Cheesy Movie | ONC translation

Scene three

But then Robert remembered that his bow was waiting for him somewhere, and he bade Lola good-bye.

"Well, have fun. I have to run."

"Pche!" Lola blurted out without looking up from the cigarette she was making herself. "I'm sure gonna enjoy this! I've just enough time to go home and change and then get straight to that freakin' meeting! I'll be listening to the investors naggin' about Arnošt all afternoon for not finishing the script again!"

"Hm, that's sad..." said Robert, whose mind was already on the archery range, and he waved at the taxi, which was now cruising lazily and carelessly along the road, as befitted a Sunday morning.

And here our story begins to get interesting. This taxi, by pure coincidence, several minutes ago was occupied none other than Mr. Silent, whose black Mercedes, as you may have guessed, had been stolen by Láďa in an attempt to impress Lola. And even before Mr. Silent in that fateful taxi sat an ambitious young actor, who that evening, thanks to a certain comic misunderstanding, got the chance to play a role that launched his promising career. His story is also interesting, but it is not at all related to what I am about to tell you, so I will return to what Mr.  Silent was doing in the taxi five minutes before Robert got in.

Mr. Silent was sitting in the back seat of the taxi with his eyes closed, his head leaning against the window, breathing heavily. He'd been a part of torture plenty of times, but this was the first time he'd experienced what it was like to be on the other side, and he didn't like it at all.

Worse, was he now going to keep working for the man who would have executed him without mercy if it hadn't been for the technical error with the snake?

"Hey, sir, we're here! Are you going to get off?" The taxi driver called from the front seat, interrupting his train of thought.

Mr. Silent opened his eyes dazedly, drove both hands through his golden hair, which was still dripping water, and said hoarsely: "Do you take five thousand bills?"

"Why not? It'll be two hundred and fifty-seven." The taxi driver replied calmly and shrugged his shoulders. Having ignored the fact that Mr. Silent was dripping with water like a river sprite after a rain, why should he inquire into the origin of his money? No, this taxi driver was a very practical man. As long as he was paid, he didn't ask questions.

Mr. Silent clutched his temples, which throbbed with pain, with one hand, and with the other fished in his pocket for his thick, snakeskin wallet.

When he opened it, the taxi driver nearly swallowed the cigarette dangling from his lip in shock. He had only seen so many five-thousand-dollar bills together once in his life, when a suspiciously wealthy gentleman had withdrawn money in front of him at the bank.

But Mr. Silent, to whom it was mere change, paid no attention to the astonished look of the taxi driver. He merely pulled one out of the sea of bills and handed it to the taxi driver with his weakened hand.

The taxi driver immediately began to rummage in his waist bag, in which he kept all his cash, and took out change in hundreds and fifties.

"Fifty, one hundred, two hundred..." he muttered to himself, and carefully began to count out the pile of ten-crown-coins which he had been wanting to get rid of for some time, so that they would not weigh so heavily on his waist.

Mr. Silent, however, had not the patience for such a large exchange action that day. He still felt weak after Lord's torture, and he feared that if he were to breathe the sweat and perfume-laden air a second longer he would probably faint.

So he just waved his hand, opened the door that should free him from the smell of the tree-shaped perfume over the front mirror and the taxi driver's old shoes, and said breathlessly, "That's all right... keep it... as a tip."

"Really?" The taxi driver gasped, baring his yellowed teeth. "Well, thanks, boss! You're a good lad!"

Mr. Silent just nodded, forced his ashen lips to curl into at least a partial smile, and stepped out of the car into the fresh air.

As he stepped out into the empty street by the park, which offered a beautiful view of midday Prague, and took a deep breath, the colour returned to his deathly face.

From the flats above his head came the roar of children persuading their sleepy parents to take them to the playground, the attractive smell of schnitzels and boiled potatoes wafted from the restaurant downstairs, and the world suddenly seemed beautiful, even to Mr. Silent, who had rarely felt happy in recent years.

But the beauty of the world, whether of the city or of nature, set him free. Now, though with a pistol at his belt, he stood at the beginning of another murderous task, he was free! He was floating free among the towers of Prague like a carefree pigeon! He was as free as-

Damn it. He'd forgotten the file in the cab.

But what could be done? He had to do without it. He remembered the victim's name and address anyway, that's all he needed for the murder. And Mr. Silent was sure that unless a policeman got into the cab and finished off his unlucky day, the envelope would not fall into the hands of anyone who might use it against him.

So Mr. Silent mentally forgave himself for this little mistake, and vowed that he would not commit such a blunder again.

What Mr. Silent did not know was that the damage was already done and no resolutions were worth making. The most unlikely scenario imaginable had occurred. The order for the murder had fallen into the hands of the man whose name was on the top of the ominious paper.

Robert Vašinka was at that moment getting into the seat of a taxi which had not even cooled down since Mr. Silent's departure.

As Robert stretched out his long legs, which he always had trouble squeezing into the car, the tip of his sneaker touched Mr. Silent's thick brown envelope, which slid off the seat in the turn and caught on the grey-blue blanket that covered the entire floor of the taxi.

Robert had good manners. His parents had taught him in his youth not to touch other people's things and not to inquire after other people's secrets. So he did the only thing that was offered in his situation... he picked up the envelope from the floor with interest and opened it without hesitation. Against the natural curiosity of man, the most refined morals are powerless...

Robert opened the envelope thinking he would find a spicy love letter, family photos from a holiday at the seaside or some tax reports, in short, something to keep him occupied on the long journey through the crowded streets of Prague.

So when his own name appeared in bold letters under his hands, the paper almost fell out of his hands in surprise and he had to pinch himself to believe that he was actually conscious and this strange apparition was not a mere mirage caused by the excess of marijuana he had smoked the day before.

Robert tensed and didn't breathe, quickly pulling all the papers out of the envelope and sifting through the plethora of photos he didn't remember taking (And he also strongly doubted he'd ever taken a selfie through the bathroom window while showering) with increasing dread. But at the end of that parade of first-class stalking, Robert came across a piece of paper that wasn't about him.

The face on that sheet, however, disturbed him perhaps more than his own photographies. What the hell was a picture of Lola's bodyguard doing in his files?

What the hell was that supposed to mean?