Post by penguinpyro on Mar 2, 2022 23:43:47 GMT -5
The cafe bustled, yet no one gave a second look at the seven-foot-tall Russian behemoth Hank Sokolov. His enormous hand eclipsed the tiny cup of tea it held. His skin felt unused to a suit; he had gotten too used to his wrestling leotard.
Across a small round table sat a clean-shaven, urbane man. The other man graced a three-piece suit like he was born for it. Hank felt a pinprick of envy but swallowed it.
“I received your postcard”, said Hank to his compatriot. He put it on the table.
“Ah, excellent, comrade Sokolov,” replied the man in unaccented English. “You may call me Yastrebov.”
“Comrade Yastrebov. I take it by your method of invitation, you know everything about who I am, where I come from.”
“That I do, comrade Sokolov”, replied Yastrebov. He switched to speaking in equally perfect Russian. “Shall we get down to business?”
“Da.” Hank felt relieved hearing his native tongue once more. English felt like swimming in sunless waters, and Russian like surfacing and at last breathing.
“Certain parties would like you to represent the Russian Federation in Fireside Wrestling,” continued Yastrebov. He lifted a hand. “Show the world that Russian athletics is superior, that our country is the mightiest, and we are right in all aspects. You needn’t do it alone, either. We have several Russian comrades lined up to join Fireside and support you. You are a true patriot, Hank. A diehard. You were going to do this anyways. But this way, put your all into it and we will make it worth your while in many ways. Easy, yes?”
“Ah. I am a patriot, comrade Yastrebov. Whatever intelligence you have, it is dead on. But, do you mind if I tell you a story?”
“Please, comrade.”
Hank leaned back and braced himself. “In childhood, I was told about the Soviet Union, a country with a difficult past. That though we were a truly free country, the rest of the world was ahead of us because of the ills done us. But we were on the mend. Through hard work and ingenuity, we would move so ahead of the whole world that we could simply shower them with generosities and show them our way was right all along. We are a great people with promise.”
Hank smiled, hand on his heart. “This was, and remains, what Russia means to me.”
Yastrebov nodded along, face sympathetic.
Hank continued, “I went to Syria with a warlord’s horde, the Altan Ord. Though I have fond memories of friends there, I am not ashamed to say they were pillagers, nor would they disagree with me. I fought against many militias there. But I also saw more than us there, comrade. Bodies lying in the street, laid low by bomb or bullet. Women and children sobbing and crawling despite horrible injuries. Jets flying overhead and sending homes flying. And I heard a rumor that some of the men who did this were supported by the Federation.”
“Comrade Sokolov, our leader has had good reason to interv-”
“Allow me to finish,” grunted Hank. It was not a request. “There, I saw Russia as it is and it opened my eyes. A place where thieves are given power. A place where agreements can be broken for convenience. A place that poisons loyal critics and calls that democracy! And now this… madness in Europe. What Putin is doing will forever isolate the world from Russia, as he murders even our cousins next door!”
Yastrebov had steadily been turning red. “You have fallen for Western lies, comr-”
“Listen to me!” Hank slapped the table, showing just enough restraint to not topple it. “Their lies burn my ears! They roast my blood! I hate what they’ve done to us, to the world! But you know what comrade? Sometimes, just sometimes, the westerners DO admit they are wrong, that they hurt people, that their leaders need to be held accountable! Back them into a corner, they can tell the truth! Russia does no such thing! I saw the Union crumble and shatter and the entire time I was told everything was fine! Now I see Russia collapsing once more and am still told everything is fine! Those lies do more than burn my ears! They stab my heart! Run it through! This ugly corpse that is puppeteered now, is not my Russia. Perhaps the Russia I loved didn’t die. Perhaps it never existed in the first place. Either way, I do not see it anywhere! It is certainly not offering that I represent it!”
Yastrebov replied, deadly quiet. “Comrade Sokolov, what you are saying is dangerous.”
Hank jabbed a meaty finger in Yastrebov’s face. “Everything is dangerous! The very truth is dangerous in Russia. A strong leader should never feel threatened by a lack of flattery. I am sorry. I cannot be proud of a country that promises much but only takes from others, never gives! The Russia I love is not the Russia you have. Do not bother me again.”
Yastrebov growled, “You will regret refusing this opportunity, comrade Sokolov. The Federation is only beginning to rise once mo-”
“Don’t feed me piss and tell me it is soup. And don’t call me comrade, Mister Yastrebov. Tell that judo-loving plutocrat sissy hiding in a bunker somewhere that I will not be his cheap toy, to be discarded when I grow my own opinion. But take comfort in this: I am not young. My hair yet grows gray. I cannot wrestle much longer, and can only pray in my old age to finally meet my promised Russia, that which I love. Perhaps my bones rot before that happens. Perhaps you send another stooge to Fireside instead. Perhaps none of this matters. I don’t care. Go fuck yourself.”
Hank left a generous tip on the table and stormed off, never to see Yastrebov again.
Yastrebov frowned and spoke into a cell phone: “We have a problem. It’s Sokolov.”
FIN.
Across a small round table sat a clean-shaven, urbane man. The other man graced a three-piece suit like he was born for it. Hank felt a pinprick of envy but swallowed it.
“I received your postcard”, said Hank to his compatriot. He put it on the table.
“Ah, excellent, comrade Sokolov,” replied the man in unaccented English. “You may call me Yastrebov.”
“Comrade Yastrebov. I take it by your method of invitation, you know everything about who I am, where I come from.”
“That I do, comrade Sokolov”, replied Yastrebov. He switched to speaking in equally perfect Russian. “Shall we get down to business?”
“Da.” Hank felt relieved hearing his native tongue once more. English felt like swimming in sunless waters, and Russian like surfacing and at last breathing.
“Certain parties would like you to represent the Russian Federation in Fireside Wrestling,” continued Yastrebov. He lifted a hand. “Show the world that Russian athletics is superior, that our country is the mightiest, and we are right in all aspects. You needn’t do it alone, either. We have several Russian comrades lined up to join Fireside and support you. You are a true patriot, Hank. A diehard. You were going to do this anyways. But this way, put your all into it and we will make it worth your while in many ways. Easy, yes?”
“Ah. I am a patriot, comrade Yastrebov. Whatever intelligence you have, it is dead on. But, do you mind if I tell you a story?”
“Please, comrade.”
Hank leaned back and braced himself. “In childhood, I was told about the Soviet Union, a country with a difficult past. That though we were a truly free country, the rest of the world was ahead of us because of the ills done us. But we were on the mend. Through hard work and ingenuity, we would move so ahead of the whole world that we could simply shower them with generosities and show them our way was right all along. We are a great people with promise.”
Hank smiled, hand on his heart. “This was, and remains, what Russia means to me.”
Yastrebov nodded along, face sympathetic.
Hank continued, “I went to Syria with a warlord’s horde, the Altan Ord. Though I have fond memories of friends there, I am not ashamed to say they were pillagers, nor would they disagree with me. I fought against many militias there. But I also saw more than us there, comrade. Bodies lying in the street, laid low by bomb or bullet. Women and children sobbing and crawling despite horrible injuries. Jets flying overhead and sending homes flying. And I heard a rumor that some of the men who did this were supported by the Federation.”
“Comrade Sokolov, our leader has had good reason to interv-”
“Allow me to finish,” grunted Hank. It was not a request. “There, I saw Russia as it is and it opened my eyes. A place where thieves are given power. A place where agreements can be broken for convenience. A place that poisons loyal critics and calls that democracy! And now this… madness in Europe. What Putin is doing will forever isolate the world from Russia, as he murders even our cousins next door!”
Yastrebov had steadily been turning red. “You have fallen for Western lies, comr-”
“Listen to me!” Hank slapped the table, showing just enough restraint to not topple it. “Their lies burn my ears! They roast my blood! I hate what they’ve done to us, to the world! But you know what comrade? Sometimes, just sometimes, the westerners DO admit they are wrong, that they hurt people, that their leaders need to be held accountable! Back them into a corner, they can tell the truth! Russia does no such thing! I saw the Union crumble and shatter and the entire time I was told everything was fine! Now I see Russia collapsing once more and am still told everything is fine! Those lies do more than burn my ears! They stab my heart! Run it through! This ugly corpse that is puppeteered now, is not my Russia. Perhaps the Russia I loved didn’t die. Perhaps it never existed in the first place. Either way, I do not see it anywhere! It is certainly not offering that I represent it!”
Yastrebov replied, deadly quiet. “Comrade Sokolov, what you are saying is dangerous.”
Hank jabbed a meaty finger in Yastrebov’s face. “Everything is dangerous! The very truth is dangerous in Russia. A strong leader should never feel threatened by a lack of flattery. I am sorry. I cannot be proud of a country that promises much but only takes from others, never gives! The Russia I love is not the Russia you have. Do not bother me again.”
Yastrebov growled, “You will regret refusing this opportunity, comrade Sokolov. The Federation is only beginning to rise once mo-”
“Don’t feed me piss and tell me it is soup. And don’t call me comrade, Mister Yastrebov. Tell that judo-loving plutocrat sissy hiding in a bunker somewhere that I will not be his cheap toy, to be discarded when I grow my own opinion. But take comfort in this: I am not young. My hair yet grows gray. I cannot wrestle much longer, and can only pray in my old age to finally meet my promised Russia, that which I love. Perhaps my bones rot before that happens. Perhaps you send another stooge to Fireside instead. Perhaps none of this matters. I don’t care. Go fuck yourself.”
Hank left a generous tip on the table and stormed off, never to see Yastrebov again.
Yastrebov frowned and spoke into a cell phone: “We have a problem. It’s Sokolov.”
FIN.