Vladimir Krestovich, Chapter 3

The man’s name was King Ghidra but everybody called him King. A seasoned octogenarian, he had come to the home after an auto accident robbed him of his independence and two-thirds of his left leg.

The injury slowed King down considerably and it drove the man crazy. He avoided calling attention to the handicap, and only reluctantly adopted the scepter-like cane which he used steady himself. King had aged well; he practiced calisthenics daily, commanded a full head of hair, and had child-like grey eyes for which he needed no glasses.

While most of his peers had begun the slow degeneration into infancy, King was as vigorous as ever—he even had relations with some of the more youthful elderly women in the home. Like any monarch, he was both admired and despised; envy leads to distrust.

The first words Vlad exchanged with the man were whispered in a seldom used hallway. He listened patiently knowing it was always best to let an individual make their point. King did not waste words.

Residents were not supposed to leave the facility without permission. This rule was designed to prevent the senile from wandering off, but as with any blanket decree, it hurt more people than it helped, King especially. Vladimir had never broken any rules at the home and yet it took only a minute for him to acquiesce to King’s request: a ride out of the home and into the City.

The man was teeming with charisma. His charisma would spill over into all those he encountered. There was something in the way King held himself that led one to believe wholeheartedly in him and his cause—something ethereal which made one feel better about oneself.

Saying no to this man would have been unbearable.