Thursday, January 27, 2011

The Odyssey of Pastor Mike: Part II

Michael Kazimirov had it all: a solid career, renown, respect. But still there was a nagging in the dark recesses of his mind that something was missing. He had managed to brush it off and put it out of his mind, but it kept coming back. One night, while he was out with his comrades, he decided to go to dinner at a restaurant. There was a disturbance and the police were called. Two militiamen and an officer tried to quell the disturbance, but the situation escalated with the police and a full-on fight quickly began.

In the mind of Michael Kazimirov, the world went red. All of his professional training took over and all of his Special Forces hardness and boxing prowess came to the forefront. And, it was over. There was an odd stillness to the room. This was a restaurant after all, used to the bustle of tables being waited upon and food being ordered, of diners laughing at the days events or discussing their plans. The din was interrupted by the even louder conflagration of the fight, a rowdy soldier's brawl. And then there came that long, terrible silence. In the quiet, the red drained from Michael’s eyes and he looked around, and more accurately, down at the damage. Both militiamen were completely disabled, lying on the floor, their chests heaving from exertion but unable to move. The officer lay in an unnatural position, the kind that, had he been conscious, he would have immediately shifted his position for the pure discomfort of it. Looking intently at the officer, Michael suddenly realized what was different about the man: the heaving breaths, the signal of life exhibited by the two militiamen, was absent from the officer. A quick check revealed the man was dead.

There was a trial, performed in the Soviet style. Either you did something or you didn’t, and Michael had killed a man. An officer. The trial proceeded quickly, and at the end the court was “inclined to the maximum measure of punishment.” Michael was sentenced to be executed and was sent to the chamber of condemned men, a cold dungeon where he was to wait for his execution. He was alone, a man without hope, and it didn’t matter. He was just waiting to die.

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