P.P.B.B
Chapter Two: Paul Popov’s Been
Identified

        It was another day for Paul Popov, the
drug dealer working in New York. He was at ease, and, as usual, things were
going smoothly. There was a knock on his door. Paul sighed and walked over to
it. “Yeah?” he opened it slightly. “Oh.” It was one of his coworkers. “P-Paul…
Paul… listen to me, Paul. I’ve only sold a few grams, take it or leave it.”
Paul took the little money they made. “Listen, Paul. I-it’s the cops. They’ve
found us. We’ve got to move!” Paul’s eyes widened. “Crap!” he jumped up and dashed
to his closet, threw a coat on and stuffed all of his money into a briefcase.
“Let’s get the heck out of here!” With that, the two men dashed out of the building,
going their separate ways after a quick handshake and farewell.

        Popov took a plane to Miami, Florida.
He thought no one would expect him to flee there. He was right. When he
arrived, he sighed in relief. Being rich with the money he made from illegally
selling dangerous goods, he rented a house close to the city so he could get
away from the crowd and the noise. He unpacked and collapsed on his couch. “Oh,
God…” he sighed. “What now?” he didn’t have time to think about it, and he fell
asleep on the spot.

        After a long, needed nap, Paul was awoken
by Barry Smith’s “Well, hello!” “What the- Ouch!” Paul bolted straight up,
banging his head on the staircase. “It’s too early for this.” Barry smiled from
outside of Popov’s window. “We’re always proud to welcome new neighbors!” We?
Paul looked next to the blond. He noticed a distressed Bob with a “help me”
face. The brunet wasn’t impressed by either of them. “What will it take to get
you two out of my face?” Barry ignored the question and smiled warmly. “You
sound great, today, neighbor!” Paul wanted to punch him in the face. “And you
sound very ga- fabulous. Just fabulous.” Barry caught on, but being the nice
person he was, pretended not to. “Well, I have to go back to sleep now. I’ve got
a night shift, you know! See you!” He, along with Bob, walked back to his
house. Paul smirked. “Canadians. And he’s blond, too.” He slammed his window
shut and collapsed on the couch once more. “I have to get back on the job,
tomorrow. N-no… My coworker’s gone. Ugh… I need a drink.”

        Later that night, Popov put on his coat
and headed off to a local pub. “Not too much, please,” he asked the bartender. “I
don’t plan to get drunk tonight. Just a little tipsy… to get my mind off
things.” The bartender nodded. “Sure thing, sir!”