Chapter 1
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ZZ ROPIKO:
ZZ ROPIKO:
The Assassination of Martin the Notary
On this particular afternoon, as the Sofia traffic had condensed into an agonizingly slow crawl, Martin felt his adrenaline rising. Not from worry, but from a kind of perverted pleasure. It was a habit. Behind the wheel of his luxury vehicle, enveloped by the sounds of loud chalga music, he felt invincible. The blue beacon on the roof of the lead jeep flashed insistently, piercing through the chaos of horns and nervous drivers. Behind him, another car with security guards closed the motorcade, condemning the flow of traffic to forced submission.
Martin was not merely driving; he owned the road. For him, the streets of Sofia were a personal carpet, unrolled specifically for him. Every sharp braking, every brutal overtaking of a line of agitated cars, every arrogant cutting-off of an ordinary citizen was a demonstration. A demonstration of power that he considered his by right. Through the tinted windows of his car, Martin hurled profane remarks, swore, and cursed, even though he knew nobody could hear him. This was part of the ritual, part of the game. In his imagination, the people outside shrank before his might, turned blue with rage, but were powerless. F**k you, peasants! – he would utter, watching as other drivers swerved sharply or slammed on the brakes to avoid a collision.
Sofia was stifling, dusty, and full of people rushing nowhere. Dirty streets, dug-up pavement, eternally-under-repair sections – all this seemed created to emphasize the contrast with his smooth and uncompromising movement. The motorcade moved heavily, like an armored tank, provoking waves of irritation among the other traffic participants. People on the sidewalks stopped to look, some with curiosity, others with obvious contempt. The blue beacons – a symbol of a state of emergency, here were just an attribute of arrogance, brazenly switched on on civilian cars. They screamed: We are the chosen ones! We are above all of you!
Every cutting-off, every forced stop, every emergency maneuver that the motorcade provoked was met with angry horns and silent curses. Drivers gripped their steering wheels, their faces reddening with anger. Some uttered insults out loud, others just shook their heads in disgust. Arrogant bastards! – was heard from somewhere. What do they need those beacons for, man?! Although he didn’t hear them, Martin felt this wave of negative energy. It didn’t bother him. On the contrary, it fed him. It proved to him that he was right – that he was above them, that he was somebody, and they were nobodies.
He had named himself the cashier of judicial corruption, although to outsiders he presented himself as an influential businessman with connections. In his own eyes, however, he was much more – he was the architect of the system, the moving force behind the scenes, the man holding the reins. And every overtaking, every cutting-off, every imposition of his will on this afternoon was just another confirmation of his untouchability. He was the king of the road, the king of his own small but mighty world. And the people outside were just figures that had to move out of his way.
There is .
1m
On Sofia’s streets this afternoon, the air hung thick and heavy, saturated with petrol fumes and dust rising from millions of tires. The sky, leaden-grey and gloomy, seemed to reflect the city’s mood. Sofia was congested to the point of bursting, a city drowning in its own traffic. Cars, countless cars, had spilled like a dirty river along the boulevards and narrow streets. Most of them looked battered, scratched, with peeling paint and dented bodywork, marked by ruthless daily life and numerous minor accidents. Old Opels and Volkswagens, with faded colors and creaking suspensions, alternated with newer but equally tormented machines. From time to time a shiny new model appeared, but even it looked out of place, as if having just emerged from the city’s mud bath.
The streets themselves were a landscape of absurdity. Potholes the size of small lakes, patches that looked like clumsily stitched wounds, raised paving stones lurking like toothy traps for tires. On both sides of the boulevards, disintegrating sidewalks with cracked asphalt, along which pedestrians maneuvered between poles and indiscriminately parked cars. Old panel blocks, with peeling plaster and satellite dishes clustered on facades like fungi, alternated with kitschy new cooperatives whose shiny windows looked frowningly at the chaos. Above all this floated the constant, irritating noise of horns – sharp, prolonged, desperate sounds that meant nothing other than powerlessness and nerves.
In this urban hell, Martin’s motorcade moved like a foreign body, like a ship cutting through the waves without caring about their resistance. The lead jeep, with the blue beacon on, cut through the air with its brazen audacity. Its light, intrusive and authoritative, reflected in thousands of muddy puddles and dirty windows, forcing other cars to give way. It was not a siren screaming urgency, but only a quiet yet unshakeable declaration of privilege. Behind it, Martin’s car, shiny and without a speck of dust, crawled like a shadow, enveloped by the loud chalga pouring out of its speakers. And at the very back, the second car with security sealed the motorcade, leaving no chance for maneuvering to those around.
For Martin, observing this theater of the absurd through the tinted windows of his car, the whole picture was proof. Proof of his own place in the hierarchy. While ordinary people struggled to break through the traffic jams, swore under their breath, and uselessly pressed horns, he slid forward. Every sharp turn, every arrogant cutting-off of some careless driver who didn’t react quickly enough to the flashing blue beacon was a small victory. He saw their faces – contorted by anger, helplessness, sometimes even resignation. F**k you, ignoramuses! – he murmured, not stopping to enjoy how the traffic parted before him as if at an invisible command.
The motorcade did not move fast, but it moved inexorably. It was a heavy, slow, yet uncompromising procession through the agitated city. People on the sidewalks, accustomed to such spectacles, just glanced up, some with annoyance, others with contempt. There was no outrage, only silent condemnation. Every resident of Sofia knew: those moving like this are the chosen ones, those who are above the law, above rules, above ordinary daily life. And every overtaking, every cutting-off, every maneuver the motorcade imposed only confirmed this. In this dirty, noisy, and agitated city, Martin was the king, and the streets were his personal domain.
2m
Sofia Hell: When Privilege Crushes the Ordinary Day
This afternoon, the Sofia air hung thick and heavy, saturated with petrol fumes and dust rising from millions of tires. The sky, leaden-grey and gloomy, seemed to reflect the city’s mood. Sofia was congested to the point of bursting – a city drowning in its own traffic. Cars, countless cars, had spilled like a dirty river along the boulevards and narrow streets. Most of them looked battered, scratched, with peeling paint and dented bodywork, marked by ruthless daily life and numerous minor accidents. Old Opels and Volkswagens, with faded colors and creaking suspensions, alternated with newer but equally tormented machines. From time to time a shiny new model appeared, but even it looked out of place, as if having just emerged from the city’s mud bath.
The streets themselves were a landscape of absurdity. Potholes the size of small lakes, patches that looked like clumsily stitched wounds, raised paving stones lurking like toothy traps for tires. On both sides of the boulevards – disintegrating sidewalks with cracked asphalt, along which pedestrians maneuvered between poles and indiscriminately parked cars. Old panel blocks, with peeling plaster and satellite dishes clustered on facades like fungi, alternated with kitschy new cooperatives whose shiny windows looked frowningly at the chaos.
Above all this floated the constant, irritating noise of horns – sharp, prolonged, desperate sounds that meant nothing other than powerlessness and nerves.
In this urban hell, Martin’s motorcade moved like a foreign body, like a ship cutting through the waves without caring about their resistance. The lead jeep, with the blue beacon on, cut through the air with its brazen audacity. Its light, intrusive and authoritative, reflected in thousands of muddy puddles and dirty windows, forcing other cars to give way. It was not a siren screaming urgency, but only a quiet yet unshakeable declaration of privilege. Behind it, Martin’s car, shiny and without a speck of dust, crawled like a shadow, enveloped by the loud chalga pouring out of its speakers. And at the very back, the second car with security sealed the motorcade, leaving no chance for maneuvering to those around.
The Echo on Sofia’s Streets
Petar gripped the steering wheel of his old Audi. Just a moment ago he was trying to squeeze through a little street when the jeep with the blue beacon suddenly jumped out in front of him, forcing him to slam on the brakes sharply. Damn it! What do these guys think, eh? A civilian car passing like an ambulance! – he cursed under his breath, feeling adrenaline rush through his veins. He looked in the mirror – Martin’s car, shiny, without any lettering, just gliding behind the jeep. Arrogant jerks! Probably some newborn businessman or politician. Always thinking they are above everyone, he thought, watching as the motorcade unceremoniously made its way.
In the neighboring lane, Ivan, driver of an archaic Moskvitch that could expire at any moment in the traffic jam, struggled to see what was happening. When the jeep’s headlights started flashing, he managed with effort to move the heavy car to the right. What is so urgent for them? Some wiseguy bought a little beacon and thinks he is traffic police, he grumbled to himself. Total anarchy! Every day it’s the same – some fight to survive, others are riding high. The feeling of injustice dragged him even deeper into the hole of daily life.
From the cabin of his imposing Nissan Patrol, Yordan, who usually wasn’t easily startled, was forced to turn aside. They totally went too far! They have no right to make me pull over! This is not an official motorcade; this is some self-obsessed jerk! – he exploded, clenching his fists. Either they are mobsters, or they are police who think they can do whatever they want. Someday they’ll meet their match!
3m
On the sidewalk, as the motorcade squeezed through, two girls with bicycles, Ralitsa and Elena, were forced to stop abruptly to not be hit by the jeep that unceremoniously blocked their path.
This is total insolence! Here they are again, those with the blue lights! Don’t they have roads to pass through here? Ralitsa was outraged, having almost fallen off her bicycle.
Crazy business! Everyone puts on a little beacon and thinks he is king of the road! Elena added, taking out her phone. I’m calling Misho! He probably knows what to do.
Misho picked up after a few seconds. What’s going on, girls? he asked.
Well, some people with blue lights cut us off again! They barely hit us! Ralitsa explained, still breathless.
But are they civilian cars? Misho asked.
Yes, yes! One little jeep and after it some limousine! Elena replied.
Hey, listen to me carefully, Misho said with a more serious tone. Don’t deal with them! They might be cops, they might be mobsters. There’s no point in arguing. They can do something to you, beat you, smash your bikes. Just let them pass and continue. It’s not worth it. The girls looked at each other, understanding that Misho was right. Despite the anger, they knew it was better to avoid conflict with such people.
Even the driver of a city transport bus, whose bus was cut off in a particularly brutal way, allowed himself to let off steam: Again, man? Every single week the same thing! Those with the blue lights are scarier than aliens! And it’s not clear to you what they are doing, or if they have some special permission! Here, they are clogging a whole bus with people just because somebody is in a rush to drink their coffee! Enough is enough! – his voice was filled with fatigue and powerlessness, but also with undisguised indignation.
For Martin, observing this theater of the absurd through the tinted windows of his car, the whole picture was proof. Proof of his own place in the hierarchy. While ordinary people struggled to break through the traffic jams, swore under their breath, and uselessly pressed horns, he slid forward. Every sharp turn, every arrogant cutting-off of some careless driver who didn’t react quickly enough to the flashing blue beacon was a small victory. He saw their faces – contorted by anger, helplessness, sometimes even resignation. F**k you, ignoramuses! – he murmured, not stopping to enjoy how the traffic parted before him as if at an invisible command.
The motorcade did not move fast, but it moved inexorably. It was a heavy, slow, yet uncompromising procession through the agitated city. People on the sidewalks, accustomed to such spectacles, just glanced up, some with annoyance, others with contempt. There was no outrage, only silent condemnation. Every resident of Sofia knew: those moving like this are the chosen ones, those who are above the law, above rules, above ordinary daily life. And every overtaking, every cutting-off, every maneuver the motorcade imposed only confirmed this. In this dirty, noisy, and agitated city, Martin was the king, and the streets were his personal domain.
4m
In Martin’s Dark Paradise: When Lucifer Reigns Over Themis
For Martin, observing the theater of the absurd on Sofia’s streets through the tinted windows of his car, the whole picture was proof – not just of his own place in the hierarchy, but of his omnipotence. While ordinary people struggled to break through the traffic jams, swore under their breath, and uselessly pressed horns, he slid forward, undeniable and unreachable. Every sharp turn, every arrogant cutting-off of some careless driver who didn’t react quickly enough to the flashing blue beacon was a small but significant victory. He saw their faces – contorted by anger, helplessness, sometimes even resignation – and this brought him perverted pleasure. F**k you, ignoramuses! – he murmured, not stopping to enjoy how the traffic parted before him as if at an invisible command.
But Martin’s true power did not hide in the blue beacon or the shiny limousine. It pulsed in the murky waters of judicial corruption, where he was absolute lord. He was the man who distributed and appointed judges, prosecutors, investigators, and investigative policemen in the specialized justice system. For him, this was not just a job – it was a calling, filled with the delight of power to reshape fates. In the eyes of all corrupt servants of Themis, Martin was the modern Lucifer, the demon holding the keys from the hell of specialized justice. And this title, this perverted recognition, pleased Martin the Notary endlessly.
Voices from the Dark: Bow to Lucifer
Prosecutor Galiponov, with bowed head and trembling hands, had once whispered in Martin’s ear during one of their secret meetings in a tucked-away capital restaurant: Martin, you are... you are the true sovereign of this place. Whatever you say happens. For us, for all of us, you are the modern Lucifer of justice. You hold us in your hands, you know every weakness of ours... His voice faded in reverence, or rather in fear. Martin then only smiled barely noticeably, feeling his veins swell with perverted satisfaction.
A few months later, during a cocktail party after a heavy court session, Prosecutor Vergov, already visibly tipsy but with a crystal clear look, had approached Martin. Mr. Notary, he said, oilily smiling, you are not just a person, but... a phenomenon! We are like pawns, and you move the board. You know, I once heard a colleague say that you are our Lucifer. And you know what? He’s right! You are the god of this hell of ours, where justice is just currency. Vergov exploded in uncontrollable, sycophantic laughter, and Martin looked at him with slight contempt, but also with pride. Here it is, another confirmation.
Even more restrained figures like Prosecutor Kostov, known for his cold-bloodedness, couldn’t escape the nets of flattery. During a working meeting dedicated to the distribution of important cases, Kostov, while examining documents carefully, raised his eyes to Martin: I consider, Mr. Notary, that your insight into the balance of forces in the judicial system is exceptional. It is no coincidence colleagues call you by that name... Lucifer. You really hold the key to every door here. Martin, enjoying the effect of his silent presence, nodded approvingly.
One evening, in private, Prosecutor Detelina Gancheva – usually haughty and inaccessible – had relaxed in Martin’s presence. You are different, Martin, she admitted, while her gaze glided over his expensive tie. You are not just some Notary. You are the one pulling the strings. You are our Lucifer. There is nobody else like you who commands chaos and turns it into order... according to his own rules. Her words were like music to Martin’s ears, confirming to him that even the most inaccessible are broken under his power.
5m
