About the Author: Mark Levenson is a journalist, dramatist, and short story writer. His grandmother was a magician and his great-great-uncle was a strongman in a Russian circus. Apparently, he still has issues.
Having murdered the little Jew, he might have thought that the hard part was behind him, except that it hadn’t been hard. All it took was a twist of his neck, as though he’d plucked an apple from a tree; hardly an accomplishment of note for Piotr the Strongman.
The previous day at sunset, the wagons had arrived at the open fields outside Vbrusk. In the morning, while the crew was busy raising the red-and-white striped tents for the Glorious Pitikin Circus, Piotr readied the cart he would take into the hills to find small boulders for his act. Mikhail—the scum had the nerve to use a Russian name—was glad to help when Piotr asked for his assistance. He would help himself right into the grave that Piotr planned for him.
They chatted pleasantly enough, Piotr complimenting Mikhail on the sword cabinet he’d added to his act: Mikhail’s wife, Ekaterina, plunged ten gleaming blades into the cabinet, from which the magician emerged unscathed. Ekaterina, gorgeous Ekaterina … What right did a stinking Jew have to take a Russian woman as his wife? Well, he’d fix that soon enough. Then Ekaterina would be his, they would steal a couple of horses, and leave the circus behind for St. Petersburg.