Marcus recoiled at the unfamilar sight in the mirror. Who the F*CK was this guy? His hands reached up to touch his face. His lack of hair. His… glasses? Beard? Jesus wept, thought Marcus. His eyes suddenly went wide as the codeine hit his system, a dazzling shock that beautifully numbed the pain in his head and allowed him to think straight for the first time in.. ages?
The phone rang again, the electronic tones no longer vibrating his very skull. He thumbed the answer button and raised the phone to his ear..
Hello, inquired Marcus
“Hello Stupid Oaf”
Zlatan! thought Marcus, who hurled some choice words at him down the phone
“SAVE IT” thundered Zlatan “The Zlatan has done what needed to be done. You called me for an out. The Zlatan gave you an out!”
Marcus then reminded Zlatan that he had had his face changed, been drugged and dumped here.
“And, by way of some compensation, not that you deserve it, Bryan Klug, your old HOYD at Milan has been arrested and tried for your crimes”
Marcus was speechless
“Your face needed to be changed. You couldn’t manage here without someone knowing your face. So I changed it. Free plastic surgery, Abraham!”
Abraham? thought Marcus, why is he calling me that?
“You’re a fucking slow-witted oaf! The name on your new documents is Abraham Managervich, an Israeli from Tel Aviv”
Why, asked Marcus
“BECAUSE THE OTHER GUY DOESN’T NEED THEM ANYMORE”
Marcus just stood in stunned silence
“Right. I’ve got you a new job. The address is programmed into the Fiat 500 outside. Get showered and changed and I expect you there in 3 days. There’s a bottle on the side. Enjoy it. You’ll feel better…”
Marcus/Abraham put down the phone. Baffled wasn’t the word. He looked down at the open passport. I am no longer Marcus Wedau, he thought. I am Abraham Managervich.