Sergej The Psychopath

The gardener, his thoughts dark and twisted, silently rejoiced in the anticipation of more bloodshed. "I'm so happy if I can eliminate someone," he whispered, a sinister smile playing upon his lips as he plotted his next move.

With a confident stride, Sergej, now disguised as Robert Schoff, made his way over to the three guards stationed nearby, attempting to pass himself off as an innocent gardener.

Gareng, the boss, had previously caught a glimpse of Sergej during his stint in the Derisa hospital. It was back when Sergej decided to shoot and get rid of five of his men, none of whom have been heard from since.

The incident had unfolded too quickly for Gareng to get a good look at the face of the person who had taken out his five men. Frustrated, he cursed himself for not being more careful in identifying the culprit.

Sergej, who had been masquerading as Robert Schoff, found the perfect opportunity to get close to his unsuspecting targets. Coincidentally, the Dony Arjito's estate was in need of a new gardener, and Sergej seized the moment to apply for the job.

Boss Gareng had good reason to find nothing suspicious about the disheveled-looking gardener, who despite his unkempt appearance, was indeed a foreigner. His cheerful nature, coupled with a cheap and friendly grin, further lulled Gareng into a false sense of security.

Few would have guessed that the seemingly harmless gardener was, in fact, a former elite Russian soldier harboring a secret dream to reunite Russia and the surrounding nations under the banner of the Soviet Union.

His intentions, carefully concealed beneath a gardener's exterior, were rooted in a passionate desire for the return of the USSR.

In his past, Sergej had endured a traumatic childhood, shaped by the violent death of his parents at a young age. This early trauma had fostered a deep-seated psychological disorder within him, further aggravated by the loss of his loved ones.

The killer, with a chilling menace, compelled him to wear a façade of gaiety, his lips forced into a hollow semblance of cheer as he bore witness to the merciless butchery of his parents, their lives extinguished with a cruel and unrelenting savagery.

To avenge his harrowing loss, Sergej, harbouring the fractured psyche of a true misanthrope, enlisted in the military with a cold and calculating resolve.

His unyielding determination and dark ingenuity saw him rise steadily through the ranks, his final station that of a Major—a title befitting his disciplined yet deeply tormented soul.

"Oy, Robert, come 'ere a moment," called Benny, one of the three guards, his tone laced with a casual yet commanding air. He paused briefly, then carried on.

"The night has fallen, and the rain lashes down in torrents. You'd best rest here for a while," Benny urged, his tone both inviting and resolute.

"Come now, join us," he added, gesturing towards the dimly lit shelter with an air of camaraderie.

"Ah... would I not be imposing upon you?" inquired Robert, known to some as Sergej. His lips curving into a polite yet inscrutable smile, his demeanour carefully measured.

"Of course not! Come along now," Benny replied with an easy grin, beckoning him over.

Robert stepped closer, his movements unhurried yet deliberate, before gesturing casually and asking, "Mind sparing a cigarette?" His tone was light, but his piercing gaze hinted at something far darker beneath the surface.

"You're acting as though we're strangers," Benny said with a chuckle, his voice warm and familiar. "Of course, you may. Take as many as you like," he added, holding out the pack with an easy generosity, his demeanor relaxed and inviting.

The four of them eventually settled together, sharing bottles of beer, hearty provisions, and the curling smoke of their cigarettes.

Laughter and camaraderie filled the air, though beneath it all, an unspoken tension lingered, veiled by the convivial façade.

Their conversation grew lively and animated, the air thick with laughter and intrigue. Robert, as it turned out, had a knack for captivating his companions, regaling them with darkly thrilling tales of psychopathy stories laced with suspense and an unsettling charm that held them spellbound, even as a faint chill crept through the room.

"Extraordinary... this is the maddest tale I've ever heard," exclaimed Benny, his astonishment plain in his voice.

Bayu and Hendar nodded in fervent agreement, their expressions a mixture of disbelief and dark amusement as they hung on Robert's every word.

"And so... how did that wretched psychopath finally execute his victims?" Benny inquired, his curiosity sharpened to a fine edge, leaning forward as if the weight of the answer might tip the balance of the room.

"Like this, Mr. Benny," Robert replied with a calm, almost chilling clarity. In one swift motion, he seized a pair of garden shears and plunged them into Benny's eye.

The room froze in stunned silence as a sickening squelch echoed through the air, followed by a guttural cry.

With a brutal twist, Robert wrenched the shears free, along with a grotesque chunk of what had once been Benny's eye, leaving his companions paralyzed with horror.

"Ah.. Fuckkk!!!!" Benny let out a guttural, anguished cry, his hands clawing desperately at the gaping wound where his eye had been.

The sound was raw and primal, echoing through the room as blood streamed down his face, painting a gruesome tableau of agony and betrayal.

Bayu and Hendar, seated nearby, were struck motionless with shock, their eyes wide with disbelief. Instinct kicked in a heartbeat later as they both reached for the pistols holstered at their waists.

But Robert was quicker-far quicker. With a fluid motion, he drew a small, razor-sharp blade, its steel glinting under the dim light.

It was an old gift from Doctor Zein, given to him long ago during his harrowing days in Serbia. The knife felt almost alive in his hand, a loyal instrument of chaos, as he prepared to strike.

This was no ordinary knife. Itt was a blade of precision, forged for a singular purpose: the autopsy of the dead. Its edge, honed to surgical sharpness, gleamed with an eerie promise of finality.

Without hesitation, Robert moved with the swiftness of a predator, his hand a blur as he directed the blade toward the throats of Bayu and Hendar. The air seemed to crackle with tension, the deadly arc of the knife a silent herald of the violence yet to come.

(Splash, splash)

With Robert's formidable strength and the unrelenting sharpness of the autopsy knife, the deed was executed with chilling efficiency. In a single, brutal motion, the blade sliced clean through flesh and bone.

The room was momentarily silent, save for the dull thud of two severed heads hitting the ground, rolling lifelessly across the bloodstained floor.

The air grew thick with the metallic scent of death, and Robert stood amidst the carnage, his expression cold and unyielding, as though carved from stone.

Naturally, Benny, peering through the one eye that remained intact, was utterly aghast. His breath caught in his throat as he beheld the gruesome sight before him, the lifeless heads of his comrades lying in grotesque stillness upon the blood-soaked floor.

A shudder of unrestrained terror coursed through him, his mind reeling with disbelief and a primal, consuming dread that threatened to shatter what little composure he had left.

With great effort and trembling hands, Benny managed to activate the emergency alarm, its piercing wail slicing through the tense silence like a dagger.

Robert, standing a mere few feet away, made no move to stop him. Instead, he watched in eerie stillness, his expression unreadable, as though granting Benny permission to summon whatever futile help he could.

The faintest hint of a smirk played at the corners of Robert's lips, as if the unfolding chaos was all part of a carefully orchestrated game.

Robert remained where he stood, utterly unbothered by the alarm's shrill cry. His posture was relaxed, almost languid, as if he were a mere observer to the unfolding chaos. And yet, the smile he wore a cheerful, unsettling grin never wavered.

After a moment of tense silence, he finally spoke, his tone light yet laced with something dark and unforgiving.

"Mr. Benny," he began, tilting his head ever so slightly, "I seem to have forgotten to tell you the name of that psychopath from my tales. His name is Robert Schoff." He paused for effect, his grin widening as he met Benny's one remaining eye. "And that, dear fellow, would be me."

He delivered the words with an air of almost childlike glee, the smile never faltering as if the admission was the punchline to a wicked joke only he could fully appreciate.

What unfolded next was a scene so harrowing, so grotesque, that it would surely churn the stomachs of even the most steadfast readers.

The sheer brutality defied description, the imagery too visceral, too unrelenting, to fully recount.

It was an act of violence that lingered not only in the air but also in the mind a macabre tableau that words could scarcely capture without leaving an indelible mark on the imagination.

Some horrors, perhaps, are best left to the shadows, unspoken and unseen.

The blaring wail of the emergency alarm summoned the remaining guards, their boots thundering against the cold, hard floor as they rushed to investigate. Upon entering the room, they froze, their expressions shifting from confusion to utter horror.

Before them lay a ghastly tableau, Benny, Bayu, and Hendar, lifeless and desecrated in ways that defied comprehension. Blood pooled across the floor, the coppery scent heavy in the air, mingling with the faint wisps of cigarette smoke still lingering from earlier.

For a moment, none dared to speak, their faces pale with shock as their eyes darted over the carnage.

What foul nightmare had descended upon their comrades? Whatever it was, they could feel it still lingering in the room a malevolent presence that sent shivers racing down their spines.

What met their eyes next was a sight so grotesque, so utterly abominable, that it seemed to defy all logic and nature. The severed heads of Bayu and Hendar, to their unholy astonishment, were no longer on the floor.

Instead, they had been grotesquely embedded within Benny's torso, their lifeless faces protruding from the mangled cavity of his chest.

It was as though some nightmarish hand had wrought this abomination, stitching death itself into the fabric of the living.

The expressionless stares of Bayu and Hendar's severed heads seemed to mock the guards, their glazed eyes a silent testament to the unspeakable horror that had unfolded.

The guards recoiled, a collective gasp escaping their lips, the sheer wrongness of the scene sending waves of nausea and dread coursing through them.

It was as though they had stumbled into a realm where sanity had been forsaken, and madness reigned supreme.

Benny's body lay grotesquely disfigured, his chest split wide open, leaving his ribcage exposed like the hollow framework of some grotesque sculpture.

His internal organs lay strewn across the blood-soaked floor, glistening obscenely under the dim light.

And there, nestled within the gaping cavity of his torso, sat the severed heads of Bayu and Hendar, their lifeless faces frozen in eternal silence, staring out from their macabre resting place.

It was a scene born of sheer insanity, the work of a deranged mind unshackled from all semblance of humanity. The guards could scarcely comprehend the level of depravity required to commit such an act.

Their stomachs churned as they took in the horrific tableau, their minds grappling with the question: what kind of madman could orchestrate such a monstrous display?

Elsewhere, under the relentless downpour that drummed against the earth, a grim tableau hung in solemn silence.

A gaunt, emaciated man swayed lifelessly from a crude noose, his frail body silhouetted against the stormy sky.

Beside him hung a woman, her form equally still, her head bowed as though in quiet submission to the fate that had claimed her.

The rain cascaded over their lifeless figures, mingling with the blood that streaked down their pale skin, as if nature itself mourned the tragedy.

Their bodies twisted gently in the wind, a macabre dance in the shadow of the storm, bearing silent witness to the darkness that had engulfed the night.

In a cruel twist of irony, the gaunt man hanging lifelessly from the noose was none other than Andy Arjito, infamously known as Boss Gareng.

His frail, dangling form bore the marks of unimaginable cruelty—his manhood severed, leaving only a grotesque reminder of his humiliation.

Beside him hung a woman, equally ravaged, her chest mutilated to the point where no trace of femininity remained.

She was Hesti Wulansari, the young wife of Donny, now revealed to be Boss Gareng's stepmother and illicit lover. The dark affair that had intertwined their fates now culminated in this horrifying spectacle.

It was Robert—Sergej, as he was once known—who had delivered their grim fate. Their deaths were not mere executions but performances of calculated cruelty, each detail a deliberate reminder of his unrelenting malice.

The rain continued to fall, washing over their desecrated forms, as though the heavens themselves sought to cleanse the earth of their tragic and tainted story.

Chaos descended upon the mansion as the remaining guards pieced together the horrifying truth: the perpetrator of this nightmarish carnage was none other than the unassuming gardener, Robert Schoff.

The pale foreigner, who had worked here for a mere two days, now stood revealed as the architect of the slaughter.

Now, Robert—Sergej—stood alone, unarmed yet unyielding, facing thirty of Donny Arjito's guards, each one armed to the teeth. The air was thick with tension, the rain outside mingling with the sweat and fear that clung to the room. The guards' weapons were trained on him, ready to end his life at a moment's notice.

But Sergej was undaunted. Fear had no dominion over him. His perpetual grin remained intact, a chilling emblem of his unwavering confidence. As the guards prepared to unleash their firepower, Sergej broke the silence.

In a voice that cut through the tension like a blade, he began to sing—the haunting strains of the Soviet national anthem echoing through the room. His deep baritone was steady, almost triumphant, rising above the rain and the trembling breaths of those before him.

The guards hesitated, their fingers twitching on the triggers. The sheer audacity of the moment, the eerie calm of the man before them, was enough to give even the most hardened among them pause.

Sergej's voice carried on, unbroken, each note a declaration of defiance, a testament to a soul that refused to bow.

'Soiuz nerushimyj respublik svobodnykh

'Splotila naveki Velikaia Rus' and so on..

As Sergej's haunting baritone filled the room with the solemn strains of the Soviet anthem, chaos unfolded with a grim precision that only he could orchestrate.

Each lyric was a death knell, and with every line sung, one or two lives were extinguished.

He moved with eerie calm, a predator among prey, wielding his silenced pistol with lethal accuracy.

The modified weapon, a marvel of ingenuity courtesy of Doctor Zein, needed no reloads, an endless harbinger of death in Sergej's skilled hands.

The first guard fell without a sound, a bullet piercing his temple as Sergej sang the opening verse.

Another crumpled moments later, the light in his eyes snuffed out before he could even raise his weapon. The others scrambled, shouting orders, their attempts at coordination drowned beneath the steady, unrelenting melody.

Sergej's movements were fluid, almost graceful, as though he were conducting a macabre symphony. He ducked and weaved, his shots precise and unerring, each one punctuating the chilling anthem with finality.

The guards fell like dominoes, their numbers dwindling with alarming speed. Blood pooled on the floor, painting the scene with a grisly artistry, yet Sergej's expression remained unchanged.

His smile, ever-present, was as unyielding as the song that poured from his lips.

By the time the final verse echoed through the now-silent hall, Sergej stood alone amid the carnage. The thirty guards who had once dared to oppose him lay lifeless at his feet, their weapons now useless, their efforts in vain.

Sergej exhaled slowly, the last note of the anthem fading into the still air. He holstered his pistol with an almost ceremonial air, his grin broadening as he surveyed his handiwork. This was his stage, his symphony of death, and the performance had been flawless.

The muffled echoes of gunfire, though repetitive and relentless, were a symphony to Sergej's ears, harmonizing perfectly with the anthem he sang so passionately. With each pull of the trigger, another life was claimed, yet his voice remained unwavering, resonant, and hauntingly melodic.

As the final verse approached, the last guard crumpled to the ground, his life surrendered to the silent whispers of death. The room, once alive with chaos and violence, now fell into an eerie stillness, broken only by the faint sound of rain tapping against the windows.

Sergej stood amidst the carnage, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths, the faintest trace of satisfaction playing upon his blood-smeared face. He lifted his gaze to the ceiling, as if seeking solace in the heavens above. His grin broadened, an unsettling blend of gratitude and madness.

"Спасибо. Ты дал мне вторую жизнь, босс," he murmured, his voice rich with sincerity, the Russian words rolling off his tongue with a reverence that betrayed his cold exterior.

"Thank you for giving me a second life, boss," he echoed softly in English, wiping the blood from his face with the back of his hand.

For a moment, Sergej stood there, a figure drenched in violence yet oddly serene, as though the horrors of the night had brought him closer to some unspoken purpose. The smile lingered, as permanent and unyielding as the shadow he cast upon the blood-soaked floor.

Now, only Donny Arjito remained in his grand yet desolate mansion. The once-proud kingpin, now reduced to a trembling shadow of himself, paced back and forth, his mind racing as panic consumed him.

He knew, all too well, that his guards had been slaughtered, one by one, leaving him utterly alone.

The silence of the house was shattered by a haunting voice that echoed through its vast corridors.

"Doooonnnyyyyyyyy… wheeeerrreeee aaarreee yooooouuuuuu… caaaann I meeeeeet yoooouuuuuu?"

The sing-song tone, dripping with mockery, sent icy tendrils of dread crawling up Donny's spine.

It was Sergej, toying with him like a cat with a cornered mouse. His voice, exaggerated and playful, ricocheted through the empty halls, making it impossible to pinpoint its origin.

Frantic, Donny snatched the telephone from its cradle, his fingers trembling as he dialed number after number.

No response. The line was dead. Desperation clawed at him as he reached for his smartphone, but even that betrayed him—no signal.

He cursed under his breath, throwing the device onto the table with a loud clatter. The storm outside raged with unrelenting ferocity.

Thunder rolled ominously, and flashes of lightning briefly illuminated the room, casting long, flickering shadows that only deepened his paranoia.

For three days now, the weather had been unyielding, as though the heavens themselves conspired against him.

The rain hammered against the windows, and the occasional crack of lightning seemed almost synchronized with Sergej's eerie calls, which grew louder and more insistent with every passing minute.

Donny's heart pounded as he realized the terrible truth: there was no escape.

Donny, driven by a desperate mix of fear and determination, forced himself out through the window of his sprawling mansion.

The rain lashed against his skin as he clung precariously to the ledge, inching his way down from the third floor. When he reached the second-story window, he froze, his breath hitching.

Inside, illuminated by the flicker of lightning, he saw a figure hanging limp in his bedroom.

His stomach churned, a wave of nausea threatening to overtake him, but his trembling hands forced the window open. He climbed in, his shoes landing on the cold, wet floor.

What met his eyes next drained what little strength remained in him. There, swaying gently in the dim room, hung his only child, Andy Arjito, or Boss Gareng, as he was infamously known.

But Andy was not alone. Beside him, in the same grisly state, was Donny's young wife, Hesti Wulansari.

Donny staggered backward, his mind reeling. The rumours (the whispered suspicions about Andy's affair with Hesti) were true.

The sickening realization hit him like a freight train. His son and wife, lovers in their betrayal, now united in death.

Overwhelmed by shock and despair, Donny collapsed onto his knees, his hands clutching his head as if to keep his sanity from unraveling completely.

The sound of approaching footsteps snapped him out of his stupor. He turned toward the door, his heart pounding.

Sergej entered, his face alight with a grin so disarmingly cheerful it bordered on grotesque.

He carried himself with an air of nonchalance, as though he were an old friend dropping by for tea rather than the architect of unimaginable chaos.

"You see, Donny," Sergej began, his voice almost jovial, "the worst mistakes are often the simplest ones. Like hiring the wrong gardener."

Donny's trembling lips parted, but no words came. His body betrayed him, frozen in the weight of his grief and terror.

Sergej tilted his head, his grin widening. Then, with a terrifying precision, he set to work.

Donny's screams filled the room, but they were soon silenced as Sergej meticulously severed the vital nerves in his hands, feet, neck, and even his face. It wasn't death Sergej delivered. Oh no, that would have been merciful.

When he finished, Donny lay motionless on the floor, his body reduced to a vegetative state. He could no longer move, no longer speak. Only his eyes remained functional, blinking in a desperate, silent plea.

Sergej crouched down beside him, his voice almost tender as he said, "Now, Donny, you'll have all the time in the world to reflect on your life... and your mistakes."

He stood and dusted off his hands, his smile never faltering as he turned and left the room, leaving Donny behind in a torment worse than death, a living prison within his own body.

=======