Argh, here we go again.
Once more, I find myself in the most literal definition of "between a rock and a hard place." A few tons of angry granite behind me, two armed buffoons in front, and not a single glimmer of hope in sight. It's official: I don't see myself escaping this shitshow.
But hey—if I'm going to die, at least I'll die in Armani.
If style points count in the afterlife, I'm walking into Hell looking like I own the damn place.
Just as I was preparing my final Oscar-worthy exit speech, I got a bash on the head and a shove from behind. Reality came crashing back, along with the realization that the two jackasses pushing me weren't exactly master criminals—they looked like Lilo and Stitch if Disney had fired them and they turned to underground crime. Literally.
"Move!" one of them barked.
"No autographs?" I muttered. "Shame. Celebrity treatment is dead these days."
Apart from the constant shouts, threats, and violent nudges, what really offended me was the sheer filth. Honestly, someone should file a complaint with Housekeeping. You'd think if you're going to kill a man in a tunnel, you could at least sweep the damn floor. I swear I inhaled a boulder just now.
But who am I kidding? It's an abandoned mine. The ventilation system died with the company. These tunnels have been empty since the profits dried up and the investors pulled out—kind of like my ex when she found out I wasn't actually a crypto millionaire.
Now here I am, 1.5 kilometers underground, wrapped in designer clothes, surrounded by rock older than Moses, and being escorted to what I assume is my grave by the cast of Morons: The Reboot.
What bothers me—besides the whole murder thing—is I have no idea who hired them. Or why they want me dead. I mean, sure, I've pissed off a few people. Slept with the wrong wife here, insulted the wrong CEO there. But nothing worth a bullet to the head and a shallow grave in a forgotten mine.
Unless...
Maybe it's her. Maybe it's a coincidence. Maybe this place is just the perfect murder location—quiet, creepy, and conveniently off-grid.
All I know is this: some rich bastard bought this mine after it was shut down. Who the hell buys a mine that produces nothing but cobwebs and ghosts?
Maybe its hiim i mean he does have the money, muscle, and a serious grudge against me maybe. And if my gut's right—along with every bad decision I've ever made—these goons are planning to shoot me and leave me down here to rot.
Ah yes—of course it's the Russians.
I mean, who else shows up smelling like yesterday's vodka, covered in prison tattoos, and rocking that Cold War-era KGB accent that could make a grown man cry for his mother?
Lilo and Stitch here? Definitely Russian imports.
What tipped me off? The Kerlim tattoos, the scent of regret and potato liquor, and the fact that one of them pronounced "kill" like "keel." Textbook. But what really caught my eye was the ink on their wrists—the unmistakable crest of The Graver.
Word on the street is, The Graver is the Russian mafia syndicate around these parts. Allegedly led by some shadowy warlord who settled in Rushmoore about 20 years ago. Coincidentally, the same year my father magically rose to power. Huh. Nothing screams suspicious like timing, right?
But back to me.
I don't know what these tattooed bears want with me. Maybe it's a mix-up. Maybe I slept with someone's wife—again. Or maybe it's Tuesday and this is just how Tuesdays go now.
Demitri—Mr. Baldy himself—grunted behind me.
"Here," he growled. "We kill him here. Good place to finish. Nobody find body."
I turned my bruised, sarcastic face to him and smirked. "Umm… since we're doing the full funeral package, can you toss in a tombstone too? Something tasteful. Maybe 'He died fabulous' in gold script?"
Demitri let out a sigh so deep it probably came from his ancestors. He hated my sense of humor. You know what he hated even more? Me.
That's when the fists started flying.
He cracked my ribs like a Kit Kat, busted my nose into abstract art, kicked my stomach hard enough to meet my lunch from yesterday, and oh—threatened to shoot out my kneecaps for dessert.
For the record: Demitri was built like a fridge. Big. Bearded. Boots like tanks. The kind of guy whose accent makes babies cry and whose body count probably includes both humans and livestock. Tattoos everywhere. Arms like tree trunks. Boots size 13—military grade. Probably popular with the ladies if he ever took a damn shower and dropped the rage-issues-meetsGulag vibe.
He looked around thirty. Probably my age—twenty-five—but with the soul of a haunted Soviet missile silo.
Then there was the other guy. A skinny, shaking mess who looked like he downloaded courage from a dodgy website. Nervous hands. Wide eyes. Like an intern at a mafia job interview who forgot his résumé.
I stared at him, bleeding and half-conscious, thinking: Really? I'm going to be killed by this beanpole? That's going to ruin my rep. Can you imagine the headlines? "Local legend gunned down by scared vegetarian."
Right as I was pleading with the universe to give me literally any other killer, I felt the cold kiss of a 9mm barrel press against my skull. And just like that, it hit me: Oh yeah, they're here to kill me.
I dropped to my knees, partly from pain, partly for dramatic effect (I'm nothing if not theatrical). I was observing everything—blood dripping from my face, ribs screaming in Morse code, lungs filling with dust—and then Demitri barked:
"Nephew! Do it. Be done with him. Shoot!"
And then… The intern—aka Christian Bale The Machinist Edition—stepped forward.
He was trembling. Gun shaking in his hands.
Chest heaving like he'd just watched Marley & Me.
"You don't understand!" he shouted, voice cracking. "I heard them—the voices! They said if I don't do it… they'll trap us all down here!"
Okay. Time out.
What the hell? Did I just stumble into a horror movie subplot mid-kidnapping? Is this guy about to shoot me because a ghost told him to?
Everyone froze. Even Demitri.
The mine suddenly felt ten degrees colder, like the air had forgotten how to breathe.
Before I could crack another joke, the nutjob pulled the trigger.
The gunshot slammed through the tunnel like Thor's hammer—loud, angry, final.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then...
BOOM.
The explosion came from the dynamite storage down the shaft—probably a hundred meters back. The blast roared like a demon, the heat blasted my back, and the tunnel exploded into chaos. The ground convulsed. Walls cracked. Rock screamed. A fireball licked the air.
The shockwave hit like a truck.
Men flew. Lights shattered. Everything became sound and dust and hell.
Demitri hit the ground beside me, a piece of rock slicing open his forehead. Blood mixed with soot. He tried to move—but the darkness swallowed him like a pit.
And me?
Well, somehow, I was still breathing.
Half-dead. Totally fabulous. And possibly now psychic.