The weeks following the forest fires saw criminal activities increase manifold. With most of the police force busy assisting the state in helping salvage life and property in the valley below, the recently established Russian mafiosi were having in a field day in the towns uphill.
It's not as if Mount Vitriol was new to gang activity. Arson, kidnappings, rape, hate crimes were bedfellows in these parts since decades past. Hence the name. The difference between then and now illustrated simply by a popular line in the police department - They're bastards alright, but they're OUR bastards.
The Russian arrivals changed all that. Under protection from a notorious warlord with plenty of important contacts, the new party-poopers ran riot. Within two weeks, the resident gangs were history - severed heads of erstwhile gang leaders just another trophy on the walls of Yuri's many mansions. Born in Ukraine and orphaned as a child, young Yuri now had empires across most of Europe and Africa - Mount Vitriol, part of his latest.
On another slow moving day in an almost empty department, Mark was sat on his chair looking out the fibreglass window - his gaze fixed somewhere just beyond the horizon, yet not really focussed on something in particular. A sentry's approaching footsteps broke the silence. "They've caught some Russkies, sir. The lot were trying to break into a house eight blocks south. Your orders are awaited."
"Round them up, bring them in" said Mark, collecting his coat. An unmistakable smile was beginning to form on his sleep deprived face. The smell of blood.
Disclaimer : The use of the pejorative term 'Russkie' in this piece is for effect only. I do not in any way, shape or form, condone or support ethnic bias against any race, nationality or a people.
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