I am a sixty-five year old man called Francis, and I am black. I unfortunately live in Russia, which is descending to what smaller minds call fascism, but is really just ignorance. I once saw a large group of young Russian people all, by the looks of it, aged between sixteen and twenty-four. I asked one of them what they were doing. He said they did not want niggers taking up Russian jobs. A barefoot man wearing a face scarf, a hood and sunglasses walked out of the crowd toward me and began to put on steel-toed boots, saying he would kick me if I did not get out of his sight, so I did.

After around eight minutes of walking, I saw another group of people, but they looked older, perhaps between twenty-six and thirty-two. They were holding signs saying things like, “BLACKS OUT,” and, “AFRICANS GET ZAPRICANED,” and they appeared to be harassing a group of maybe fifteen police officers who showed no signs of letting up. I looked over the wall where the fog met the sea. The water was moving extremely fast for some reason.
You could vaguely see the moon through the fog, but it was daytime. A man walked out of an apartment and beckoned me to come towards him. Hesitantly, I did, and he stepped back to let me in. He closed the door as I walked onto the squeaky floorboards, and before I said anything, he told me he would, “explain in his.” We climbed up the steep stairs until he turned left into a dark, varnished wooden door with the number ’67’ on it in gold.
He opened the door into a small, surprisingly clean room with a yellow-spotted brown carpet, pale green walls and, inconsistently, an old wooden ceiling with visible beams supporting it. To the right was the kitchen, which had yellow walls and a pink tile floor. The whole place smelled like fresh bedsheets.

The man had long, black hair, a white vest and blue jeans with brown shoes as well as a gold necklace with a cross on it, bearing a red square in the middle of it. He closed the door and spoke.

“I brought you here because I know what they do to you, uhhuh, ‘you people,’ you know…”

“Black?” I respond.

“Well, yes… you’re dark but nothing like…”

He looked down at the floor for a moment, then back at me.

“Listen. You cannot tell anyone about me. They will come and burn me if they find out I gave shelter to you, assuming you accept it.”

Neon graffiti saying, “CONDOM,” appeared on the wall behind me for no reason but the man took no notice.

“Considering that…” I began. “I have been threatened and shouted at twice in the past hour, all racially motivated, and that things between the police and these people could get violent, yes. I would like shelter, please. I arrived here two days ago and am hoping nobody finds my house.”

“That’s fantastic,” smiled the man, “I’d be happy to fulfill whatever needs, you need.”

He extended his arm.

“Name’s Lars. And you are?”

“Francis,” I replied, shaking his hand. “Don’t call me nigger.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Lars laughed. “Welcome aboard, killer.”

A man outside below proudly announced that he took a hot shit on somebody else’s wife. Lars closed the window. Robot eyes. I’m not real.