“LET’S KILL ANDREW TATE - PART THREE” (SHORT STORY)
In the sweltering heat of Bucharest, three unlikely conspirators converge.
They plot the demise of Andrew Tate - a man who peddles misogyny and violence - with determination and dark humour. But fate has other plans.
“Let’s Kill Andrew Tate - Part Three” is a thrilling short story about the scourge of toxic masculinity.
Will their carefully laid plans go to waste?
Or will fate prevail?
2,000 words / 8 minutes of subversive reading pleasure
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‘You will burn and burn out. Then you will heal and come back again.’ Fyodor Dostoevsky
STEFANO BOSCUTTI
LET’S KILL ANDREW TATE - PART THREE
Copyright 2024 Stefano Boscutti
All Rights Reserved
I takes more than an hour for Edward and Tyler to pass through security and passport control at Bucharest’s only international airport.
Edward is sweating and coughing. Not from anxiety but from the stagnant heat and clanking air conditioning that barely cools the air. With cracked floor tiles and grimy windows the airport has seen better days.
Tyler strides through the sliding doors and waves at what Edward thinks is the most striking woman he’s ever seen in a black leather jacket and tight black jeans. Black hair swept back. She beams, wrapping her arms around Tyler. They kiss. Edward coughs. Tyler looks happy.
‘Edward, this is Sam.’
‘Sam?’
She’s still smiling.
‘It is short for Samantha. You look terrible, by the way. Much too pale.’
‘Edward reads too many books, never sees the sun.’
Edward spots a newsagent filled with old magazines, confectionary and travel accessories. A few thrillers and romantic paperbacks on spinner racks.
‘I just need to get some cough drops.’
All three step into the newsagent. Tyler picks up a copy of The Economist that’s a month out of date. Sam spins through the paperbacks.
‘Edward isn’t much of a traveller.’
Sam nods and looks over to the exit doors.
‘Let us get out of here. We have a lot to do.’
Once outside the terminal, Edward heads towards a line of cars under a large ‘Rapid Taxis’ sign. Sam shakes her head.
‘They are not fast and they are a complete rip-off. They are run by the Brigăzi.’
Tyler looks impressed. Sam takes out her phone and taps for an Uber. Then points to the top of the car park opposite.
‘A car is waiting for us.’
They’re driven to a small apartment block in the centre of the city. Once inside an apartment on the top floor, Sam draws the curtains closed.
‘I think we should kill Tate in his compound before he leaves for Constanța. He will think he is safe. He will have his guard down.’
Edward looks a little shocked.
‘Have you seen the security around his compound?’
Sam arches an eyebrow.
‘It is not so much a compound. It is more a rundown meat factory.’
Sam smiles.
‘Also I have the security code for the front gate and front door.’
Tyler grins.
‘So we just walk in.’
‘And we shoot him.’
Edward flings his hands up.
‘Who said anything about guns?’
Sam pulls out a Pistol Carpați Md. 1974 from the side pocket of her leather jacket. Edward recoils. Tyler claps.
‘Say buna ziua to my little friend.’
The light semi-automatic pistol was designed and manufactured by Fabrica de Arme Cugir of Romania for the Romanian police force. Rounds are automatically fed from the eight-round magazine and the weapon is self-arming. The barrel has four rifling grooves and is coated with a thin layer of chrome.
‘One bullet to the head is all we need.’
Edward is shaking his head, looking paler than normal. Sam continues.
‘And if that doesn’t work we have this.’
She reaches into her other jacket pocket and retrieves an F1 Soviet-era hand grenade. A beautiful woman weighing up a pistol in one hand and a grenade in the other. She smiles, happy. Tyler looks delighted.
‘Tate says life is war, right?’
Edward isn’t so sure. But Sam knows exactly what Tate says.
‘Life is war. It is a war for the female you want. It is a war for the car you want. It is a war for the money you want. It is a war for the status. Masculine life is war! This is what he says. This is what he says to all the young men that follow him.’
Andrew Tate has been peddling misogyny and violence his whole life. He teaches his devotees how to recruit women into the webcam industry to produce sexual content viewers pay for by the minute.
He explains how to recruit women who are reluctant to undress in front of a camera. When you’re on a date with a girl, don’t mention the webcam business because it’ll freak them out, it puts them off. You continue as normal, you fuck the girl, and after you’ve fucked the girl ... then you start mentioning things like, ‘You’re always busy at work, why don’t you can come and work for me.’
To close the deal, you take her out to dinner with a webcam girl already in your employ who will help turn the screw. Martinis, martinis, martinis - bang, threesome ... you put both girls on camera together the first day, give them a bottle of vodka. The money will come pouring in and she’s hooked.
Tell her that you love her, if you have to. Tell her you’ll marry her. Tell her whatever she wants to hear.
Sam knows two girls Tate lured into his webcam operation. Knows how his in-house tattooist branded them ‘Tate’s Property’. Knows how the older women in his inner circle are called Tate’s Angels.
‘Maybe we can cut out his heart,’ she says. ‘Hold it in front of his eyes as we rip it out his chest.’
Edward gulps.
‘That seems a little extreme.’
‘And a little messy,’ Tyler says.
‘We could cut off his cock too,’ Sam says.
Edward needs a glass of water.
‘We could livestream it,’ Sam says. ‘Maybe make some money.’
Tyler can see the merit in the idea. Edward isn’t so sure.
‘I think I like the Novichok idea a lot more.’
Edward finds a glass in a kitchen cupboard. Turns the tap on but no water comes out. Sam looks over.
‘No one drinks the tap water here in Bucharest. It is like poison.’
Sam puts the pistol and hand grenade down on the glass coffee table. Takes out her phone and starts tapping away. Edward and Tyler look at each other.
‘Did you have any trouble getting the Novichok,’ Tyler asks.
‘This is Romania. You can get anything.’
‘What are you getting now?’
‘Three rail tickets to Constanța.’
Edward blinks. Sam smiles.
‘I already booked three rooms at the Zenith Hotel Conference and Spa where CryptoCarpathia is being held.’
Tyler chimes in.
‘Sea views?’
Sam nods.
‘The rooms are small but you can walk straight past the pool to the beach.’
Edward’s mind is racing.
How will they dose Tate with the nerve agent without getting caught? Sprinkle it in his whisky? Smear it over his chess pieces? Dab it on his cigar? They need less than a milligram and less than a two-minute exposure for a fatal dose.
How will they get close to Tate without attracting attention? Without dosing other people? What if the dose is too high? What if the dose is too low?
Novichok is particularly volatile. Much of what is known about the nerve agent is conjecture. It’s based on limited information provided by two Russian chemists - one a defector and the other accidentally poisoned himself with a Novichok compound and died.
What if they trace the nerve agent to Sam? What if they trace Sam back to him? Did he really want to end up in a Romanian prison on murder charges?
The train to Constanța is clean and fairly comfortable. Sam suggests they act like tourists once they arrive. So they visit the Cazinoul Constanța, a defunct art nouveau casino on the seafront that was once the jewel of the city. Now a crumbling wreck of a building.
They pass a series of ancient Roman tombstones along the boardwalk. Each inscribed to mark the passing of the dead. One from a woman who bore three children and a fourth who died at birth. A woman who left the light of the sun when she was thirty. Who’s husband lives and mourns her with a faint voice. Who’s good father weeps at her retreat from life.
The cryptocurrency conference is well underway by the time they reach the Zenith Hotel Conference and Spa. There are thousands of participants. Developers, enthusiasts, investors, traders. More than a few gangsters and venture capitalists. No legitimate bankers or government officials. Everyone seems to be slightly manic, desperate. Booth babes in branded tank tops and micro skirts are lolling through the crowds, handing out drink cards and wristbands to VIP parties and events.
Despite being the man of the hour, Andrew Tate is nowhere to be seen. On the eve of the conference he’d announced on a post on X that he was ditching fiat money entirely and buying over one hundred million dollars worth of Bitcoin. Amid rumours that he owed millions to a major Russian crime family.
Sam had come up with a plan to pose as directors of a crypto arbitrage trading house offering tantalisingly high yields at no risk. Have Andrew Tate come to them. Coat the pen he needs to sign the trading contract with Novichok. She’d booked the boardroom for tomorrow.
‘It is going to be a big day tomorrow,’ she says. ‘It is good to have an early night.’
Tyler grimaces.
‘I might just go to one party.’
Edward is ready to call it a night.
‘I might go to bed.’
‘Sweet dreams.’
In the early morning Edward is woken by breathless pounding at the door of his hotel room. He stumbles out of bed. He can hear Sam and Tyler calling his name. Unlockocks the door and they rush in.
‘Have you fucking heard?’
Edward is still half asleep, confused.
‘Andrew Tate is dead!’
‘What?!’
‘Massive heart attack downstairs.’
‘Took more than half an hour for an ambulance to arrive. Even longer for the police and medical officers. His body has been taken to a funeral home.’
Sam is scrolling through her phone.
‘It is just breaking on CNN and BBC.’
She holds the phone up, smiles. Tyler punches the air in delight. Edward looks relieved.
After the sun comes up, Edward ambles to the beach and lies out on a day lounge. He closes his eyes and feels the warm sun on his face.
A shadow crosses his body. Edward opens his eyes. It’s Sam looking down at him, smiling. She reaches into the pocket of her black leather jacket and draws out a slim paperback she’d stolen at the airport newsagent. She holds it out to him. It’s a philosophical thriller.
‘Have you read this?’
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Copyright 2024 Stefano Boscutti
All Rights Reserved
The moral rights of the author are asserted.
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This is a work of fiction. While many of the characters portrayed here have counterparts in the life and times of Andrew Tate and others, the characterisations and incidents presented are totally the products of the author’s rolling imagination. This work is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It should not be resold or given away. Thank you for your support. (Couldn’t do it without you.)
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