THE SECRET JOURNAL OF NEIL PATEL #19

WARNING: NEIL IS INTO TYPOS...

Entry #19

Our merry gang of bikers charged, immediately getting the attention of the four guys dragging the Russians. 

If it hadn’t been so serious, I might’ve laughed. They actually roared as they charged. Then, the slug out began. 

Fists smashed, boots stomped and men bellowed in rage and pain. I really expected the four visitors to pull guns at some point, but they didn’t, and got properly throttled because of it. 

Soon all four were moaning on the ground and being hogtied with an assortment of laces, leather cut from chaps and a rope someone had stashed in a pocket. 

“There. That wasn’t so bad,” the biggest biker said. Then he looked over at the Russian who was quivering next to a rose bush. “You. You’re the one we came for.” He walked over and hoisted the scrawny man to his feet.

“You can have anything you want,” the Russian said, his native accent nearly imperceptible. 

“Put those four in the van,” the big man said and immediately the others went to their task.

“Hey, there’s guns in here!” the first to open a van’s door said. That answered that question.

I walked over and looked inside. Three handguns, a stack of shotguns and a couple rifles. A decent arsenal. 

“And there’s a bunch of dough in this one!” someone else called out from the other van.

Guns and money. Who were these guys? More Russians?

“Let’s get inside,” I suggested. 

While the guests and the vans were being taken care of, some ten of us went inside, the homeowner leading. 

The inside was mostly tasteful. A tad too much gold and shiny for me, but not awful.

“I can pay you, for saving me,” the Russian was saying. 

“Oh you’ll pay us,” big man said, one hand still on his prize. “We want all the crypto you’ve got. Now.”

The Russian’s face scrunched in confusion.

“Crypto, as in cryptocurrency?”

“Do you call it something else, you filthy Roosky?”

“What? No. It’s just that, well, I recently liquidated my entire portfolio. I paid off, well, I thought I paid off those men out there.” He pointed to the vans outside. 

That’s when the inevitable happened. All eyes turned on me. Crap.

More soon, Dear Diary,

Neil