Всичко за книгите на Юлиян Кушев
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Tampa, FLO

 

Paul Scott, CEO of “Electronic Centurions”, had his head buried in the firm’s horrific accounts for the last quarter. “If this continues, next time I’ll just ask Steve to hire me as the pop-corn boy in his zoo.”

         “Electronic Centurions” experienced its best times during W.’s Presidency. Thanks to the reconnaissance drones orders, the company was able to lift itself from mediocrity and for a span of three years a feeling of assurance had nested in Paul’s mind, that no force in the world could topple him.

         But…

         The Obama Administration not only brought home most of the troops, but also returned a part of the firm’s already produced output, citing a non-existent article in the contract regarding production deadlines. Consequently, they did not receive the remaining 30% of the contractual sum. And this was supposed to be their profit. It now appears that they have worked in vain the past six months.

         Paul began discussing restrictive measures for stabilizing the enterprise’s financial state. He really wanted to avoid a lay-off! He had just put together a hard-working team, short of whiners and dodgers. People who were always ready to stay behind an extra couple of hours in the interest of the common work.  

He had two moremonths on his bank loan left. Where would he find the money for the remaining installments?! The selling of corporate property was not an option. Firstly, because this will give the competitors a clear sign that he had “taken the elevator down”, and secondly, because of this crisis, the prices were a bit, well, shitty.

-       I want to keep my team together!

-       I want to save my company!

-       I want to make it through!

Paul took a look around.

There was no one else in the office and he was talking to himself. With a guilty face, he

closed his laptop and with his new jacket in hand, made his way to a nearby bar. He had a habit to meet with a group of friends there every Friday after work.

            Today was Wednesday.

 

* * *

Chris the Weaver[1] was pacing nervously around his apartment inTampa. He had hid himself here, along with his two partners, every since the crisis in the deliveries hit. With the new security measures for border control, two of his transports “had fallen”, which in turn led to an abrupt decrease in his income. The cartels could not care less for the new security measures – they wanted their money. Chris decided to pay back with money, rather than with his life, but this led to some heavy loses. This was his hiding place from all the ruckus in LA, and so he was only answering his phone to the biggest clients – dealers he was supplying.

- Black president is good, my ass! – he said, turning to Raul.

Ed, his other partner, was feverishly digging through his Chinese take-out, delivered an hour ago.

- This guy turned out whiter than Dubya.

- We have to urgently find out a way to carry across the white doe safely next time. Otherwise… - Chris drew his weapon and took out three bullets, handing one to each of his partners. – if we don’t… bros. We had good times, but each one of us will have to blow his brains out. Carry your bullet with you as a reminder that this shit is serious!

Both of his friends frowned and put away their bullets.

- Now let’s go out somewhere, because I’m killing brain cells sitting here all day!

 

 

* * *

“The Red Horse” was not a fancy joint or anything, but it offered ideal circumstances for networking. The carved upon wooden counters were so close to one another, that you are bound to bump into someone and if you were not immensely dumb, then you’d start talking to him.

-      Damn, this hole is really full! – shouted out Ed as they entered.

-      Over there, there are free spaces only next to that four-eyed loser – grumbled Raul.

-      All right. Let’s ask if we could join him – said Chris, causing everyone to burst ot

laughing. In their neighbourhood, theynever had to ask for anything. They simply took whatever they wanted, but here…they did not want to stand out.

-      Is this seat taken, sir?! – asked Chris, displaying his perfect white teeth in the most charming smile, which he had not practiced in a long time.

-      Yes –Paul nodded without looking up.

Actually, he was just happy to have some company. He was bored sitting by himself.

He had arrived late and his boys were gone.

Chris ordered a scotch for the three of them to the petit waitress with the “delicious

butt” as Ed pointed out. When she brought the dirnks and after she carried away a very generous tip, he just nodded to his friends as saying “cheers” and turned to the man sitting next to him:

-      Looks like you’re not much for drinking tonight. Is something troubling you, sir?

Ed and Raul almost suffocated in their attempt to hold back the laughter which

engulfed them after hearing their leader refer to someone with “sir.”

           

 

Paul did not notice it. He was carried away deep in his thoughts. He glanced at his black companion and replied:

-       Yes. You can’t imagine what.

-       Well, I got time. – He turned to his two friends who were still chuckling.

Paul studied for a second his new nosy friend, and judging by his clothes and speech,

he came to the conclusion he is not from around here;

-       They froze my orders with the end of the war.

-       What? DO you make coffins or something – joked Raul.

-       No. Drones, dumbass! Do you know what they are?

Raul did not know, as neither did the others.

-       What are they? – asked Chris.

-       A small surveillance machine-piloted plane.

Chris the Weaver, the fearless smuggler and drug dealer from the City ofAngels

stood still, as if he had just been hit with a shovel in the head. An unbelievable idea suddenly popped into his head:

-       How much cargo can this plane carry?

Everyone present on the table went silent. As if, at this moment, the music went dead.

-       14 kilos. Why?! – asked Paul.

Everyone else knew why. Chris was trying to calculate how many planes were needed

to transport the holy 500 kilograms, an amount which he saw as bordering rentability.

-       How much does one of these planes cost?

 

 

- $820 000. Why are you interested? –Paul raised his eyes from his glass.

“Shall I tell him? What if he rats me out? Well, then…we’ll just off him and…that’s it. Plus, who will ever believe words said under the influence of alcohol somewhere in a bar no one knows.”

- I do business, which entails the transport of this white dust from our neighbouring country to the south – said the Weaver, and waited to see the response at the other end. The four-eyed, instead of showing a sense of astonishment, calmly asked:

 

- And how do you transport them now?

- By speedboats. Real fast ones.

- Real fast, my ass.[2] I’ve seen the new coast guard boats.

- Yes, you’re right. They used to be real fast. Now, the coast guard boats are faster than ours, those motherfuckers…”[3]

Raul and Ed had become very anxious of the honesty which spread between the stranger and their boss.

- Yuuuuup, that’s a problem – Paul was staring at the amber liquid in his glass and all of a sudden it hit him: - it can’t be done with the drones, either. They’ll spot them and shoot them down, and then by examining the remains they’ll find out who the manufacturer is. But I’ll tell you, I can deliver your dust across untouched.

         Chris stopped drinking, shocked by the blunt confidence coming from his collocutor.

- How?

- Have you heard of the goldfish?

- No. What about it?

- Nothing. It’s just a fairytale. But you might just as well call the thing I will use to transport your load goldfish!

- You’re talking as if you’re sure of its success?!

- I’m sure of it…200%.

The three drug dealers stared at each other, as if their problem just found its solution!

- It’s starting to smell like business in here – Chris rubbed his hands in satisfaction and waved to the “Вирнатото дупе”, this time asking for four whiskeys. – So, around how much will this cost?

- Four million – Paul answered as if in his sleep.

- FOUR MILLION!!! – yelled out Ed.

- Yes – the CEO of Electronic Centurians turned to him. – And you will be able to safely transport your load from here to any city on theMississippifor the next one year.

- Are you serious? – Chris lowered his head.

- I’m serious – Paul’s reply was that of a snooker referee.

The dark-skinned weaver of smuggling schemes quickly calculated in his head the approximate profit from an year of guaranteed shipments. And realized that 4 million was peanuts in this case.

- Where is your office located? – asked Chris – so we come by tomorrow and discuss this in detail.

- I prefer you not coming to my office, because…you don’t really exert any respect or confidence.

The three of them looked at each other with a feeling of neglect and intimidation.

 

 

Paul pushed his business card into Chris’ hand and said:

-      My name is Paul Scott. This is the name of my company and these are my phone numbers. Do call, but we will be meeting here!

-      It’s a pleasure. Chris Curly – Ed and Raul heard their friend’s last name for the first time in the life. – So be it. We’ll be meeting here.

They shook hands andPaul left. He felt relief once again. There was light in the tunnel.

 

 

* * *

 

-

Новини

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По инициатива на Георги Крумов ние участниците в създаването на телевизонното предаване Ку-Ку написахме книга. Тя е посветена на 26 години от първото излъчване на легендарното предаване (27.01.1990г.)

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