Vitali removed his eye glasses and rubbed his eyes. So far, this was the easy stuff. Finding the anomalies and errors, singling them out. Vitali’s expertise still was not called for, it would come in need once Vitali finds something to focus on. This isn’t the first time Vitali Khodorkovsky was hired to investigate an individual with a shady past. He did it multiple times, from inside a prison in Zhytomyr to the city itself to East Germany to Chicago to, currently, in San Francisco. Vitali’s body itself, with its multiple tattoos and tattooed Russian text, is a physical fleshy testament of his journey on this earth.
Of course, the further away from the Fartherland he got, the more Vitali learnt that a new identity could be subjected to….certain modifications. He lied about the KGB part of his life. If there are three things about Russia the average non-Russian knows its Vodka, Communism and KGB. Vitali didn’t drink alcohol, a habit he distanced himself from a long time ago and was never in the KGB. Vitali used his official Komsomol graduate certificate and a forged certification from the Nakhimov military cadet school and a similarly forged one from KGB Higher Intelligence School. For the latter, he was even able to buy a replica of the white diamond-shaped “academy” badges and a photocopy of the blue hard-cover award diploma. Vitali had stocked up on all the necessary tools to maintaining his façade after the Berlin Wall fell and he ventured outside, into the real world, away from whatever was left from the dissolution of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, away from the Fatherland.
Communism itself, the third in the trilogy of stereotypes, was something Vitali knew very, very intimately. He was one of them, one of the mass of young, proud Communists born into the collectivist culture of the USSR. It was that, along with some very sharp observations, that led him to be arrested and imprisoned.
Vitali's mind, as if by reflex, immediately changed the subject, and zeroed in on both the EUW folder and the military one, along with the Cahier notebook filled with astute notes. Vitali grabbed Immanuel’s photo, the most recent one from the EUW biography folder, and held it up. It was obvious Immanuel is not a native American. His skin betrays him. He’s too white, too…European. Vitali opened the military folder and, after a quick scan, pondered on how the very white Immanuel looked when he was still young. There is no photo. Vitali went through his notepad and took note of Immanuel’s documented birthplace. Baltimore.
Vitali leant back on his very uncomfortable chair and crossed his legs. He thought about that, about Baltimore. Immanuel grew up there and enlisted there. Vitali opened one of the drawers attached to his wooden writing desk and took out what looks like a velvet hand-purse. He clipped it open and took out an assortment of items. An American, Israeli, and Romanian Passport were bundled together by a wristband. They were followed by a handful of hard cash in a variety of currencies and a notepad filled with numbers of essentials services. Vitali opened another drawer and extracted a Desert Eagle handgun along with a smaller black Makarov pistol, placing both next to the picture of Immanuel Taylor.
Baltimore. There’s no harm in going there. Checking out the affiliate military offices there, doing other investigative work. Money was not a problem, far from it. In fact, there would be no plausible obstacle here. Everything is smooth. There is no hurry. No hurry at all.
------------------------------------
There is no hurry at all. His flight to Baltimore, from the San Francisco International Airport to the Thurgood Marshall airport, leaves tomorrow at 4:25 AM. Vitali Khodorkovsky, dressed in a heavily black attire, is standing in front of the historic Mission Dolores in San Francisco and it is neither late or early. The sun is no longer visible and there is this stillness to the atmosphere. Some shops at the Hispanic Mission District are closing own and others are just opening up. The current encompassing stillness is in sharp contrast to the annual Carnaval festival that was very recently held here, which Vitali witnessed just as he was returning from a meeting with Mark Rivera, the man who is currently funding Vitali’s investigation of Immanuel Taylor.
The investigation itself has led Vitali to buy that ticket to Baltimore and, in the short interval in-between, Vitali has the privilege of having an evening to himself, an evening to spend as he sees fit. The Mission San Francisco de Asis boasts of being the oldest standing building in the city of San Francisco and the only intact mission chapel out of 21 established under a man with a Spanish-inducing name. A Mr. Franciscan friar Father Junipero. Vitali immediately felt a tinge of nostalgia. He loved and continues to love sites such as these for historic purposes rather than religious ones. The excellent Church of Christ the Savior on the bank of the Moskva River in Moscow immediately came mind, along with the Eastern-tinged Church of St. Duke in Zhytomyr, and the ethereal-looking Church of All Saints at Sverdlovsk. Vitali especially enjoyed the gothic-looking Berlin Cathedral too.
Vitali Khodorkovsky himself is not a religious man, even though his body has a very large Orthodox Cross tattooed on it. Vitali didn't get it out of religious obligation but for what it represented and the pain that you would have to go through to get one such as it on your chest. For Vitali, it was a re-birth, not in the religious sense but more in a very literal sense. It had been the first one he got when he was imprisoned for Social Parasitism and it stayed there when he joined the Vors, when he kept fluttering about tattoos on his body like it was body cream.
Vitali walked around the Mission Dolores, walked through the Cemetery on its right and took a long glance at the Serra Statue. It did not make him think. He completed his encirclement around the structure and ended up at the entrance where the strictly brown double doors, enclosed in a mass of white columns and an overall white façade, were slightly opened. Vitali had gone in before, this isn't the first time he's here as he spotted Immanuel when he was exiting the church, and thus made his way up the stairs. A reverend, in the stereotypical attire minus the white collar, stood there with a cigarette draping from his lips. Vitali approached him.
"Albano?"
"No" The reverend lighted his cigarette. "He's gone for the day. You can go in if you want but we're not doing any services"
Vitali nodded, and taking a hint from the nameless reverend's distanced attitude and his nicotine habits, made his way inside the church. The interior of the Mission Dolores is strikingly different fro the pale white exterior. The minute you enter you are confronted with a rich assortment of Gold-and-Red mosaics, including the cover of the door (from the interior only). Vitali made his way inside and took off his jacket, black in color of course with his Desert Eagle stuffed in the right inner pocket, and sat on one of the many benches. A sculpture of Jesus Christ is present at the very front, surrounded by many bland-looking trees left over from the past Christmas and very likely to continue to exist till replaced by fresh ones for the upcoming Christmas. Vitali sat down and nothing more. It was enough to be here, to be in the midst of historical entity.
The nicotine reverend made his way inside and noticed Vitali's tattoos. He gave him a quick glance and decided to sit beside him. Vitali nodded and removed his jacket and placed it to the left of his position.
"Albert Memmi" the nicotine reverend extended his hand. Vitali shook it and fingered Dunhill as the priest’s
"Reverend Memmi"
"Albert. Just Albert"
"Albert" Vitali relaxed his grip "Vitali Khodorkovsky"
"Yeah" Albert said, pulling off a little smile. He took a glance at Vitali's tattoos extended on his arms. "So what are you supposed to be? A Born-Again Ex-Convict?"
"I'm not a religious man" Vitali's English is fluent and clear and his speech is stern and confident.
"That's half an answer. What about the other part?"
Vitali switched to silence. Memmi smirked before taking out a roll of Halls mints and popping one into his mouth to get the smell of tobacco, the smell of vice and sin, out and away from him. Vitali made no qualms about showing the tattoos on his arms and he truly felt unashamed.
"Alcatraz?” Memmi said, mockingly.
"Zhytomyr. Ukraine. USSR."
Memmi made eye contact, the first time doing so, and looked deep into the eyes of Vitali Khodorkovsky. A sudden chill crept up his spine and he realized that he is staring into the eyes of a man who has been in many places, in many situations, and in many worlds. Vitali Khodorkovsky is a killer and thief. Memmi not only saw it but felt it. He glanced at the tattoos on Vitali’s arms and hands and then made eye contact one more time with Vitali.
"The blood of Christ cannot wash your sins.” Memmi said in a very clear tone. “You have no place here”
Vitali didn’t respond and, honestly, wasn’t shocked. He got up and put on his jacket, keeping the presence of the Desert Eagle in mind. He made his way out of the Mission chapel and was back into the streets of San Francisco, the streets of the Mission District. The previous stillness of the atmosphere was replaced with a sense of festivity and a strong touch of cultural vividness. Vitali looked behind him one last time at the Mission Dolores and proceeded to turn and walk away. He does not belong there. He has no place there.
