Fly Hunter: The Story of an Inquisitor
Nikita Dandy
Fly Hunter: The Story of an Inquisitor" is a gripping exploration of human nature's dark corners and the corrupting influence of absolute power. The novel follows Aman-Jalil, a ruthless inquisitor who rises from a violent childhood to become a key figure in a brutal regime. Serving under Iosif Besarionis, he ascends to the head of the NKVD, wielding immense power with ruthless efficiency. Aman-Jalil's early life, marked by violence and despair, shapes him into a person who finds solace in hunting flies, a metaphor for his manipulative actions. This novel starkly portrays human depravity and the brutal realities of life under an oppressive regime, making it a tale that lingers long after the last page is turned.
Nikita Dandy
Fly Hunter: The Story of an Inquisitor
Preface
Warning: This book contains graphic descriptions of violence, brutality, and sexual exploitation. Sensitive readers are advised to proceed with caution.
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Fly Hunter: The Story of an Inquisitor is a gripping and unsettling exploration of the dark corners of human nature and the corrupting influence of absolute power. This novel delves into the life of Aman-Jalil, a ruthless inquisitor who navigates a world where cruelty and betrayal are the norms.
The protagonist, Aman-Jalil, rises from a childhood marred by poverty and violence to become a key figure in a brutal regime. Serving under Iosif Besarionis, he ascends to the head of the NKVD. In this role, Aman-Jalil wields immense power with ruthless efficiency, orchestrating a series of brutal killings disguised as suicides, manipulating those around him, and spreading fear to maintain control.
Aman-Jalil's early life is filled with scenes of violence and despair, shaping him into a person who finds solace in an unusual and macabre hobby: hunting flies. This pastime becomes a metaphor for his later actions as he manipulates, betrays, and destroys those around him with impunity.
Throughout the novel, Aman-Jalil's cunning and ruthlessness are on full display. He manages a network of brothels with Bahar-Gani, exploiting underage girls and further entrenching his power. His interactions are marked by a cold-blooded efficiency as he eliminates enemies and consolidates his control through fear and intimidation.
This novel is not for the faint-hearted. It presents a stark, unflinching look at the depths of human depravity and the brutal realities of life under an oppressive regime. Through Aman-Jalil's journey, readers are invited to witness the harrowing effects of power, the corrupting influence of absolute control, and the devastating consequences of a world without compassion.
Prepare to be captivated and horrified by Fly Hunter: The Story of an Inquisitor, a tale that will linger in your mind long after you've turned the last page.
Chapter 1: Hunting Flies and the Chief Inquisitor
9 January 1905 entered history as Bloody Sunday. On this day, the country experienced one of the most tragic and brutal episodes in its history. In the center of the capital, about 140,000 working-class representatives gathered to peacefully express their discontent and demand better working and living conditions. But their hopes for justice and understanding were cruelly crushed.
Government troops opened fire on the unarmed demonstrators. The streets turned red with blood, and the air was filled with cries of pain and despair. Up to a thousand people were killed, and another two thousand were injured. This act of brutality shocked the entire country and left a deep scar in people's hearts. Families lost their loved ones, children became orphans, and widows found no solace in their grief. Hundreds of the dead lay on the pavements, their bodies becoming a silent indictment against the cruelty and injustice of the authorities.
However, this story did not end with these horrific events. In the book dedicated to the fate of the main character, the events unfold even more tragically. Against the backdrop of Bloody Sunday, even more terrible deeds occur. Thousands more are added to the number of the dead, killed in subsequent repressions. Dozens of women become victims of violence, turning into silent witnesses of human cruelty. Brothels with underage children thrive, serving as grim reminders of how low society can sink in its inhuman quest for power and wealth.
At the center of these events is a little boy, Aman-Jalil, whose path was overshadowed not only by poverty and deprivation but also by the horrors of human cruelty. His life unfolded amidst poverty and vice, where people seemed to have forgotten about kindness and compassion. Each day was a struggle for survival, and every person around him could be both a friend and an enemy.
Aman-Jalil grew up in this world, where cruelty and violence had become the norm, and human life was valued no more than that of an insect. He witnessed how fates were broken, how meanness and betrayal became the norm, and kindness and honesty—the exception. His childhood was filled with scenes of violence and despair that forever left a mark on his soul.
And so, amidst all these tragic events, when the world around him seemed hopeless and cruel, he found solace in his strange hunt.
A plump green fly crawled along the sun-warmed windowpane near the communal restroom at the end of the gallery, stopping occasionally to groom itself. Its bulging eyes closely monitored the strange bipeds, enemies like birds but unlike them, creating an environment for flies with their excrement, food scraps, and piles of garbage. The child remained still, his black, bulging eyes also fixed on the fly, mesmerizing it with an imploring gaze: "freeze, freeze, freeze, freeze"!
And the fly froze. Its front legs flicked, grooming its head, while its hind legs, alternating with the front ones, tended to its abdomen. Thousands of cholera and other dangerous epidemic microbes flew into the air.
Aman-Jalil breathed them in, but even the cholera microbes died as soon as they were sucked into the hump of his nose by the flow of air. Two fingers of the seven-year-old boy's left hand firmly gripped one end of a thick rubber band, while two fingers of his right hand stretched the rubber band across the other end, and his right eye aimed for the target. "In the head, only in the head, dark blood will splatter instantly, short convulsive leg movements, and it's all over … Or maybe in the belly?"
The restroom door clanged open, almost hitting Aman-Jalil. A young man emerged, already completely gray. Spotting Aman-Jalil wiping blood off the rubber band with his fingers, he cried out in despair, just as the fly buzzed:
– Hunting again, you scoundrel? Got nothing better to do?.. Go to the yard, play ball or 'frobbulate', you're learning to kill, let your hands wither…
The man tried to cuff Aman-Jalil, but he dodged and shot back:
– Bam!.. He's going mad…
– Wazir!.. What's gotten into the boy? – shouted the elderly, stout Aman-Jalil's grandmother from the communal kitchen. – He comes out of the toilet without washing his hands, spreading germs, bullying the little one. Mind your own business, everyone's poking their noses where they shouldn't, have your own kids, then deal with their "slaps"… All sorts of strays come here, making decisions…
And Aman-Jalil piped up:
– Half-baked fool!..
Wazir shook his fists in the air and stormed into the communal kitchen, shouting at Aman-Jalil's grandmother:
– Yes!.. "Half-baked fool"!.. They didn't kill me, despite my pleas. They left me to suffer, left me not to live, but to suffer and remember that road, as dusty and even as this glass, where my Anush fought like a fly, humiliated in front of me. They gutted her with a dagger while I was tied to a pole above her, beaten to make sure I didn't look away, forced to watch, and they laughed, oh how they laughed… Yes, I will never have children… You, old woman, think about whom you are raising, think before it's too late…"
Wazir staggered along the veranda, murmuring, "cruel world, cruel world, trapped in this sticky web, all I see, I crave sunlight, sunlight! And, crucified, I shouted at the sun: 'I hate you!'"
Aman-Jalil's grandmother theatrically twirled her finger by her temple, signaling to Wazir that something was not right with him. Meanwhile, Aman-Jalil, picking his nose, chuckled nastily…
"If the world hates you, know that it hated Me before it hated you. If you were of the world, the world would love its own; but because you are not of the world, but I chose you out of the world, therefore the world hates you. Remember the word that I said to you: 'A servant is not greater than his master.' If they persecuted Me, they will also persecute you…"
The sun shone brightly. The city lazily scattered houses along the mountain slopes, clumsily stitching crooked streets between them, generously green in the center and bare, dirty on the outskirts. Blatant poverty neighbored ostentatious luxury, palaces encircled the old town where sunlight struggled to pierce the yards and avoided rooms without windows altogether. The scent of dampness hung over everything: sparse furniture, patched clothing, on the bodies of those who lived here, and it seemed, even on their thoughts… And the palaces, in turn, surrounded miserable hovels where five or six people lived in each room, where children, giggling during morning play, shared experiences glimpsed and overheard from parents and older siblings. These homes supplied beautiful bodies of young prostitutes to the palaces and thieves and robbers to prisons, for minds corrupted from childhood were difficult to steer toward good deeds, and the world of thieves, like the world of luxury, was ensnaring. Between the two criminal poles lay the world of toil, the world of hardships and concerns, occasional bright joys, unswerving and mercenary love, friendship and betrayal, business and careers, kindness and envy, hatred and cruelty, loyalty, forgiveness, and revenge. Men went to work in the morning, factories and workshops awaited them, women headed to the market, thin dark-spotted streams of mothers and wives, sisters and brides, carrying fresh greens and fruits, vegetables and dairy products in huge baskets. Poachers entered the yards offering black caviar and red fish, pheasants and small birds, all at such affordable prices that people forced to economize snatched up all the goods brought in within five minutes, though they knew perfectly well they were buying stolen goods. And this duality lay over everything: parents lied to children, children lied to parents, the government to the people, the people to the government, and truth became entangled in this labyrinth of lies and deceit, despairing to see the light of truth. The natural law of survival and selection cast aside the weak, the naive, those suffering, while the kind and compassionate received evil or mockery at best for their kindness, cruelty, using them mercilessly for their own purposes and discarding them like unwanted junk: the peel of a peeled orange, a broken coarse porcelain plate smashed into small pieces… But if an antique porcelain plate broke, it was carefully glued back together and prominently displayed, boasting its imperial crest, as though joining the royal family, feeling exceptional… This feeling was indomitable once it appeared: infected by it, one sought others similarly afflicted… just as addicts recognize each other by the gleam in their eyes, by a particular, uniquely theirs gaze, by chapped lips. The union of the exceptional was ruthless in its invulnerability, and only a similar union of the exceptional could destroy it. The city, like Chronos, devoured its children, yet no Zeus had yet arisen to cast it into Tartarus.
"Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep…"
From the tambour, through the slightly ajar door, a small, chubby man watched with interest as Aman-Jalil occupied the empty reception area. With the second door closed, the tambour created a semi-darkness from which one could easily observe all those waiting for their appointment while remaining invisible themselves… Waiting and catching up, waiting and catching up! This was the hardest part of life, where everyone was tested, and few mastered the art… Aman-Jalil mastered it.
He calmly watched a fly buzz annoyingly over his head, but his hands, lying undisturbed on his knees, tightly gripped the half-stretched rubber band with his fingers. Similarly, from the tambour, the provincial governor Ahmed calmly observed: "how old is he? Twenty-five? Or older? Or younger? I must see for myself… why is he so carefully examining the reception area?"
The fly darted several times towards Aman-Jalil's prominent nose, but the young man remained unperturbed, not flinching. However, a slight exhale caught the fly off guard, causing it to hesitate and ultimately land on the sweaty, faintly fragrant nose, which smelled slightly of pleasant rot, choosing it as a suitable spot for reflection on the nearby wall.
Aman-Jalil turned just a few degrees so carefully and flexibly that the fly did not notice his movement, and by the time it did, it was too late to escape; a precise strike flattened its head against the wall. The fly twitched a few times and fell to the floor, behind the bench.
– "Did you hit it?" asked the provincial governor with interest through the crack in the door.
– "In the head!" replied Aman-Jalil through the crack. "And who are you: a genie or a gnome?"
– "I am the one whom everyone listens to in semi-dark silence… Do you know such a person?"
