That Night, Scene 9.

Scene Nine

Block Island

 

 

The fast boat was launched out the side ship kind of like a rubber pontoon slip and slide out a hatch into the brine so the submarine could get clear. Hard rains were coming down and the four with their one bag each took up most of the little vessel. It hit the water with a splash and Kudzai prayed to not drown or be shot to death in an ambush.

They all had to row that little inflatable dingy to shore in the pouring rain as the Black Mermaid went back under the deeps to safety. Kudzai flashes the signal light torch blue three times, then switches to three red bursts.

 

A short boat ride thorough rocky waters brought Yulia, Adelina, Oleg and Kudzai to safe house on Block Island in the dead of night. Via a small flashing green beacon a woman named Tanya T-Bird Tallflame Luv guides them to shore. They move quickly in unison dragging the light boat with them. Then Tanya quickly shuttles them all in her jeep to the island’s Underground Railroad station at the Majestic Hygeia Hotel. Now they are most vulnerable for they are under the protection of a foreign cell. A voodoo coven of black witches. Shaman sorcerers it should be said, witches begin too derogatory. Oleg doesn’t have too many prejudices. Only Adelina appreciates the full significance of T-Bird’s evident powers. As she has them too. The night is darker than it should be. The beach is a fog that shouldn’t be there. They are safe she reasons in the loving arms of an infamous Uhuru leader.

 

By sea they landed and soon were safely sitting for tea at the Majestic Hygeia Hotel. The gabled roof of that quaint old place is red, the walls are a faded off yellow gold and structure is three stories tall with about sixteen rooms. During its peak season, which is now, during summer and fall you’ll never get a room unless you book far in advance. The island has forty little hotels, but as of lately only this one is cost effective. The boat people of New England inundate New Shoreham with boozing and revelry until it becomes too cold to be pleasant sometime around Thanksgiving. Then the island population drops under 1,000 persons, wind and rain make the place desolate and it is really only accessible by a twice daily fairy coming from Port Galilee, Rhode Island. But as if prearranged to be so, the hotel is empty now in late August, reserved entirely for the four new arrivals. The boat ride to shore through those sloshing blue black waters carrying their clandestine unit had gone most seamlessly. Albeit in highly inclement weather.

 

 

T-Bird guides them into the Hotel entrance getting out of a cold, empty fog in a freezing stormy night inappropriate to the August weather out here as if scientifically created for their arrival. She’s got thin well-kept dreads, wears a black leather jacket. Oleg notices she wasn’t carrying a gun. She beams at them and gives the women hugs.

This cell could trace its origins back to the genocide in Salem when aligning with Irish pirates, escaped slaves, bootleggers and Mohegan Indian they had fallen back to New Shoreham to take full control of the island, which was now called Block land. It had long been a place for prohibition busting hotel parties and booze running depot on the supply line from Canada to New York to Miami. The island was of course legally part of the United States, but it had been long before conquered for other things.

In the Night, Tanya T-Bird Tallflame Luv looks like she is in her early forties. She’s actually younger but she’s long seen the struggle. She sizes the new arrivals up. She has a beautiful baby face smile. Her long dreadlocks are wrapped up above her head in a taam. Which is a Jamaican word for dreads bonnet. By day she transforms somehow and looks half that age. She seems to only look war aged in the night time. When the moon and stars fade in about two hours she will drop back her years by the coming of day light.

“We have this whole facility booked just for you!” she tells them, “Girls rooms, boys room, rooms to relieve stress in a constructive consensual way. As you like.”

She points them to cups of warm tea and hot coffee.

“Thank you for having us here,” Adelina tells her, “It was long ride under the sea.”

“We heard about Madeira,” T-Bird says.

“We weren’t there,” Oleg replies.

“Thankfully,” T-Bird says. Absorbing them into here grey eyes.

“The rest of the squad are asleep. We have somebody out on the watch tower but the storm generator always works well and even with Madeira, well, it’s a nuclear fucking submarine cruising way below. We didn’t need to keep everyone up all night.”

 

Oleg knows that she’s lying and that there are lots of people with guns out in the woods. Everyone finishes their tea or coffee without much being said and turns in to bed. The thrashing off the rain outside slowly dies down, they pull the curtains in four separate rooms. Then crash out into different frequencies of sleep.

 

 

Oleg when he finally awakes comes downstairs to find breakfast. In kitchen area of the three floor yellow and red hotel Oleg barely recognizes Tanya Tallflame, she looks about twenty years younger. All the sorcery alarms him. He wonders what drugs had slipped into him by the sneaky rebel Israelites. Or fed to them enroot so he could be so susceptible to their acid like manipulation of the senses. Oleg had lived for some time in the Israeli city of Nazareth and served two years in its military police force before immigrating to America. This was not his first rodeo with either Israelites or American black majik. Oleg knew well that the Israelis are one of the sneakiest, most manipulative peoples alive.

Oleg Medved feels the same way about Judaism as he does about witchcraft. Maybe a tiny little bit more sentimental about Judaism. Though being a committed atheist. Because witchcraft doesn’t have any warm welcoming family holidays that he is aware of. Though he can’t say exactly last time he was confronted with majik. Why did they these witches, shaman sorcerers, black radical whatever’s help them obtain entry? The blue American passport that makes him the only legal member of this little unit lies next three others back in his rucksack.

“Good morning,” Tanya beams, “Sleep well?”

He doesn’t remember going to bed.

“Like a dream,” Oleg replies. He notices Yulia, Kudzai and Adelina are all seated around the table with coffee, tea and or lemonades.

“So, may I offer any of you fine people a Bajan truffle oil scone,” asks assertively Tanya T-Bird Tallflame Luv.

“Why thank you,” he replies and pops the crunchy beige cake in his mouth. Yay, more poison shit, he thinks. But it’s tasty.

“Welcome to American!” she says, “Anybody’s first time?”

“Yulia and Kudzai,” raise their hands.

“Well you’re a whore and you’re a nigger,” she laughs, “Welcome to my country,” she exclaims.

A little less than a nervous giggle from them.

She brings them the scones and then some plates of eggs with hash brown fried potatoes.

 

“So, don’t get mad. But I have the orders are here to separate your cell immediately. Mr. Bear you and Ms. Yulia Romanova will leave for New York this morning from the mainland by car. The candidate shaman, beautiful Ms. Adelina Blazhennaya will take her partner Kudzai here up to Boston and get your safe houses established,” says Tanya.

“We’re all supposed to stick together,” Adelina responds.

“Here’s the thing though baby,” Tanya replies, “No one knows how New York will go down so we have determined to only lose two of you if it all gets to violent and weird. The ones being paid.”

“I don’t need everyone to find them,” Oleg says, “Whatever you all think is best.”

“You’ll either all be reunited shortly, or you won’t,” says Tanya, “But Adelina needs to stay in Boston where it’s safer.”

“As you wish,” says Oleg.

“You’re gonna find him through that Bulgarian Social Club, it won’t take very long,” Tanya says.

“Don’t you think we need more time before we make contact,” Kudzai asks.

“No. The enemy made contact two weeks ago. We’re behind schedule as usual,” says Tanya.

“One ought not to be fashionably late to a revolution,” Oleg notes.

 

And Tanya T-Bird Tall flame Luv agrees. Even if Oleg does not believe in the magic, it is clear to her that Solomon selected a very good team to assess her network. To get this revolution back online from here to New York and then via underground rail road out to Oakland, California. He figured Emma gave them all slightly differing tasks. That Adelina is one of these magic people and that Kudzai is cadre. That he was in demand and Yulia too in her own ways. He pretty much insisted that they rope her in if they wanted him. This paid a lot more than whacking people in Europe.

The finish in breakfast in relative silence.

“Where are your truest loyalties Mr. Medved,” Tanya asks him suddenly before he heads up to his room to get his gear in order. She wonder can she just call him Alan? She wants to assert he’s hired help and not anyone anyone trusts.

 

“To the art I make and the money I’m paid and women that bed me for both when I am so fortunate,” Oleg replies, “and absolutely no other things you’re privy to.”

 

“Fair enough, like all men,” Tanya replies. A typical Ukrainian Israelite spy answer, she thinks. “I’m privy to a lot more than you might thing young man.”

Yulia pops her slinky brundinite head into the dining room and says in Russian, “I think they drugged us. I had really weird dreams.”

 

“It’s the blue moon rising,” interjects Adelina. Tanya nods.

 

“The blue moon has a power that will dash the best of plots and largest of armies into lunatic disarray. You should thus make haste for New York. Sebastian is not himself and hasn’t been for a while” Tanya explains, “And please remember that for whomever else you work for or actually report up chain of command to, you’re in the American arms of the resistance now. We budget for bribing and drinking, but not for whoring and gambling.”

Oleg the Bear grins, “We are internationalists, and this is still a supposedly free country.”

What the blatnoy is a blue moon,” Yulia asks in Russian.

You’ll know when you see its effects,” says Tanya the Pagan shamanic sorcerous in Amharic.

“We don’t speak your dessert wasteland gibberish,” Yulia declares, “Only English, French and Russian!”

“See what I did there,” Tanya replies civilly.

But, Oleg inferred what she meant and decided that he was quite uncomfortable with the American resistance’s widespread use of magic. One could not bribe magic or placate it with whores, or get magic too drunk. You could not car bomb magic or drone strike magic’s cell phone. Poison it with radioactive isotopes or hurt its family members. Most unnerving work conditions to be sure. Unlimited operations can get so fucking hectic and they do so fast. A real big steal and a zero sum game at every point.

 

“What do you mean he hasn’t been himself,” Adelina asks Tanya.

“They take him a lot. He’s been out of the network now since 2005. He just has his own little outlaw. Nobody is connected to them by us and the Irish,” Tanya replies.

“Why is he important to Emma?” Kudzai asks.

“He probably knows where Avinadav is for one. They tortured him a lot and wiped out a lot of his ability, but it’s in there. Or someone near him knows,” Tanya tells them.

“Maybe he flipped?” Oleg suggests.

“My ass he flipped,” retorts Tanya.

“Well either we ensure his total cooperation, or completely destroy his heart,” says Yulia.

“What do mean by all that?” Tanya says “kill his will to keep to moving?”

“Emma said the princess here is the only one who can make the final call,” Oleg says pointing to Adelina.

 

“I am sure that man did not give anyone up,” Tanya firmly replies.

“But yeah, if he flipped. I’ll kill him myself,” says Oleg.

That Night, Scene 7.

 

 

Scene Seven

Mehanata

 

Trey-Ratcliff-China-2013-girl-in-hall-X3

The yellow cabs fly by on Tuesday night. You could cook things on the sidewalk, that’s how vile and hot the concrete jungle is this summer.        For the nine to thirteen million rats in their various races, this city never fucking sleeps. Its go, go, go, zoom, zoom rush! Slaves and serfs to the trains for service. It’s all an illusion its fun here with no currency. It’s a filthy place except at the center. Getting in early with red eyes and leaving late. Back on the cattle cars. The masters dangling enough to cover the rising rent and some groceries if you’re lucky. You’re so lucky to here in this cage! The hope dies out. You whore yourself somehow. You have to. You drink more than you should. It feels worse if you’re not from here. Even the yellow cab driver have more education than most of the rest of the country.  The black sports utility vehicles, with tinted windows and important people that don’t want to look at you. The constant sirens. Everyone running somewhere not making eye contact. Always a fucking siren going off for some emergency that isn’t probably real. The city itself was built on the very top of the mountain. Its highest towers hold more rich and powerful people than anywhere on earth. Except maybe Moscow. This apple is all poison and rotten. The high octane hyper diversity is just a sex circus. Plus a racial death trap. Plus an ugly over crowed sprawl more regularly breaking then making those who arrive from the interior or abroad.

Nicholai Rosetree Trickovitch is bleary eyed. He stinks of cigarettes, some cheap men’s fragrance and also Rum. The climate here is repressive. Rum Barbancourt Three Star on the rocks isn’t served in this part of town. So he brought his own bottle to the tavern. For their troubles were about to mount.

I need another drink, thinks Trickovitch. He knows it will be a long meeting and the A/C won’t in the club house. The night is really just getting started workwise even though it’s past 4am. They’re erring toward minimal street traffic, but even the rats and pigeons here work in shifts. Well that same night Nicholai Trickovitch put together a little squad to, “do a messy little big job.”

There were big jobs and little jobs. There were campaigns that took years. Some jobs where social engineering was needed. Others where brute force was the best approach.

This required some of both and right away. He had to get buy in. No one was ever really in charge. Now, outside New York the Resistance got very eclectic who was involved. It would be inaccurate to say anyone could possibly lead it. It was as bad in New York where 70% of the population wasn’t even born here; they were born everywhere else. A lot of players. They all “relied heavily on black, white and grey magic to keep this thing together,” as Nicholai was fond of saying, “But in New York City, we still do things the old fashioned way. By having a real tight crew.”

In the dead of something, where night creeps toward dusk, around a table on the fourth floor of 113 Ludlow Street, they met. That is to say the restaurant immediately above the Mehanata Tavern. A little talk is underway, a briefing maybe also a sale pitch.

 

“There are thirteen leaders of the Z.O.B,” Trickovitch explains, “Two have disappeared. We don’t fill their seats, but we consider them probably dead. Ones in living in a submarine somewhere hidden. Two are sleeping. That’s a polite way of staying they were thrown in a camp and badly tortured. Most of them kill themselves sometime after. That means at any given period nine are left. Left in charge of all the cells in the division. Greater New York City.”

 

The table is wooden and plates of street meat tapas have all been cleared. Nobody got in from the street, they got in from the tunnel.

 

“Let me tell you how this is gonna go down,” says Nikh to his fellow partisans which include the tall well-polished Jamaican Gangster Mickhi Dbrisk. He is wearing a black suit with no tie after coming from work at previous engagement. Where girls were still jiggling.

Mara Fitzduff Donahue is the half pint Irish, dirty blonde famous for her firebrand speeches on the Fire Switch Radio. Also present is Raphael Ernesto Lynch Contras, the Peruvian disk jockey. A photographer. Retired child soldier and lesser officer of a defunct guerrilla band in Arequipa Province. The fifth member of this add-hock unit was Siegfried Sassoon. He speaks very well. He should be expected to as he is an actor classically trained in Moscow. He too is in the black. Just getting off work as bar tender at a flashy supper club up the street called the Fox. A dashing swaggerous man of Cuban descent. Perhaps the closest man to be able to influence things after Trickovitch and Dbrisk. The sixth man in this last minute, late night call up was the light skinned Haitian smooth criminal Watson Entwissle. The seventh at the table wasn’t made, a smooth young Shatah from East New York. Said his name was Joshua Hunter. Had ok references and they were going to test him out.

 

Watson is pissed. You can tell when he’s pissed, he doesn’t pay attention at all. It’s based anyway on the past midnight hour. He left his favorite chocolate in bed in the Bronx for this “bullshit.” He doesn’t get to see his lady enough. She lives in Boston. Charlotte from Uganda.

 

In the confusing and albeit vaguely disjointed chain of command Mara, Watson, Mickhi and Nikholai are all title holding inner leadership. Only one is from the inner nine. Siegfried Sassoon, Hunter and Raphael were called in as volunteers. Though technically Hunter was not even a “provisional member”. Hasn’t made rank or been sworn in. Not written in the book of life. But they were told he could work.

 

“The Labor Day weekend begins in 72 hours and you all know what’s coming,” explains Mickhi, “The West Indian Day Parade ain’t heading south at the Grand Army Plaza. Oh no, they’re gonna head north right over the bridges and attack the mostly empty City.”

 

Everybody except Joshua Hunter knew that already. They were gonna stick Hunter with Watson and Watson would keep him working this weekend until he was trustable, or dead.

 

They were all aware of the score.

 

“As most of us know this revolt is a three stage attack in New York was being coordinated mostly by the Pan-Africanists, the Garveyites, Black Lives Matter Movement, some of the liberal and radical medical trade unions, the I.W.W. of course, the Muslims, the Occupiers, the student movements in CUNY, the Malcolm X Grassroots Movement and of course; Uhuru and us,” explains Mickhi.

“The dry run were the occupations on Wall Street and around the country last year to assess the state defenses. Phase Two is Labor Day where we take Brooklyn, the Bronx and Queens. Phase three will be to hold and liberate the City before New Year’s Eve,” he continues.

“Hectic shit,” mutters Raphael.

“Our role then is quite basic in phase two,” explains Nikholai Trikhovitch, who knew indeed that the General Rising was close in coming, but not actually five days away.

“We all know what was revealed about the h1n1 and Ebola. We’ve all seen the reports. The documentation has been widely circulated and now the people are ready. Enough outrages have occurred to spark something bigger than riots. The Stop and Frisk, the weekly shootings, the Iran war conscription and the new walking drones of course. This time almost everyone expects death camps and prolonged urban warfare, not kumbaya” Mickhi explains.

 

“The Z.O.B. has called up eight hundred riflemen, combat medics and agitation propaganda officers to support the needs of the parade. Our convoy of marauders. They will be attached to each major island band truck. Flying columns are on the ready in all five boroughs. An additional three hundred and forty three women and men.

 

“Listen, Watson knows all of this shit. So brother please come to conclusion so I can get Bronx bound with this new jack,” says Watson.

 

“Watson, we just need this young buck briefed, you can get out the door in fifty minutes,” Mickhi tells him. Used to his way.

“Watson needs this to happen in less minutes,” he replies with a grin

 

“As usual,” continues Mickhi, “The 2 Haitian Convoys will bring up the middle and the rear. Unknown to the City parade organizers, and hopefully the police intelligence forces, there are actually three Haitian bands this year of 10,000 masqueraders a piece. About ¾ up the route the Middle Convoy which is gonna be twice as big will initiate the raid across the Grand Army Plaza and then fight their way up Flatbush hope fully with the people behind us. And this is when the hectic bloody melee will begin.”

 

“What’s our precise role tonight,” asks Siegfried Kenly Sassoon. Siggy, who god or his parents made tall dark and handsome never goes to that many meetings. He never votes in otriad elections except with his feet for Sebastian. When Sebastian is leading he steps back and when Sebastian is sleeping her steps up. He did however vote for keeping Sebastian asleep after the last Haiti job, when the hospitaliers took him very hard. Sebastian is a serious knock around guy; best estimates think he’s been taken to the camps over 21 times. About three years’ worth of his life. Siggy, like Watson does jobs not meetings. Neither ever-ever tries to be at these meetings. Rarely even the candle light salons in Brooklyn. Which are sometimes cute.

 

“We’re gonna install Fire Station Transmitters on four very, very tall structures,” says Mara Fitzduff. She has been the club’s chief of staff, worked in propaganda, women’s affairs and fundraising for the past ten years. She’s not officially even Z.O.B., but she is dependable. She has no broag. She’s got one kid with a soldier who ran off and another with a Russian loan shark.

 

“And then tomorrow we’re gonna blow up the Consolidated Edison building, putting most of Manhattan in the dark” says Mickhi Dbrisk, who has been the club’s Operation’s Chief since nearly the very beginning. He was in prison for a year as a teenager. When the cops accused him and four friends of all robbing a liquor store and no one talked.

Some people say he’s a Crip, but he’s not a Crip anymore.

 

Nikholai holds the official position of Logistics Chief, but he’s more hands on than many before or after him as a good logistic fixer should be. He’s the one who arranges a lot of the raids and bombing targets. Now that Sebastian lives in a dream.

 

“The transmitters will override the police radio system and turn whatever frequencies we feel like into dancehall radio stations. We need them hidden and we need them high,” explains Mara, “so we can keep broadcasting when they shut the internet down.”

 

“We’ve gotten the four choice spots picked out well enough,” Nikholai explains, “each transmitter is about the size of a football. There are blasters and flicker masks in the bags at the downstairs at coat check. But those are for getting out of the buildings later. Soon as this meeting is done, if you agree to this shit, you’re all getting in the town cars outside and getting dropped near bye all four targets,”

 

“Fuck the girls if you feel like, if that works for you. We want you rested and loose. The town cars bring you to apartment brothels we work with and you sleep there. Whatever you decide to do,” Mara says.

 

She continues, “You wake up again when it’s dark. One person one location. In the bags with the guns and flicker masks are the addresses and names of four sympathetic venues, but really the car will just take you pretty near there. You’re going to get dropped at some of the tallest buildings on the island. Masks go on to obscure your faces, before you get out of the town cars. The girls will have you over for a drink, and whatever. Don’t really drink. Fuck if you wanna fuck and go to sleep. Then they will give you roof access when you get up. Those masks don’t come off in elevators, in lobbies, on streets anywhere near that building. The cameras are everywhere, as you know. You will get up the roof and turn on the transmitters.

“Try to hide them somewhere,” Nicholai mentions. Don’t just leave them lying around, they’re booby trapped anyway. Whoever tries to turn them off will is gonna lose their arms and face,” says Mara.

“Watson, you are assigned to the Heights. You’ll take Hunter with you. Siggy you’re in Midtown working with Ha Chi as usual. Denby and I will work in lower Manhattan. Raphael you’ll be setting up the Long Island City installation which is quite tricky because there’s nothing residential in the CITI Corp building so we’ll have to social engineer it. Nicholai and Dbrisk will go after the Hightower on Atlantic Junction also with the same predicament.”

 

“And by assigned, we’re asking you to accept the job as a volunteer,” Mickhi explains.

“For the good of the service,” Mara smiles.

“How is Jon Denby doing?” Mickhi asks.

“His father is real sick, it cuts into his out time,” Nikholai explained.

 

“So are you with this? You’re all Pararescuemen or Parapsychologists so I’m sure this will all just be fun. Once you get to the safe houses you’re staying at feel free to relax and take a long nap. You’ve all been up all week. Some of you all month. This doesn’t have to happen at once or tomorrow, it just has to happen before we blow up the power station on Monday morning. So enjoy, thank god it’s Tuesday. Some of these sympathizers are very attractive. I’m not saying any of you would take a whole a day to ravish the high end escorts at the brothels you’ll be staying at. Certainly not as either husbands, fathers, or Haitian gentlemen. But well it’s an option. Can’t have you stressed,” grins Mara knowing full well Raphael is married albeit a consummate adulterer. That Mickhi Dbrisk for all intents and purposes has three or four wives. That Siggy is secretly married to the daughter of a powerful Russian oligarch. That Nicholai is an incorrigible whore monger. And that Watson Entwissle is a very loyal family man. A true Haitian gentleman.

 

“We’re working out of the apartment brothels yet again?” asks Raphael. The joy in his voice is real for he so loves the Manhattan apartment brothels. You can’t afford them as a DJ.

 

“We need these devices set up high,” says Mara, “If we can knock out their power and maintain alternative systems of communications we’re keeping to our end of the mutual aid agreement with Uhuru. Without blowing our arsenal and fighters prematurely,” she says, “as you all know this is phase two of three. We’re only fully mobilizing if they manage to take the City or if they hold Brooklyn longer than a week. Otherwise it’s 1st January.”

“I know I’m in,” asks Raphael.

“Shut the fuck up, Watson knows before he came here he was in.”

“Hachi will be a little pissed,” says Siggy, “But of course. It’s too late to get out.”

“Joshua, you gonna ride with us on this?” Watson asks him.

“Yeah 100,” the kid replies.

 

Mickhi Dbrisk chuckles.

“Four transmitters. Then we blow the Consolidated Edison NSA depot on Monday morning and EMP the district financial at noon thirty Monday with the anarchists, if they breech. Monday. All of you are in the trenches and I’m running dispatch with Anya out of a most secure location. Things are going to pop the hell off prematurely. We’ll do the best we can to keep up with impossible expectations, any questions?”

 

No one had any.

“I love democracy. All of your please grab your shit at coat check and get in the cars outside via the alley doors,” she tells them, “Good luck don’t get killed.”

 

Things were about to go bang in the night.

That Night, Scene 6

Scene 6

Scene Six

The Atlantic Ocean

 

 

 

After everyone and their family was safely disembarked in Port of Spain, conditions became a little looser. They were allowed to leave the two conjoined rooms and walk about the lower deck. A strict military order presided here. Which was to be expected as the ship carried the women most responsible for gathering the tribes, uniting the factions and ramping up the war path from the colonies now into the heart of the empire.

Of the four on this team none had been at Madeira. That place of balance, of mountains and springs, of constant Spring and Fall had served as the main rebel base for the Democratic Confedralists outside of Qandil Mountain and the growing revolution in North Syria. The island of Madeira is located south west from Portugal into the Atlantic and about 400 kilometers north from Tenerife, Canary Islands. It’s on smoldering still, but’s still there physically. Though far less of attraction after a carpet bombing wave.

 

By Oleg the Bear’s estimation they were four days from American shores when Emma called them into a conference room on the deck above them for briefings. Red cushions and steel benches.

 

“Why are we here?” Emma asks them.

Oleg raises his hand.

“You young man, in the front,” Emma says.

“Your uprising begins in about three weeks,” Oleg replies.

“The core revolution beings in about two weeks. The peripheral revolution has been going on hard since 1791,” she says.

“Why are we really here?” Yulia asks.

“The American’s have been slow to contribute,” Oleg says.

“They contribute erratically,” Kudzai cuts in.

“Stop talking and listen please,” says Adelina.

 

“Something is wrong and we need you all to find out the extent of it,” Emma says, “The cells in the U.S. are planning to launch the second phase of the uprising on September 1st, which is in thirteen days.”

“You in the leadership think something isn’t right,” Oleg tells more than asks.

“That’s very close,” Emma replies, “we are certain everything possible will go wrong.”

 

 

“Why didn’t you see Madeira before it happened,” Kudzai asks her.

“I’m not God,” she replies.

 

“What happened in Madeira?” Adelina asks.

 

“They have a lot of ability to lean on everyone until they make people change their sides. Someone gave away the base and set up half the leadership for slaughter,” Emma tells them, “but you were all hired before that. Those of you that didn’t volunteer.”

 

“So what happened in Madeira one last time,” Adelina asks again.

 

“Thousands of our best people, many of them with relatives there from the top positions of responsibility, officers, deputies and committee heads of the People’s Assembly were burned alive in their beds. Many of the leadership were shot dead by walking robots and commandos. Of the Confederation leadership of some 240 elected or appointed delegates, which included about half of key movers that very much mattered; all except 40 were murdered. Decapitating us right before the revolt.”

“What are we supposed to do exactly” Yulia asks.

“She wants us to..” Oleg begins.

“Stop being a jack ass,” Adelina interrupts.

“I’m here to do something highly specific for you,” Oleg says, “let’s be clear about that. I’m not one on the team who is volunteering. They massacred you all in Madeira. That was supposed to be a high level gathering on your super-secret base. That was someone’s fuck up.”

“Someone towards the top has clearly betrayed just about everyone,” Emma says.

“Ah,” interjects Oleg, “now I see. And based what I think I know there are only two people that could be.”

“That said you were quite smart,” Emma smiles finally.

“That is why you must be getting paid so well brother,” Adelina interjects.

“So you go in and blend into the mobs,” Emma tells them, “You watch how the thing all goes down and you join in when you must. You find out how bad the shape of their movement is. You find out who is giving us away. That’s what you’re doing out there. Most of you.”

 

“Sounds like a suicide mission,” Yulia states flatly.

“Stay out of New York,” Emma says.

“Why do we need to that?” Kudzai asks.

“We’ll get trapped there,” Adelina replies.

“How can we get this accomplished if all the primary leaders are in New York?” Kudzai asks.

“Well some of you might will probably get trapped in New York and the rest of you can wait up for them in Boston. As everyone is either paid by the day or volunteering. You’re all aware this can’t be rushed. We don’t even know where Avinadav is.”

“Who’s Avinadav,” Yulia asks.

“What are you paid to do again?” Oleg laughs.

“She’s paid to murder people, just like you,” Emma retorts, “Avinadav is the military commander of the Resistance in Israel & Palestine. He helped found it in 2001 with Sebastian and I, he disappeared in 2005. We think he’s being held by the C.I.A. somewhere but he could be dead.”

“For a prophet you sure have a lot of questions,” Yulia remarks.

“From each according to their ability, to each according to their need,” Emma replies.

 

“Where will Sebastian be when the uprising begins?” Adelina then asks.

“They put him sleep,” Kudzai says.

“What does that mean?” asks Oleg the Bear.

“They took him and wiped out his mind again. He doesn’t even probably remember what he’s helped organize. We don’t know what state he is in,” Emma says.

“We don’t know how many rebel leaders have flipped. We don’t actually know how far the secret police have gotten in. We have no way of calculating the probabilities of success for the September 1st rising.”

“How many cities and towns are going to rise up after New York? How well coordinated is this expected to be?” Kudzai asks.

“If they succeed on the 1st, maybe three dozen other City groups will follow suit the next day. If they get quickly repressed. Everyone else will wait for January, we think,” Emma says, “but it’s Democratic Confederalism so honestly we can’t command and control very much. The other groups will all follow New York.”

 

“So we get in, we wait. We get close to Sebastian and other leaders. We wait. We take pictures we make an assessment. Then you tell us who will die?” Yulia asks.

“Unless they all get killed in 13 days and then you just try and find where Avinadav DeBuitléir is,” Emma says.

 

“You’re a questionable ass prophet,” Yulia says.

“I can’t vouch that we will ever see each other again after this voyage,” Emma replies, “I don’t lead alone, nor do I lead with some mandate of certainty or belief in my own divinity. But I assure you it will be a Great Revolt.”

That Night, Scene 5

{{{“That Night” is the first Act of Fire on the Mountain. This is Scene 5. }}} In Scene 5 we take a closer look into the Mehanata Social Club.

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Scene 5

Scene Five

Mehanata

 

 

The lights are kept dim no matter what happens. You need that to hide subtle stains from fluids. You can dance all night if you have to, but eventually someone has to herd the cats out the door and hide the bodies on the floor. The Mehanata Social Club is tucked away discreetly on 113 Ludlow Street on the lower east side of Manhattan. This is its second location. Numerous police raids and finally a raid which transformed into a brawling melee succeeded in burning to the ground the original location on Canal and Broadway. In an ugly incident that took place in 2005 the lights of Bulgarian Bar and Cultural Society briefly went out. The new location is about six times the size over three levels. Surely it will not be the final location, given the tumultuous nature of the existing times. Sasho the owner has already begun planning an even larger Brooklyn location, a whore house in Kiev with the same name and a School for Alcoholism in upstate New York.

 

At an infamous establishment such as this you ought to always know the names of the men standing watch or the women pouring your drinks. Or the people holding down of your bags and coats. Most importantly you ought to be cautious of the seductive forces marshaled via awkwardly inexpensive liquor and the black magic to lead you to things you ought not to be playing around with. Such as foreign persons in needs of papers. Or creatures that drink blood.

 

There might was well be signs on the wall telling you anything not tied down will be carried away into the night, your bags, your souls, and virginities of every kind. Come to think of it, there are such overt signs hanging everywhere! Literal not figurative signs. One claims three teeth are needed for entry. One says anything not checked will be stolen. One says get naked get a shot, get fucked on the bar win a bottle. That is hardly a bluff, but the bottle is never top shelf stuff.

It’s a Gypsy Bar, they claim to the public which romanticizes Gypsies. But Gypsy’s all steal. Gypsy’s will trick you with music and some dance, lure you for tarot cards and then steal you internal organs and you will wake up in an ice bath in Bratislava missing some elements internally, then die of blood loss. The name of this place literally means ‘the Tavern’ in Bulgarian. And it lives up to that designation splendidly.

You wouldn’t find it unless you were looking for it. The entrance isn’t loud and the clamor inside is well insulated by its system of layers. The Lower East Side area is a drinking dancing seven day a week shit show anyway for NYU college students and the children of the upper middle classes. Mehanata is the club of choice for New York’s newly arrived undocumented immigrants from South America, Central America and the former Soviet Union. You’d only be looking for it if someone told you about it. Perhaps you’d hate them for it later, but very few people are not amused the very first time. There never is just a first time. But, in the New York wilderness a tavern of eclectic wilding foreigners and untamed domestic people dancing to the tunes of Latin American, the former Soviet Union, the Balkans and the Roma can draw to it both angels and demons by word of mouth. Since 2000 it has been surviving pogroms, police raids and venue changes via fire. The NYPD are doing everything in their human power from keeping the Brooklyn location from obtaining a liquor license. Sasho has been trying to open it for three of four years it seems.

Who is Sasho? He’s the boss.

There are three floors to the Tavern. The website extolls patrons to “meet their future green card holding spouse.” There is live Latin music. Live fire juggling. Bulgarian contortionists on Thursday alongside with Bordel Dali; Ernesto and his business comrade Georgie who is from Bucharest, Romania. Or maybe he just says that knowing no Americans know any other cities there. “But I’m not a Gypsy!” he declares. He’s getting a PhD in Computer engineering. The cast of characters around here boggles the mind.

The club has the look of a vast lawless pirate ship or a wilderness brothel. It is sometimes dim red and under the cloth tarps of the upper galley level which looks down with little tables in the dancefloor. The main floor has a dancefloor, a bar and a kitchen. The downstairs has stripper poles, blue light, a bar and an Ice Cage.

The Ice Cage has bottles of wall to wall Vodka, which is all the same Vodka, but when people pay $40 to enter the cage and slam that wall to wall Vodka orgy in Soviet officer uniforms; they don’t notice. Vodka drinkers of repute, do not go in the Ice Cage, which also sits above a hatch to the abandoned railways under lower Manhattan. So one can walk or take a private train to Brooklyn or New Jersey.

 

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And that is also why the place is only open Thursday through Saturday, to facilitate that traffic.

The waitresses and bar tenders are skinny or shapely, all Post-Soviet Bucharest or Sophia girls just arrived recently though generally well educated and for now, un-indentured. Some claim they are from Moscow, but they are not from Moscow. They are from shitty little Eastern European towns no one has ever heard of. They mostly don’t stay long and the reason for that is partly because of the mental and physical demands of the work and because their boss is the devil himself. The club is only open Thursday, Friday and Saturday. Things that go on during the week here are private and mostly didn’t even ever happen. There are private parties in the basement you’d do well not to crash unexpected or uninvited. Like the one on Wednesdays which is sort of high stakes a gang bang contest. There have been cock fights, dog fights and also bear fights. There are a lot of meetings happening upstairs right before the place fills up in Eastern European languages that you’d do well not to hear.  The musical talent is highly various. Normally three or four live acts a night on Friday and Saturday. A lot of live horns. There’s a rather Pall Mall esthetic of transcontinental bacchanalia.

The booking agent for Music is petit and elegant Victoria Lynch often wearing the hat of a Soviet officer the shoulder length locks of her hair falling over well fashioned skirts or flowing dresses. She was born in the Catskills, but has recently gotten her New Yorker residency card much to her delight; eight years later. The primary live acts are Gypsy Jazz, Spanish Ska and Balkan mostly. Roma meets Latin American for the most part. You get dance hall and reggae tone periodically from the DJs, but for the most part ‘the brothers’ stay out of the place. The doughty wine happens, but as international as everything remains, there are almost never black people at Mehanata. Which no one has a problem with except maybe Sebastian Adon who keeps bringing them there. But, they have one drink and politely leave after meetings.

Since 2001 the Z.O.B. has made Mehanata its unofficial office and social club. It’s meeting spot and its drinking spot. Sasho allows all kinds of people to meet under his roof and being there has connected the movement to darker things. There is a power the club has to draw in the very worst and best of people. Mehanata is thus a fitting place for the Z.O.B. leaders to draw towards since many of the group are hardly saints. Its members are generally able to lumped into the categories of ambulance workers, criminals, sex workers and leftist radicals. Sometimes a cadre is two or more of those things.

The salsa, the tango, sometimes even a little Zouk are played by the selectors, but ‘the brothers’ always depart when the meetings are over. No one can say why they don’t like the place, but they don’t. But as it is a central location for all four boroughs, it’s remained an unchallenged haunt.

Sasho and Sebastian go all the way back to 2001, but they don’t always remember or talk about all the event in between.

The most popular disk jockeys are Raphael Ernesto Contreras Lynch also called DJ Rafflex and Georgie from Bucharest also called DJ Mishto. As stated Romanian but “not a Gypsy”. Recently booked is the bearded, crazy eyed Serb; A.J. The most famous of the current bartenders is Martina Hella Dubreskaya. She has been here a good deal longer than the others. A black haired Bulgarian journalist, music blogger and BSDM enthusiast. She has the special constitution that a bartender needs to work the shit show around here longer than a month. Though many suspect she will quit soon. Perhaps go into Real Estate. Martina smiles at everyone in hate. She is technically speaking the first person to publish the work of Sebastian Adon by putting his sad poems on her website. She regrets that she encourages him, but secretly likes some of his work.

Outside and inside is James Burns the feisty retired Irish cop on ¾ pension. They call him James White, because he’s white. After his ACL was torn chasing down a perp he retired to bouncer work. His partner is James Behemoth Brown Pérerez a smart talking, burly Latino from the Bronx. They call him James Brown, because he’s Latino. Always outside is Slavi the stone faced brother of Sasho, but no one trusts they’re actually brothers. Until sneaking a sly grin the Bulgarian strong man collects people’s papers, cans their IDs and directs them to be retina scanned via this Israeli device at the door which biometrixes all the guests. He collects cash or directs drunk people to use the external ATM which charges a ten dollar service fee, the highest almost in New York. The irregular admission charge never gets a smile, because Slavi doesn’t charge people he knows in money. Then he sneaks a grin, has a smoke and sometimes asks people for money to come inside wearing a black Soviet wolf fur hat except during the summer.

You should pay cash up front for everything unless you’re a card carrying regular. Giving them your credit card is a horrible idea. It means you’ll just keep drinking. James White and James Brown are sometimes easy going on admission for just about anyone not over weight and female. The regulars never pay. The various mob tough guys never pay. The Z.O.B. members never pay. Sexy young girls never pay. The endless Korean bachelorette parties never pay except to ride the Gypsy Bus. The guests of regulars, mobsters, musicians, DJs, rebels and girlfriends of friends never pay. It’s between 15-35 dollars though if you’re just sort of showing up. Except on Thursday when everyone is free.

James White, James Brown and Slavi sometimes have to get fierce quick to squash the brawls which happen, generally around 2 AM, generally instigated by the Albanians, but often before and after. They can’t seem to keep the Albanians from breaking people’s faces over stupid things.

Justin Toomey O’Azzello is the General Manager. He is Irish and has wandering hands people say. He is quite jovial and likes to tell elaborate stories about his days in the Air Force flying bombing missions over former Yugoslavia. He blames his flirtations with alcoholism over the years on bombing runs he inflicted over Bosnia. But Justin was never in the air force or in Bosnia. His hands do wander though.

The owner of this place is a fearsome Bulgarian half Ukrainian Jew named Sasho, but is real name is Alexandre Dmitrievich Perchevney. He was born in Kiev, lived in Belaya Tserkov, Ukraine and moved to Sophia, Bulgaria before arriving here in 1992. He used to be a dentist. He used to be a person of importance in the Communist Party. He thus has a soft spot for revolutionists. The debaucheries of fallen men. As well as a hard spot for undocumented woman of theatre. Misha Kishbivalli, the long haired millionaire playboy from Bulgaria also is his silent partner. No one ever knows of asks what Misha does for a living. But the answer is blood diamonds. The Mehanta cooks are all from the tropic of Capricorn but nothing is ever very good eat except the beet soup or the Bulgarian salad; cucumbers, tomatoes, onions and pepper and white cheese. The cheese over fries is safe too. Some type of Borscht which is rumored to sometimes contain menstrual blood. The pork dishes are outright made of people.

Sasho’s wife Tanya isn’t the cook. It’s always undocumented Mexicans Sasho brings on over the years. They say the Brooklyn venue when it opens will have traditional Bulgarian food, but no one knows what that means.

Tanya is not a vindictive person, but she can’t stand Sebastian Adon. There is very valid reason for that beyond him being something of a trouble makers.

“Stop cooking people, and more people would eat here,” Sebastian once suggested.

It is rumored also that there is tunnel running from under the club to places unknown. Some nights Misha Kishbivalli has pontificated outside of the club that an American engineered mega tunnel system runs under the entire country in case of insurgency, general emergency or nuclear winter. The traffic around here is always hard to predict.

There are tall glass confectionaries of apple cider ginger vodka that sit atop the bar. There is a sign informing people that “get naked get a shot, get fucked win a bottle” and people seem to win all the time.

Also the rule that patrons must have at least three teeth to enter the establishment, that is untrue. You just need to have cash money. Preferably American type. But, things are negotiable.

 

The music is playing loud at the Mehanata Social Club where Daria Andreavna makes eyes then orders a Vodka based energy drink confection. She then slides up to Sebastian at the bar. He is wearing a black suit this time. A week since his death.

 

“It seems that we have found each other again,” she whispers.

“You were misbehaved I dare tell you,” he says.

“I was bad. Rude should I say? I am told I insulted your hospitability greatly.”

“That you did.”

“What are you drinking,” she asks.

“Astika,” he replies. The Bulgarian beer that is never in stock.

She catches Martina’s attention, and get him his drink. Martina winks at her.

“So,” she whispers again, “Cheers. I have no memory of anything last weekend. Forgive me for that. I don’t even know what I did.”

“You remember nothing?”

She just gives him a devilish smirk. And then shakes her head.

“I drink a lot for fun. I don’t always remember my Friday or my Saturday nights. Outside work, where I also drink the week gets interrupted by school, and then I party hard on the days off. I was told I was really bad to you. So, I’m saying the sorry. For the being of bad. What are you really drinking? This is our custom. Astika is shit,” she says.

“Nothing? No recollection?”

“No nothing at all. Oh, ok,” she smiles at him, “you were wearing a suit that’s a different color from the suit you’re wearing now, this I remember.”

Sebastian is now in a black suit. The night she almost killed them last it was white linen.

“You never acted all that drunkenly. You were calm and in control throughout, your, shall I say, outbursts. My friends have told me that it’s too late to stop your vodka calamities from unfolding sometimes. But, you nearly killed us. And you bit me,” he says showing her the red ring around his index left finger.

“Well we all have our demons in there, don’t we? I’m good at drinking. Until I sometimes fall down. I fell down those steps one night,” she says pointing to a long downstairs plummet into the downstairs floor where the Ice Cage is hidden.

The Ice Cage is a freezer box in the basement where people pay forty a head to slam wall to wall cheap vodka over a period of two minutes. It never ends well for those who get in that cage. There is perilous flight of stairs down to the basement where they keep the stripper poles and the blue lit fuck cage by a second bar and dance floor.

“That looks like if would hurt,” he replies, “if you remembered it”.

“I don’t remember it,” she smiles wide and seductively.

But that’s a silly thing to say. Seductively. Dasha is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. Her proclivity for homicide aside, she is fascinating. Describing just how beautiful she is almost doesn’t fit in a later play he could end up writing. Her golden locks are like a lioness. Her eyes are capable of quick swing between fierce, curious and loving. She loves to hear men say it, how beautiful she is, but beauty isn’t where a man falls from when he falls from the heart not the groin. Beauty is a thing of lust. It has no bearing on love when that love is real love and not lust with imagined feelings. Love is energy, a wave crashing over you. Sebastian has drowned several times before. He’d be very careful to use the word again. In that regard he is reckless to no end. He feels an attraction and can’t comprehend it, must be love. Previous formularies for the same emotion dictated that whatever woman resisted his affections the most adamantly and then let down her guard to an elegant seduction of deeds and art, must be love. There were loves at first sight, or interaction as well as friendships that became romances and he was unafraid to say the words again. The words often came out without his permission.

Overtime several women had accused him of bastardizing the loaded phrase via serial usage. There were over a dozen women he’d uttered it to over the course of his 28 years. Generally after the conquest of kisses, but to a couple stupidly even before.

They were all very different women of course and they all brought out very different rolls to his emotional dice. Sides to his coin being a limited idiom. Supposedly in popular fictions man or woman is supposed to have only one true love in a lifetime, to marry them or be parted from them tragically. So Sebastian was working hard by that standard, which truly in real life it can never be that simple, that limited.

 

“You’re really something to write about,” gggghe says.

“Absolutely I am. And I never say sorry to men, but Ernesto said he would cancel his friendship with me if I didn’t say sorry to you. Apparently I underestimated that you are the favorite host. The dashing revolutionary saint. The darling also of the owner. The grandeismo. Wait I’m not sure what that word means! You’re great. Also as the confidant of Rafael Ernesto and Victoria, you should become my confidant too.”

“I’m just Sebastian on my good nights.”

“And on the bad nights? Tell me your other names,” she whispers.

“Vasyli Pveada.”

“Ha! Royal Victory? Where did you concoct this other strange and slightly atrocious moniker? Moniker, is that the right word?”

He nods slightly.

“I’m Sebastian when the drinks flow and the desire to dance returns to my hard hips. All other times I’m at war. With myself and my nature, with a world of sheep and a den of wolves. In such circumstances I require a hard Russian name, and the luck of a royal victory.”

“Hm. Well it sounds ridiculous the way you say it. I’ll call you Vasa sparingly, it’s an insult you know! Some girl insulted you and you made it your Russian name. We can get you a new on. But, Sebastian is ok too. I’ll see what rolls better off tongue. All that other stuff, well I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Marina, two shots, Russian Standard please,” Daria proclaims dropping another twenty on the bar.

Martina the bartender comes over and gives Dasha a little wink again. She pours them out.

“This is sorry alright,” she smiles “I have said the words sorry! Now I again reserve the right to be rude to you and forget about it later. Fair game, yes? You got two drinks.”

He looks deep into her blue eyes and gives a half smile wondering how much she really remembers. In her eyes he sees someone looking out at him below the swagger of her posture, behind her beauty is a much older beauty.

 

“Well aren’t you impressed with my new manners?” she asks

I find you quite a bit stunning, he thinks and almost says.

“Of course I am.”

“What are you drinking next?” she asks.

They clink the shots and she proclaims, “Nazdrovia!”

She drinks like a fish, but really she just drinks like a Russian.

Astika,” she orders for him.

She has years of recent training in anticipating the needs of men. And by realizing those needs controlling them. And she thinks, what terrible piss but of course she orders him another one from Martina. The raven black haired Bulgarian bartender who knows exactly what she’s doing. Since Daria never buys men drinks. Because Russian apologies are based on acts not words.

“Are you coming to our little festival?” Daria asks him almost casually.

There will be a four day Bohemian Festival happening Labor Day Weekend where all manner of fuckery will take place in a park in Queens called the Onderdonk Public Fields. Sasho the owner had let Victoria allow Sebastian do a benefit concert for their Haiti efforts at Mehanta a month ago. So a week from now Sebastian and his EMT, Paramedic in training comrade Jared Forgetter from California will be freelance EMTs covering the first two days of festival.

“Wait,” she pauses.

“You are working the festival as our paramedic,” she says as she presses her palm to his side burn and face side.

“Sharp as a dagger you are dorogaia,” he smirks.

She smiles with big bright eyes. Who the fuck taught you that word, she thinks.

“Don’t call me dear ever again, I’m not so old. I’ll alert you that I may well come to some of that festival and if I fall down, drunk, I will ask for very intimate and professional service.”

“Hand pressed ice,” he promises reaching for her waist then thinking again.

“Hand pressed everything,” she demands.

“It’s at the service of all attending,” he declares.

“You are a true servant of the people,” she mocks with a wink.

“Dasha, you’re a tough act to follow.”

“You’re gonna keep calling me that are you?”

“That a problem?”

“It’s rather intimate, I don’t know if we know each other like this or that.”

“Well I suppose we can work on that over festival.”

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She smiles a lovely, practiced smile.

“Vasa. Press me best you can. The risk is completely yours not mine.”

A song about the great and noble Commandant Ernesto Che Guevara by the Buena Vista Social Club a famous Cuban salsa band comes on and she thrusts herself into his arms for a last dance. They take the floor to themselves.

“I knew you back in Cuba,” she whispers in his ear.

“I’ve never been to Cuba,” he replies with a stone face.

She sashays him across the dance floor muscling out the other couples with her buxom way. She’s crass and wonderful. She lets him lead and he does a fairly good job under pressure to keep up. It’s been over a year since he’s danced with a woman of any substance.

“You dance like you’re from the Caribbean,” she says to him.

“But I’ve never been to Cuba,” he repeats.

He dips her slightly. A full dip might turn into quite un-romantic arms to floor plummet.

She’s a gorgeous powerful woman who will always get what she wants in the end so it seems. Except perhaps happiness which no power or money can so far buy.

“You’re good at being an Amerikanski,” she tells him.

“You’re even at better at being a Russian,” he replies and they dance the rest of the night.

 

It is past 4 am now and efforts begin to clear the worst kind of rabble out the tavern have begun. Only card carrying regulars and lovers of staff can remain and light things up or pound things down. It’s now with the storm shudders sealed just over two dozen left lingering around the bar. Smoke them if you got them. They count out the cash on the bar.

For some reason with almost no music, drunk as hell; Sebastian and Daria are still dancing.

 

“Right never on schedule,” says Justin Toomey O’Azzello to Sasho, the burly owner smoking a cigar at the end of the ground floor bar passage way, packed up with intoxicated core circle patrons, tight except around his circumference.

“Hasn’t changed his cap or tune much in ten years,” Justin notes.

“I know him of course,” Sasho says without looking up, “with or without the ridiculous peasant cap. He’s been the same good man for over a decade.”

“He’s dancing with Daria, good for him! She’s got great big ones for him.”

“He’s always dancing with Daria, or trying to dance with her anyway.”

“You’re thinking of…” notes Justin.

“No Azello. I’m thinking exactly what I mean to be thinking. He’s always dancing with Dasha right before thing get interesting around here.” And it sure can get interesting fast.

“They just met boss.”

“You’re thinking of things three dimensionally and I am thinking of things fifth dimensionally, even sixth or seventhly and I know that when those two dance. Fucking trouble. Niggers with arms in the streets. Israeli mind games. Decapitations on camera and lynchings to boot. Lynchings and lots burnings of bodies.  It’s time to call up all our troops, every single man to the front.”

Justin sometimes suspected the boss was fucking insane, but the old man had a gift.

The lights come on and the remaining guests not vouched for are herded like drunk cats out the secondary exit on to Ludlow street until no one is left inside but the staff, a handful of regulars and of course Sasho with his cigar.

Daria and Sebastian wander out into what’s left of the night on the Lower East Side.

Out of the corner of his eye Sasho notices the Mexican weight staff are carrying the body of a man out of the tiny room upstairs where people go to fuck whores, or their drunk lady girlfriends, or hcollege students. Or, he supposed less frequently, but evidently in case tonight; kill a man, drain his blood and empty his pockets. A little room to the very back of the second floor mezzanine. You can fuck or murder at the top of your lungs and no one would know.

Of the four little Mexicans none are taller than four feet a piece and they must carry drag the body down the stairs.

The corpse is pale from exsanguination.

 

Into the soup?” asks Enrique from Monterrey in Mexican Spanish.

 

And Sasho nods. Let the dead keep eating the dead, like they do out in the colonies. James White and James Brown sit with their drinks in near silence. Tanya counts money. Martina counts money with a smoke in her mouth for some reason naked as they day she was born. Justin Toomey sits on the bar next to Sasho. Wondering how many days the Tavern has left.

That Night, Scene 4

{{{“That Night” is the first Act of Fire on the Mountain. This is Scene 4. In the previous scenes we were introduced to three groups of overlapping characters. A tavern full of immigrants, criminals and subversives. A band of revolutionaries called the Z.O.B. Also a giant submarine carrying a small cell of mercenaries toward the United States. }}}  In Scene 4 we return to the Seas of the Carribean.

 

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Scene 4

Caribbean Sea

 

 

For many years there has been a persistent conspiracy theory about boats and planes going missing in the North Caribbean within an area called the Bermuda Triangle. While a range of legends both mysterious and scientific have been laid out in varying circles, to date no real valid objective theory has been substantiated.

It is towards this Triangle from an approach between Dominican Republic and the U.S. Colony Puerto Rico that the submersible will make its determined approach toward the eastern coast of the United States after dropping its precious cargo in Port of Spain, Trinidad.

The black freighter is nearly two Manhattan city blocks long. One of the largest submersibles constructed in the period of the Pax Americana between Cold War One and Two, loosely 1989 to 2001. No one is sure what the Chinese have developed since then, but surely large, deadly impressive Chinese things. The Black Mermaid, the new name of this submarine since its purchase/capture, is hidden by virtually all conventional forms of technological detection by the depths it can descend. Because of its reactor, air recycling purifiers, heavy stores of food and fresh water it can remain undetected indefinitely able to deliver a payload of intercontinental ballistic missiles, that no one of the rebel alliance ever intends to use. Via hope, you feign intention.

The ship is rumored to have only five functional warheads. But, that is five more than anyone needs to reduce major cities to ashes. More importantly than missiles is that right now this ship is hosting about half of the rebel government in exile of Israel, Palestine and Kurdistan. Some forty co-chairs, political heads and their immediate families. Most of those families are somewhat smaller now, many lives reduced by the hasty exodus after the battle of Madeira. Waves of killing machines had just one month before surprised the hidden rebel bases. Except for the Kurds which have families larger than most of the crew of the ship. All members of those families could fire Kalashnikovs, but everyone lost someone. It amounts to just under two thousand high value persons they were moving from Sakhalin to Trinidad & Tobago. Very important persons. Before the strike team is loosed off the Eastern American coast most of the rebel government will be brought to the relative safety of Port of Spain, Trinidad.

 

Yulia Romanova, Adelina, Kudzai and Oleg the Bear have been confined democratically and by an armed Ethiopian Israeli sentry to a small bunk room on a lower deck. The size of the vessel is sprawling. No one trusts the three Russians. There is a spartan, wood plated and red rust room with two bunk beds for each gender and a small common room for playing cards and drinking. They are coldly and politely given three meals a day in this room since they were taken on board in Sakhalin; a Russian island north of Japan.

 

Oleg the Bear is imposing while remaining intellectual.

 

“No, I’ve never read a thing, he’s written; though I’m told I’m depicted as some real shtarker. A brutal tough guy who loves taking women’s clothes off with my hands and camera. We met in some other life, but he doesn’t remember. When we met again he’ll look to me as some another older brother he never had.  I will only just encourage him to write,” states Oleg the Bear and all nod in agreement. Yulia Romanova, a tall Slavic pixy shaped conventionally like a Barbie modal doesn’t even enjoy reading. In Russian or Angliski. Hasn’t read a book since she was forced to attend High school. She has dark brown hair and doesn’t appear very crucial to the operation. But, she is actually the bomb maker. She’s not paid to look pretty, but she is. She’s not paid to fuck men on demand, which she won’t. She isn’t a subject matter expert on American affairs. But, she can build and place satchel bombs in expensive hand bags, simple enough, the extent of her patriotism.

 

On the monstrous underwater vessel called the Black Mermaid; traveling propelled by its nuclear reactor towards the United States; the extraction and intervention squad sits for black bread, herring, tea and Compot, sweet berry punch and some Russian Standard Vodka.

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The Chinese had finished a canal across quietly Socialist Nicaragua that was three times the size of the US controlled one in Panama. But, for some reason very few people in the USA even knew the thing was operational. It was through this cognitively non-existent mega water way the Black Mermaid nuclear submarine had passed with prior authorization on its run into American waters after it’s off load of high level rebel leadership in Trinidad.

 

There were all these people that no one trusted the Russians to be around. Not to meet and not to see. They were taken in hoods from a safe house in Sakhalin, de-hooded in this very bunk room and the only person they had even ever met was this nameless Ethiopian sentry in a grey uniform holding an Uzi. Adelina had been taken to her own room just up the hall and was visited twice by the infamous Emma Solomon. But, none of the others in the unit had left the room. Which was vaguely confining but no one was particularly claustrophobic. Oleg and Yulia mostly played cards. Kudzai mostly read the Jesus books, or engaged in quiet mediation. The only time the four of them talked was during daily meals. Thankfully no one was a smoker.

 

 

Kudzai is very muscular from years of hiking, swimming and combat. Big in all four ways that matter. His biochemist brain, his black noble soul, his empathetic heart and his Shona warrior hands. Oleg Medved, otherwise known as Oleg the Bear is perhaps physically larger without being obese, but they are big in different ways. Oleg is simply physically imposing, but his brain, heart and hands; they are smaller. He’s the unit’s intelligence officer, so all hope he is as clever as he appears to be. Kudzai is a holder of a Trinidadian passport. He is dark as night. Black even for the eyes of white men that turn many shades of not Caucasian into racist enemy others. Kudzai stands nearly six feet tall. He is by far the most trusted person in the unit that was being briefed just one hour before deployment, as he is a member of the revolutionary army while these three Russians are all under contract.

 

Kudzai and Oleg are both witty conversationalists and do their best to engage the two women they will be working with. Kudzai is here primarily to protect Adelina, since the other two Russians Oleg and Yulia are expendable. He will break the back of any person who might lay their hands on the candidates Emma and Adelina. He has taken a blood oath to protect the chosen; his main task on this mission will be to protect Ms. Adelina while she attempts to enter the dreams of Sebastian Adon, and keep him from unleashing his fighters in ways that might trigger a bloody, bloody bloodbath and catastrophe. In fact, their unit, now in massive black nuclear submarine once owned by the State of Israel is hurtling toward the international maritime border.

 

They will let most of these very important passengers off in Port of Spain, but this unit will remain below decks until they get to American waters.

 

Oleg Medved will be quick to tell you that “Oleg the Bear” is certainly not the nice Ukrainian Jewish or later Israeli name his mother gave him. But, it will be his name for now.

He is very likable. Gregarious in the right word. He goes nowhere without a camera and takes a lot of pictures some arty, some naughty, some of assets to note all of them quite professional. He even has a good one of Ms. Adelina giggling on the first time they met; which was a few weeks ago in Sakhalin, that cold vile place.

 

Oleg is the Communications Officer for their little squad, which is nice way of saying the intelligence man. It is his responsibility to work with his partner Ms. Yulia Romanova, to whom he sometimes calls “his muse”. They knew each other from before. Yulia alongside being a slender and sensuous dark brundinite she was very good at building little bombs. And also good for social engineering.

 

“Every artist ultimately dreams of fucking their muse,” Oleg said over dinner one night in the lower depths cabin.

 

“Don’t dream too hard. I have a boyfriend,” Yulia replied.

 

If it was the duty of Adelina Blazhennaya to enter the mind of Sebastian Adon and take control of the resistance apparatus working towards a vast national uprising set for an upcoming hidden date; no longer hidden to the National Security Agency and also the Department of Homeland Security’s secret police forces. It was the duty of Kudzai to use his training to help her enter that glorious but treacherous rebel of mind of Adon’s. See what was actually happening in America Babylon. See if the resistance was really able to pull this off. Then it was Oleg Medved’s job to teach the resistance how to use the special new tools of technology and magic developed in the Sharashka in Hong Kong. Or, if things were quite fubar and infiltrated; they would just mop up anyone who might be able to identify Solomon or any of the other candidates.

 

“What’s a candidate?” Yulia asks finally.

 

“People descended from the bloodlines of the seven original prophets,” Kudzai replies.

 

“Does that mean?” Yulia exclaims pointing at Adelina.

 

“Yes, she’s related to Jesus or somebody, pass the potatoes,” mutters Oleg.

 

“That’s not substantiated,” Adelina replies.

 

“She’s descended from either Krishna, Buddha, Zoroaster, Abraham, Moses, Jesus, Muhammed or some hidden line they haven’t figured out yet,” Kudzai interjects, “both Adelina and certainly Commander Solomon are both candidates.

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“Interesting,’ smirks Oleg who doesn’t believe in any of the God delusions, “pass the Vodka please.”

 

These were upside down cake times, you didn’t know what to believe as the world kept unraveling. Were Adelina really a powerful sorcerous shaman and considered a candidate since birth; well hopefully that meant this would go more smoothly. If not, well she looked too hippy to pull her weight as death squad member. Which is what was going to happen to Sebastian and the rest of the American rebel leaders if this thing was compromised. So basically Adelina and Kudzai as believers were here to make the uprising work. Oleg and Yulia were here to liquidate the American’s if things had gotten fucked up. Life was to have balance even in insurgency and murder.

 

Adelina was to lead quietly the unit and ensure the outcome of prophesy foretold in a little book called the New Social Gospel revealed by some magnimonious higher power to Emma Solomon in the year 2001. Which was the same year that she was captured by the secret police, tortured repeatedly, brutally raped, then crucified and left to die in the Negev Desert.

 

What politicians said on the international circus stage were hardly what their populations connected via the inter-web were ready to agree to, not a single year longer.

 

December 21st, 2012 was to be the year according to the Mayan calendar that a great shift would occur in Humanity. Well that was not the exact date of the American uprising. But those great spiritual cosmic forces were being factored in. It had taken over twenty years to coordinate a military insurrection in the belly of the empire.

 

Oleg and Yulia had worked together before. Adelina and Kudzai had just met and the unit was assembled about a week ago. They were all now confined in this cabin and to break the ice over vodka, Oleg the Bear got them playing a famous game of gradual interrogation called “Three Thing to Know about me.”

 

“Let me tell you three some things about me,” Oleg said to them. They were drinking vodka and eating black bread with caviar and herring, onions and salted tomatoes, goose paty, salo and strange orange vegetable that only grows below the soil of Russia.

 

“I am not a creature that will live vicariously!” he declared in English out of respect for Kudzai who spoke no Russian.

 

“I am not any kind of believer like you two in some vast invisible forces that I cannot measure hold and see. I am not here there therefore as a fact of faith in your Comrade Solomon. I am here because I have money and orders and a contract to be here. And that is simple enough.”

He continues, “I was told to come and evaluate these Americans. See if they are finally coming to the table of struggle. The story of their uprising most precisely is interesting to the person who pays me. I was told to set up these communication lines so Americans can join the global revolution underway for over two hundred years. I was told to help murder every single one of them that might have gone over to the enemy.”

 

“You have no enemies’ friend, you are only here for money!” Kudzai proclaims, “What does it really matter if Sebastian is hero, a hooligan or a traitor to us all. You will be paid the same amount.”

“I am actually paid more to not kill anyone,” Oleg replies.

“Yes, it’s clearly in the contract we get less the more people who die,” Yulia says.

“Why are you really here,” Kudzai questions, “Doesn’t the enemy have a bigger bank account?”

“Listen. We do professional work. That’s what we’re being paid for,” Yulia declares.

“What are you all here for, really? If you don’t believe in miracles and prophesy,” Kudzai says, calmly without any accusation in his tone.

 

“I am here too to enjoy myself, make money and take some pictures!” Oleg declares, “All the most reputable of foreign analysts, journalists, pundit and economists have declared an American uprising as literally impossible. Like you’d have to be working with God and Magic! Which you all seem to think you are. That nation on the mount would sooner watch sports than tune into see the world burning. This is just a fact! As long as they keep the flights to Europe running, as long as they have their beer, football and porn, hookers for those who can afford them then they will be the grinning bastards, the opulent retards, their cities blue grounds for the world elite to harvest more women and treasure!”

Then Oleg continues, “I’m going as a highly paid adventure tourist. I will take a million pictures; I will leave behind more than I take away. Save me your magic! This is a revolution that will be wiped from the history books in treachery and gore. They will all be killed. The only question is, will they be killed from incompetence that comes with their privilege, or because their top leadership was infiltrated long ago” declares Oleg Medved.

 

“Have you any faith in the prophesy?” Yulia sarcastically asks him in Russian.

 

Yulia was prim. Oleg had never known her to loyal to her boyfriend patron back in somewhere, but Oleg had come to see women as accessories for men, adjuncts and muse for the doing of big things or even just fun sweaty thrusting things. What he noticed since the Romanoff Bratva took over his other contract was that he had more time to pursue his art. Money absolutely brought options.

 

Oleg had a long running morally ambiguous relationship with Yulia founded on the principle that her partner back in Russia was not her boyfriend or her husband, just some patron paying for a flat in Moscow and an Amex. The world was burning. They made money wherever they could. These were times of fun and games with papers and loyalties. They took a lot of pictures together; he of her and she and he from his hip. His burly part beard and broad shoulders were quite the opposite of her elegant spindle form, her fake but convincing to touch tits, her black brown hair falling back and forth over shoulders as she let him capture her.

 

“No faith at all in anything, or anyone, certainly not the fat Americans,” Oleg declares.

 

Yulia feigns a small, false pout. Then immediately grins. While her beauty was not a question, her eyes lacked what the parapsychologists called the Old Soul depth of Comrade Blazhennaya.

 

“And you little Mosquito,” exclaimed Yulia referring to the American translation of Blazhennaya’s fictionist passport name, “Do you really believe? Do you really think you’re some chosen child of God?”

 

Adelina makes no motion to respond.

 

The conversation goes back to three things to know about each other. In the cultural context of Russia and Ukraine Oleg & Yulia make a lot of toasts and knock down their shots in celebration of the supposedly impossible; the hopeful success of their mission. Kudzai and Adelina stick to tea and water. But, then Yulia provokes the subject again. Emboldened by the drink.

 

“But really Mosquito! Do you believe in this blatnoy? Or are you being well paid too?”

 

Before Adelina answers Yulia Romanova’s inquiry, her face grimaces with a hard and quiet smile. Now into the thirteenth shot of Russian Standard Vodka Yulia has never seen such a sinister grin. Oleg was drunk but wholly functional. Yulia was probably able to drive a car or mix some chemicals into an improvised explosive device, but now though she was seeing things.

Drunk was the only way to even take in or put up with this rhetoric. The theories of mostly nonviolent resistance to oligarchy, codified by Emma Solomon, Avinadav DeBuitléir and of course; Comrade Sebastian Adon. The likelihood of death in taking this assignment.

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Drunk Yulia now jerked to attention and carried out a most dramatic reading!

 

 

Adelina’s eyes began glowing a brown into eerie green on gray. Yulia jumped in her seat, then Adelina’s eyes went grey on grey and Oleg arched his back contorting into a Bhutto type posture, spasmodically twitching and frozen. Grinning obscenely. Oleg too lurched out of his seat but then by the force of her mind and found himself saluting her.

 

And now, Emma Solomon in husky, but authoritative voice of a warrior queen spoke out the mouths of Adelina and Kudzai perfectly synchronized, and that was then Yulia and Oleg realized that neither the Romanoff Bratva nor the Israeli resistance forces were in charge of this mission at all.

 

The pair then both exclaimed possessed in the voice of Solomon, lips moving in unison:

 

 

“Welcome to the world to come. Open your eyes wide. By the time we are done here there will be no more safety for those men in high towers. Perched atop the mountains d in their gilded bunkers. No faction will be left standing. We were all born serfs or various types of half casted slave, but our unborn children have been assured their emancipation via deeds to come.”

 

 

 

Everyone dropped back into their seats postictal from possession, post coitus almost with no warm fluids. Oleg simply kept grinning refusing inside himself to believe. They had drugged him, it was simple as that. Kudzai smiled too, but it was the smile of happy belief. Yulia looked truly scared, emotions breaking through her year’s crafted control of countenance. And Adelina Blazhennaya in all her petit and unassuming compact grace then uttered, “Trust that among the Americans are many who have cried out over what happened in the killing fields and their sprawling slum cities and prison camps. They have more going on than dancing, fornicating and erection of taller towers and bigger, brighter stadiums. Have a little fucking hope,” she tells them.

 

“Don’t overestimate the prophesy or underestimate the cowboy libertarianism of the American resistance,” Adelina tells them, and pours them their next round of slightly poisoned shots.

 

“America, fuck yeah,” exclaims Oleg.

 

 

 

 

 

 

That Night, Scene 3

 

Scene Three

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Upper West Side

 

                                     

They look out over privilege itself. The rooftop deck on the 17th story of the Trickovitch Family Penthouse looks North and West over the Hudson River, the Upper East Side, and also the George Washington Bridge. So much light and so much air, yet still under nine hundred American dollars, much to the chagrin of the Satmar Ivories who actually own the building; the House Trikhovitch is rent controlled.

 

Sebastian Adon is wearing his favorite cap and looking somewhere between manic and marmalade. His eyes strange and happy as though he wishes to recite a poem. On an adjacent bench in the roof garden, shirtless with a Noblisse dangling out his lips is his best friend and long-time partner in conspiracy Nikholai Trikhovitch.

 

Penthouse J has been in the hands of the House Trikhovitch Family the early 1981 Common Era. That was not such a hey-day for New York City as some newly arrived hip individuals have come to believe. Heretics all; by the mid-1980’s looters and vagrants were scaling the walls to steal anything not tied down. Well we thought it was called the 1980’s, that’s what smart phones and TVs said. Crack was wack! Heroin is back, they said, but who do you know that has tried it, sucked the moon rocks and kaboom! The CIA brought it here in 1980 to help kill all the black people, get them hooked on that vile addictive substance; then arrest loosely 1 in 8 of them for drugs, self-murder and petty crime. The book about this phenomena is called the New Jim Crow. That’s what Pacifica Radio says anyway.

Located on 95th and Riverside it is now one of the Z.O.B.s most luxurious and safest of safe houses. It is rent controlled and guarded by Albanians. They are warlike these Albanians. Good at moving people and things, also safe guarding things for others. They do not practice Cannibalism. There are two garden terraces that look out over the Hudson River to the North and Midtown to the south. The place has wall to wall books and a rather large aquarium filled with amphibious turtles. The building has gone coop and they are the last holdout sitting on a highly choice property paying $1,200 American a month for it adjusting for utilities and service fees. A good number of Jewish lawyers have been paid to figure out how to extract them from this property, so far unsuccessfully. For the Trickovitch family employ and are related to Jewish lawyers too. It was once a little more of zoo filled then filled again with animals and young girls with long legs. Now it is a sad empty place for plotting with Nicholai’s brothers living in other cities and his parents more frequently at their upstate Dacha.

Nicholai it is rumored is paralyzed with some dark depression, some sickness in him which makes him analytical. For a time he was married and making house in Midwood, Brooklyn deep in the shtetel but then his wife vanished and he barely leaves this Penthouse except for jaunts, benders really of consumption, mild whoring and occasionally a revolutionary plot.

Sebastian speaks of “her eyes” so he appears less crudely animalistic speaking of breasts and other luscious appendages. Behind this charade of romance, knowing him for so long, since teenage times; Nicholai knows the poet from the lust and savage.

 

“The most striking thing about her is the murder in her eyes which beg a man closer with the promise of bliss then deny him everything,” mutters Sebastian Adon looking out north toward the palisades and George Washington Bridge where Harlem goes to die, or commuters go to Jersey.

 

This is the place to jump when you really want no mistakes made on the outcome, you have an 100% probability of death, and everyone knows that. Fleetingly Nicholai Trickovitch thinks of self-murder and Sebastian as he too videes the same Fort Washington district rising up as the highest point on the isle of Manhattan. Sebastian ruminates in butterfly flap of mental head space of all the times he’s wandered Fort Tryton Park with a lost lover holding her cold hands. One lover in particular comes to his mind for Fort Washington District; the Russian Jewish quarter perched up in the rafters of New York City. For after her, none of the other previous ones had mattered. But, then came Daria to kill him.

But, some neurons fire faster than others and then his mind quickly reverts to his newest fascination with the fairer of the species. All previous lessons are lost. Were Futurist New York anything like more medieval times, both Sebastian Adon and Nicholai Trickovitch; are the disgraced sons of Hebrew Dukes. In lay person terms, the prodigal sons of the Upper Middle Classes of New York Jewry; both blessed with privilege, education, several serfs and white skin coats; cursed with mental illness and revolutionary thinking.

 

Nikholai was briefly a private detective moon lighting as an accountant, wiggling his way listlessly through college. He is now working as a driver for the Red Cross in their vast housing and logistics Ponzi scheme, taking money raised from one catastrophe to band aid and water supply the next one.

 

He is also technically, mostly by association with more militant Sebastian; one eighth of the leadership of the Z.O.B., a network of insurgent cells and the editor of its underground newspaper, “the Banshee News Service”. He highly prefers conducting his revolutionary duties from the computer of this same Penthouse, moving things about the internet, correcting pamphlets and movement speeches. He was persuaded to manage the logistics for the First Haiti Operation, he was then persuaded to manage ground logistics in Port Au Prince for the expeditionary forces, and still later he joined the medical guerrillas in Colombia. But, he has only so much will to walk.

In this year, 2011 he can barely manage to leave this house except for liquor. He is a most functional alcoholic. Haitian Rum Straight. Makers Mark Straight. And cartons of Newport cigarettes. Sebastian has never questioned what Nicholai does for work. He clearly does something with the internet, living off his wealthy father and selling pills through Albanians to Columbia University students. The children of the elite are basically addicted to something called Adderall to study and take their exams. The Ivy League is really only nine blocks north. Sebastian stays out of his friends’ money. As almost all of his friends have clean ambulance money or dirty criminal money and not much in between. Colluding with angels and devils to make an uprising occur.

From time to time he picks up work as an unlicensed private detective helping cheating wives get their proofs of infidelity or parents find their dead kids in Newark, New Jersey. He can find a lot of things in the dark of the web.

 

“Go work form somewhere warm droog,” Sebastian always encourages him, but Nicholai is cold and spiritually long dead.

 

Rudely we have introduced Nikholai without introducing the Z.O.B. in greater detail; the clandestine organization of communists and ambulance workers and also West Indian entrepreneurs. A breeding ground for anarchist bomb makers, Russian petty criminals, sex workers and the forces of the great unwashed. A brotherhood and sisterhood that binds many of our friends together into a pact of lawless, perhaps degenerative mutual aid. Masquerading in the disguise of workers’ rights, human rights and maybe, maybe democracy. The group is best known by bombing campaigns extending back to 1999, its clandestine newspaper, pamphlets and foreign expeditions. This club and cluster is often called the “Banshee Association”, but these three letters; Z, O and B better indicate the club’s inner circle, and its place in the international freedom movement.

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“It’s a human rights version of the ‘Westies’, that’s all I can tell you for now,” says Sebastian when asked. Actually none of the other eight officers in the cadre truly cared to know for it was not ideas but lived experiences that brought anyone into its ranks.

Taking a revolutionary between your legs does not induce belief via osmosis, or even diffusion. On the contrary, nothing could make one quite so utterly antagonistic to the ideas of Marxist-Leninism quite like loving or fucking for any prolonged period a determined revolutionist. For both male and female revolutionaries are insane, highly difficult people. They must be as they have set out to make impossible things work as if, possible. And many are also demented by that failure and by protracted murder disguised as ideas.

 

“The rhetoric has always been ridiculous and dynamic,” once explained Trickovitch, “people began joining when we threw good parties then began punctuating those parties by invading beleaguered countries and executing pimps, bankers and other enemies of the working class.”

 

“What’s the Westies again,” people sometimes ask. Quite a lot of people have passed through the front groups and splinter groups, the business fronts and the house parties. The bedrooms as well. There are always nine at the core, the Politburo; the Shura Council call it whatever. The people who make the decisions about surviving the years until the ground war. In actually constitutional terms; the Executive Committee.

 

“The Westies were a small but ultra-violent, hyper effective Irish gang from the 1980’s,” he often adds then distracts with some other story.

 

“What’s that stand for then, the Z.O.B.?” people ask Adon. People on the inner outer circle, or people that see the pamphlets or the posters on the work trains. People that associate Banshee with ZOB have put not too much circumstantial evidence together.

 

“If I told you….” and then he orders a round of water shots. He likes red wine. He likes Rum. He likes Vodka all by itself, but when it is time to do business he is most serious, almost sober man. Close to Muslim in his discipline, but of course these are not religious people.

 

Nicholai once heard him refer to the “Zealots of Brooklyn”, but sometimes they drank and took amphetamines for days and entered whole new unrealities. Parallel states of being that Sebastian drew and wrote stories about lying on the floor of the Penthouse with huge green eyes that didn’t blink after the third day in wake field. It had been a long time since they locked the Penthouse doors and dried to see the future in seven days.

 

So many people just call them the Banshee Association, the name of their political arm and Newspaper which came out irregularly as funds became available. They were thought to some kind of emergency medical service proto-union underground alluded to in a recent write up expose about them in the New York Times. Or accused of being Communist infiltrators in the New York Post.

Regardless. Some just called it “the Club”. People come and go, they disappear and some die. Sometimes people get tortured. Sometimes there is drinking and dancing, often enough to fun. There are always glorious toasts. There is always Afro-Caribbean music. Sometimes innocent people get shot up or blown up. That’s a thing. It isn’t ever taken lightly. The battle of ideas was lost a long, long time ago. The dubious morality of their political violence, the future being fought for; is all drowned in the terrors of the past and also present. But tonight was a casual night to talk about girls.

 

“In Russia we were Jews. Outside of Russia we are finally called Russians. We are treated about the same,” once explained Yelizaveta’s father Alexandre. Yelizaveta was Sebastian’s partner and paramour for the past two years. She met him in the student movement days before she left for Medical School. While Daria was igniting some new desires and anthems, Nicholai had heard the songs all before. For years with Yelizaveta and a couple more before. Now Sebastian and Nicholai, born nine days apart were nearly 30, but once they were both 14. They had loved and lost many times, though Nicholai had loved and lost absolutely everting when his wife left him and disappeared into thin air.

They had all called in chips and put out feelers. No one likes to hopelessly clinging to a failing marriage then have it break apart. People like even less when the person they loves becomes a vapor. A ghost. When all the leads tried up. When they almost had every ambulance and every gangster, every snitch and every soundbite looking for Nicholai’s ex-wife. They went together finally to Alexandre Perchevney, the most dangerous man in New York City. The father of Sebastian’s ex.

 

He was called Sasho if you knew him well. He was a fierce and indomitable man, but also a gregarious buffoon behind the doors of his famous tavern Social Club when no one was looking but those he mostly trusted dancing about with a cigar grinning. Sasho was a mastermind. Constantly plotting and constantly cashing on his plots. A Ukrainian Jew when he felt like it. A Bulgarian Mobster when he felt like it. The very last man you’d ever want to owe. But they had owed him several times.

The family safe houses were too hot to talk about anything. There had been multiple police raids since 2000. So since 2006 the Z.O.B. movement had taken shelter under the roof of a loving lesser Post-Soviet Oligarch. And there were a lot of business relationship now facilitated by this. In 2010 amid a terrible blizzard Sebastian Adon had saved the life of his then girlfriend Yelizaveta Alexandre’s daughter or at the very least fought his way through a snow storm to rescue her from a broken tibia, lying bleeding and abandoned in JFK airport. That night was so pivotal for it was the first time Sasho owed anyone anything and found out about the secret little thing they had. But then lot of other things happened. Sasho was shot and nearly died. Sebastian was locked up for a month. Yelizaveta’s mother ordered her to break the whole affair off. So after a year on his birthday 28, she did.

 

Not that any of these things have anything to do with two fucks of an anything. Except to paint the portrait of Sebastian as more hopeless romantic puppy than a stone cold killer. He loved young Yelizaveta the prim, Jappy premedical student as ferociously as always did. He served her needs and courted her involvement in Haiti and she certainly did quite a lot of the expedition.

 

But, while Nicholai doesn’t ever memory road his ex-wife. Sebastian is regularly and often existentially dying when his partners reject him and his unstable pursuits. Before this recent anguish over Yelizaveta; there was Hali and there was also Maria Parsheva.

 

Maria and Yelizaveta were the two other former Soviet lovers Sebastian had taken as his closest partners in the past four years. It would be incorrect to say he dated “Russian Women exclusively”; as later inferred by the Russian photographer and Israeli gangster Oleg Medved; he had simply intimately engaged only just two, one right after the other. And that was enough for him to suspect there was something remarkable about the character of a “Russian woman”. The first, Maria who was ever calm but he did not love for she did not excite in him full passions; and the second Yelizaveta who was headstrong and wild whom he could never forget.

Nicholai remembers red headed Maria as something of a submissive Soviet Jessica Rabbit, complete with a cute little mole, slightly husky voice and marked non-fascination with much that wasn’t Russian in origin, besides Sebastian of course. She sure did hold her own on the “train job” though, that bloody mess in 2007.

That was the time when Nicholai, Sebastian, Maria and a foxy little Chechen named Angelika had to hold off a murderous mob of sixteen working poor white hooligans from Gerittsen Beach with a briefcase, a prayer and Bangladeshi good Samarian.

Sebastian would forever view Maria as his “Betty Shabazz” as their black nationalist associate Justin Thomas described her. This was real gesture of flattery on Justin’s part by in calling Maria Betty Shabazz he was calling Sebastian a white Malcom X. Or something to that effect. Betty like Maria in most ways strong woman who stood behind her larger than life man without involving herself in the political melee, like Yelizaveta certainly had. Nikh just thought of Maria a Russian geisha, until he watched her do the train job, which we’ll have to consider the details of later in more depth. In that moment under fire her realness did come out. Nikh basically had no trouble after the break up confiding she was really just a Geisha, and Yelizaveta a spoiled daughter of a mobster. Which no one approved up since if Sebastian and Yelizaveta had ever married would have really put the Z.O.B. deeply in the pocket of the Bulgarian Mafia.

Nikh remembers young Yelizaveta emerging into the club picture, and Sebastian’s bedroom sometime in early 2008. He remembers her at meetings and social functions as “a highly mouthy Americanized blonde know it all little bitch who walked all over Sebastian publicly and privately. How she emptied out his pockets, put wild eyed ideas in his head, and reduced him to bawling tears when she eventually left him over her mother’s total lack of approval.”

 

Yelizaveta may or may not have helped them sketch out the entirety of the Haiti Operation during the 5th Congress though. She probably managed to secure about half the funding they needed for the first expedition. And probably coaxed or Jewish guilted Sebastian into joining the original brigade that three years prior took over the Port-Au-Prince general hospital triggering the uprising there.

 

“Your women are never far from the very center of your goriest war stories,” Nikh notes.

 

The two comrades Sebastian and Nikolai had been partners in the insurgency and the defense committees and general thought crime practitioners since 1999. The year they did their first job. There had been a lot of great and also highly mediocre women and a lot of jobs since then. But not for nothing, since Sebastian Adon entered his “Postsoviet amorous period”, as Nikh liked to call it, well the jobs had gotten quite a lot more ambitious. The man needed an iron clad muse all assumed. In reality he simply needed to be loved so that the love he put on the world could find a singular dedication, another soul to whom he could do all his work for.

The Human Rights Westies did some wild work in Russian amorous period. Their close associate; a proud Irishman named Hubert O’Domhnaill had coined that phrase. “Human Rights Westies”, and also the “Russian Amorous Period”.

That was the Z.O.B. in a witty little simplified nugget of Irish witticism. The club now had a larger than life presence in certain regards or perhaps it should be said; circles. But that would still make Sebastian Adon into a humanitarian Mickey Spillane, founder of the original Westies. Perhaps the analogy if that’s what it was, was poorly conceived.

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“How do you think that bodes for longevity? More importantly love making? The full blown Russianness of her” asks Nikh. As Sebastian had informed him that Daria was fully Slavic and all his other so-called Russian lovers were really Ukrainian Jews.

 

“Referring back to this new lady being a full blown Slav?”

 

“Certainly. Slav is only one letter from you being a slave after all. And you and I know full fucking well that it isn’t the female who’s the slave in these Cold War flings. Those woman walk all over men with their parapsychology and high heels.”

 

Sebastian had come to believe that Nicholai harbored some rather base prejudices against the Russians but had never determined why. Nicholai had come to believe that Sebastian unable to love himself at all found himself enslaved by a series of at least partly damaged dangerous women, Russian and non-Russian alike. Both men had fathers three of four generations removed from pre-Soviet Russia with Jew blood. Both had mothers eight or nine generations American by some distant way of Germany, Ireland, Scotland and famine. Both men share a political conviction perhaps reflective best of being born Petit Bourgeoisie in the leading city of an Empire.

 

Sebastian had not previously thought of how Dasha performed in bed. It was as if he had known that already, being a man. From first sight as she sized him up like a slave on an auction block being told to find a cocktail. She could clearly fuck a man into pieces. That wasn’t up for any speculation in his part. But this was not the immediate attraction, the shapely form and the physical curves, the eyes and crazy in her. There was some great familiarity she bore to someone he used to know. There are poems and songs about that. And it most certainly wasn’t either of his previous Postsoviet partners. He felt a sexual pull, animalistic in nature. But this was a different thing. A deja-vu about loss and longing.

 

“I bet she is most ferocious,” remarks Nikh.

 

An apt word for her, all things considering what transpired on that rooftop but two days ago.

“I can’t stop thinking about her. She’s made more remarkable not by her sheer dangerousness, but by some feeling I have of having seen her before in another time. I speak not about a black out in hat Tavern. I must confide in low volume about other lives and other worlds. A true predator not even posing as a house pet! And the things she confessed to under torture.”

 

“Tortured her did you?”

 

“I did. With my choice words.”

 

“This is your main instrument of torture tovarish.”

 

Tovarish is former Soviet for, comrade. Nikholai is a Russian-Jewish-Irish-German mutt just like Sebastian. Neither of their mothers is even remotely Jewish, though Sebastian’s mother Barbara had gone through some motions to convert to the watered down Reform version.  So the black hats would of course disavow them both as Gentiles. Neither Sebastian nor Nikholai could marry lawfully in Israel neither, but that didn’t bother Nikh as he had no intention of ever going to that colony. Sebastian and Nikh both look enough like “the Russians” but they speak and they think like children of the American Upper Middle class intelligentsia. Both of their fathers are medical professionals; Nicholai’s father is a neurologist and Sebastian’s a dentist. Both fathers are committed Jewish Atheists. Both gentile mothers being American hippy, open minded sorceresses perhaps predisposed the young two men to their communism as they’d be denounced as over and over. But, they were not orthodox communists. They simply were two young men of privilege aligning their lives with the plight of the much trampled masses. They were only about as Jewish as their value for education, but sometimes Sebastian was known to make a rude display of it in the form of Holiday parties.

Generally they did Rosh Hashanah, the New Years; Hanukkah the eight day gambling potato pancake party, Passover the Exodus Fest; and Sukkot the eight day tent party feast. And the rest were all causally omitted.

They had met in their freshman year of High School. Sebastian’s home had been robbed and Nikh had shown up with some weapons and an offer to help him get his honor back. They had never always agreed on anything besides opposition to government, but they were very similar men. In City, culture, genes and habits. Until the year 2010 though, Sebastian has been married to Zionism and Nicholai had been married to Krissy. But things fall apart. Sebastian was returned from his second homeland in cuffs and Krissy ran out, then as stated comply vanished.

And it was perhaps Nicholai’s inner misery over the fate of his marriage and Sebastian’s inner misery over being denied what he had imagined was his homeland or imagined was his destiny; that put them back together; left them open to suggestion. Lead to the expeditions into Haiti and the beginning of the armed struggle.

And let us all be frank that women can give men any number of tremendous suggestions and wield a power that shapes a man’s deeds. Perhaps you could say women, with more love for the world and more investment in its future can direct the violent ego driven nature of men.

And in the past eleven years the Z.O.B. underground accomplished things no one had thought possible. Like organize a newspaper, which organized a general billing strike in EMS, which lead to a trade union of all the Eastern cities via EMS, which build an ambulance guerrilla movement on the island of Haiti; and developed a training blueprint for international medical guerrillas. Which then spread to Cambodia, Burma, Moldova, Russia, Bangladesh, Dominican Republic, Iraq and Syria. The re-organization of the People’s Defense Forces in Brooklyn and the beginning of the bombing campaign. The Siege of Wall Street. The People’s Army now poised to smash the financial, trafficking and prostitution infrastructure of the biggest Apple on Earth.

 

“She didn’t tell me everything, but enough to conclude she is a victim of sorts. Another dark Post-Soviet past to unravel all of her callous behaviors and the smile she hides behind.”

 

They had toppled backwards together toward the precipice and in the free fall he had pulled her with him to collective death only averted because of certain laws of physics. Well it was impossible to truly know, Yelizaveta the young scientist could have explained it but she was long gone these days.

 

Rather than fall into a pit of death, his grabbing on to her altered the trajectory of the plummet. She had made every effort to follow his deadly command and rather than go through with it honorably he had tried to take her with him.

 

How American.

 

“So what the fuck happened on that roof?” Trickovitch asks.

 

“Well toppled and we landed on top of each other half off the edge panting and realizing that she had almost just killed me and I had almost just taken her with me.”

 

“That’s hot. And by hot, I mean real fucking stupid.”

 

“Well, anyway. So hearts racing and looking down into seventeen stories of death she then grabs my hand and bites down into my right shooter.”

 

Sebastian shows the wound. There were a literal ring of red bite marks around his right index finger.

 

“I think I know her from before,” Sebastian finally admits overtly.

 

“Before, eh. Tovarish. You need take more of your medicine.”

 

“No, I mean maybe. But this was different. I am not making chemical electrical mythologies droog, I remember Dasha Andreavna Skorbogatova Maccluskey from before.”

 

“You’ve always been a sick fuck. It gets worse when you low dose or drop dose, or of course wake field and don’t go to sleep. And you need to not let fourth dimensional things interfere with the gathering war effort,” Nicholai replies and lights another menthol smoke.

 

“Well then she calms down and we do this kind of half swoon, half cuddle, half make reevaluation of an enemy. As she did just try and push me off a roof and kill me. Daria tells me that she paid 25,000 dollars to come to America and have an arranged marriage set up. She said she had to work the debt off and the work was highly unpleasant. She asked me if I wanted to take her on date. She told me she knew the Financial District very well and could tell me who and what to hit.”

 

Sometimes Nicholai Trickovitch believes his best friend is mad Hebrew profit and inspiring leader. And sometimes Sebastian is draining.

 

“Don’t project and don’t believe her Russian lies. You always seem to tell a tale always darker than is. The world is evil enough on its own comrade story teller. As for her offer to help? Why? What’s in it for her? I think you should ask where this woman came from, ask why she ended up meeting you at this very stage. You know, right before the biggest job to date. Don’t think with your dick. You’re not her type. What are you holding? What do you have in the bank? The whole thing looks fucked at every angle of evaluation. She tried to kill you.”

 

“She told and made most illicit references to what she did to come here. Perhaps she wants out of who holds her paperwork. Or maybe something else,” Sebastian suggests.

 

“I’m not sure she did anything but prove you’re easier to kill than the rumors suggest, you’d both been drinking and we all know just about anything can come out of a Russian woman’s mouth drunk or sober. We both know all women lie,” Nikh replies.

 

“Just about anything can become true or untrue, dangerous or stunning. A top or a bottom. But given the entirety of the encounter, it seemed she was alluding to her own imprisonments and debts. Whatever their current state might be.”

 

“But are they even true? All women lie and these Soviet women lie highly convincingly as if it were story telling as art or advanced parapsychology. You magnify and exaggerate all suffering to fit in the contexts of your often convoluted radical politics. You make every single woman around you’re your damsel in distress from Capitalism! You’ve done so time and again. I’ve been here for it all. Remember your truest equal partner Hali Vik, the one you quite nearly married? Before you dated and slept with former Soviets in this endless succession you did date and slumber erotically with Americans for a time.”

 

“Nikholai, you’re making something out of prejudices. I had just two partners after Hali. I know what you’re getting at. But really man, there was only Maria and then there was Yelizaveta. And there were a couple short stands in the Stans in between, but they meant so little and felt like so nothing that I all but stopped my fucking for fun. My own hand gave me greater pleasure,” smirks Sebastian.

 

“Hali Vik was the kind of woman you need to find again, steal her back from that Italian hipster she dates or something. Not these cold, possibly morally vacant Russians. They will never understand you and they’ll never join this cause,” says Nikholai, “and just like Maria and Yeli; Daria will reject your ideology, reject your lifestyle and leave you the very minute you become hard to deal with. Which you are. Incredibly hard to deal with,” says Nikh.

 

Nicholai Trickovitch is referring to the only woman that anyone ever thought had made a realistic and well suited partner for Sebastian Adon. All of his friends, comrades and co-officers never went so far as to say “Maria Parsheva is a Russian Geisha”, or “Yelizaveta Perechenova is a condescending, high maintenance Jewish American princess”, but they all said it when the two women broke off the relationships.

 

Hali Vik, Irish Swedish wild rebel Hali Vik was not an easy person either though. Sebastian remembers momentarily the time Hali cut her own risks and he had to get up to Massachusetts and find her doped up in a road side motel. He also remembers the Lowell Job, when they burned down half the Meth Labs in the city and engaged in a running gun fight with the Cambodian street gangs. Which had been a messy over exertion of well-intentioned violence due to the fact that Hali Vik, had gotten herself in a lot of trouble, but Sebastian may well have made up stories in his head too.

 

Part of Sebastian’s condition was that everything was always happening at once in total recall. If he did not take a medicinal salt to lock into the present, he get overwhelmed by the intensity of everything.

 

Well anyway, Hali was safe in Italy now and while there may have been a little bit of torture, murder, barbarism and war utilized to get her there, well nobody was dead and buried in Lowell that didn’t deserve somewhat to be dead, burned and buried in Lowell.

 

Nikholai and Sebastian being best friends talked a lot about their women. But there was one woman that Nikholai new precious little about and that was Emma Solomon, but he was correct that Hali Vik the only American was in fact the only person he might well have married in a normative sense of what that word means. For in the State of Israel, Sebastian was in paper work at least still quite married to Emma Solomon. But bigamy of paperwork is not the same as bigamy taken to the firing mechanisms of the inner heart. Was it these four women that had made Sebastian believe in the struggle as if it were love? No, only Emma did, and fine perhaps also Yelizaveta in a completely separate way. Because she had worked on his body very thoroughly. And he had worked heavy on hers. They were together for only three months when the storm hit, someone broke her leg, someone tried to kill her dangerous father and Sebastian fixed it all. Then was imprisoned. There had many lovers, not an inappropriate amount but a good amount still. Sebastian had well ripped the heart out of their young Polish comrade Joanna who loved him as no other woman had or perhaps could but to whom he felt youthful nothing. But that was decade ago. Sometimes, he felt like all his pain with loving women that couldn’t love him in the same way was due to what he did to Joanna.

 

Nikholai had been married to a Syrian Italian Puerto Rican modal for seven years named Krissyiana, or Krissy for cute. She had wanted very little besides children and she was an agoraphobe; she actually didn’t leave their Midwood, Brooklyn apartment very many times in the ten years they lived together. The product of near ceaseless sexual harassment and advances on the street, she preferred the life of a managed house wife. Her father was rather wealthy and also in the CIA. The parents disowned her for cohabitating with a Jew, Nikholai. Though really he wasn’t very Jewish at all and didn’t even have a Jewish mother, or a Bar Mitzvah. They married early at age 18 and lived together in District Midwood until their late twenties. Adon rarely saw his best man then, but Nikholai was happy playing house, he was domestic in his soul.

 

Eventually it ended, he wouldn’t bear her kids. She didn’t want one she wanted 3 or 4. And he didn’t know if his life wanted to look like that. The money wasn’t great at his job and she was really even a little more homebound than he was which seemed extreme. They bargained and fucked, bargained and cried. Then, they divorced and then she completely disappeared, into smoke. As if her father had managed that which maybe he had. The very last time they saw each other to sign the divorce papers she gave him a parting fuck. He poured olive oil on his cock and put it deep in her ass for as long as he could think to. It was the kind of rough good bye sex from movies, which passionate angry people have in real life. It was the kind of sex Yelizaveta and Sebastian had for a year, since they broke up about once a week for a year. Nicholai doesn’t like to really equate his last encounter with Krissy as sodomy with Italian olive oil. It was a lot more than that. She had completely rejected him and then cut him off.

 

He had been fucking and drinking his way towards oblivion lately. He felt nothing anymore now that Krissy was gone to god only knows where. Self-destruction or the arms of a rich man, who only knew? In all likelihood her father probably just gave her a trust fund and sent her abroad somewhere. But dark minds make up the worst possible scenarios about everything. After Krissy, every single woman Nikh was with looked like a lumpy mommy. Literally, nothing to write home about any single one of them. Women that emasculated him even further.

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Then Nikh put out the past with his cigarette;

“I am only suggesting slowness and loads of needed caution is required are you to obsess, I repeat the word obsess! Further about another woman you meet by the brink of your crazy pursuit of wild partly damaged women. Joanna was great to you but you never felt anything and that destroyed her and perhaps forever cursed you if you believe in the dealings of love. Hali Vik was the closest thing I’ve ever seen to you to being unadulterated happy for a brief fuck of time. But let’s not forget just how much we had to burn down and knock around over that little lady, and that you may have saved her life but she well near killed you. Maria Parsheva was a loyal little Russian geisha, but between various factors that we need not rehash, that too was doomed. Though, on the train, what a little gangster she was! Perhaps you did faster more far reaching organizing so moved as you were by Ms. Yelizaveta Perechenova, but you have such a way of making women into these wild muses and then yourself into tragic fucking art. And to be frank, Yelizaveta completely emptied your bank account. She also humiliated you on a weekly basis by refusing to give the relationship any stability after you got out of prison. All the women you take as your serious partners, well none of them have fathers and all of them of dark pasts. Except Joanna who you completely destroyed. Poor noble woman. Which was rather sad because none of them loved you as fearlessly as she. She was the only one who followed you into the camps remember, into Palestine. He was a quality woman. But, you were bored and cheated on her left and right!”

 

Yelizaveta had a most brilliant father. Bulgarian by nationality. Ukrainian Jew by blood. But he was highly bipolar. About as high functioning Bipolar as a major criminal/ business man can get. When he arrived in America in the 1990’s the ambulance men carried him off all the time, like every other year. Until he had every single paramedic working north of 168th street killed. Had New York Presbyterian Hospital burned down. Made Washington Heights once again since the 1980’s a completely unsafe place to live. So, it went to reason “that the daughter of a bipolar man carried away by ambulance men should perhaps not marry a bipolar ambulance man.”

 

That’s what Sebastian’s condition was also called; Bipolar1.

 

Sound firm and logical now, but not in 2009. After Sebastian secured Yelizaveta during the blizzard and brought her to a hospital for treatment. After Sebastian, Nikholai and some of their men thwarted and Italian mob attack on Alexandre. After Sebastian was taken by the secret police for a month and disappeared into torture land. Well, despite the conflicting recent record of heroism, Yelizaveta’s mother Tanya Marina forbid Yeli and Sebastian to see each other and a woman with only one functional parent will follow the will of her mother in the end. But, Yelizaveta was a little crazy too, and loved Sebastian. So for a year it was on again off again, rough and deep, hard and passionate, presents, secret rendezvous and lots of art, poems, dinners, flowers and rough sex.

 

“Dasha is a continent on to herself. I ask you not compare and contrast my various past uses of love and longing. I can’t even truly say that I know her well enough to speak anything like love to her. I simply felt like I was in the presence of, a lost friend.”

 

He almost said, ‘murdered wife’ but he decided that Nikholai would then really mock him. As everyone had and would that he suggested something like that to.

 

“A damn construct man! Do not mistake your fucking black Israelite training for reality or it will consume you, again,” that’s what Nikh would yell at him in simulations.

 

“You love dangerously and inappropriately. Just remember that Hali Vik was also the closest time, in my memory to you being killed by another man, group of men really over a woman. I suspect that is something you are secretly craving in some reminiscence of an older life.”

 

“Well maybe she hasn’t got a man, per say. Maybe she hasn’t got a dark past at all, maybe it’s just a mind game. I’m very hard to kill as you know. Dasha has already tried.”

 

“You might have easily both died. And truly this time for nothing!”

 

“She claimed to Raphael Ernesto she remembers nothing about that night at all.”

 

“A black out as a reconciliation for your improvised murder? Prosto, so if she had killed you she wouldn’t even have remembered it!”

 

“A black out woman always thinly hides a dark past in my experience.”

 

“I fail to see what, at all, is attractive about her willingness to murder you!”

 

“This isn’t lust. Or love. This is something surreal brother. They say she has been coming to the Mehanata Social Club for a little under three years. Never pays, always leaves alone. Drinks like she needs to part the Red Sea via consumption. I’ve never seen her at the club before. I have no idea how I could have missed a busty, wild thing like her.”

 

“That my friend is only called a trap. She is not what you or we need right now. She is nothing but big tits with trouble.”

 

Sebastian would perhaps not have noticed her because for the past year and a half he had weaned himself off that den of Bulgarian sin and former Soviet misery by convincing himself no woman on earth could be as angelic and pure as his Yelizaveta, his last and most imperfect love.

 

“The trouble is you’re not a hopeless romantic,” continues Nikh getting yet another cigarette fired up, up off the first, “It’s far worse that you’re a real romantic. You usher in the 18th century for the coldest of former Soviet hearts. Some of these poor girls have to learn how to protect themselves from whether you’re sure you’re serious or not. More precisely you need to protect yourself from your projections of love and the cowboy like way you shoot cupid’s arrows off in your artistic yet unpredictable shifting of moods.”

 

“I’m deadly serious with this one, and will not weigh its risks against the others. You are lecturing me about my love life as if I were proclaiming a new love. I am speaking about something else now. I am remembering things that were, shall we say deleted. Mediated away. Washed down with salt! I am telling you not that I plan to try and bed Daria Maccluskey. Of course I will try, that is what men do. I’m trying to tell you that with all the sleep, salt and training in the world; I know that woman from before.”

 

“All of them. You say things like this about all of them. It’s either a blessing or a terrible curse you love early and love often as you do. I suspect a curse upon your own well-being. You seem to enjoy these unstable, untenable trysts as if pursuing the romantic ideal of poorly constructed epics might necessitate your own energies to live a more basic life. Not that anything you do is basic, but I suspect you’d always be happier as a wandering bard than as a loosely grounded resistance fighter. ”

 

“I have no idea anymore, I just feel something in the molecules my friend. I am telling you that what we have been planning might well hinge on this person. I haven’t written a truly good poem in many years. If quite a little good art was made under Yelizaveta it was because she asked for it and returned it and sucked it out of me on her knees. They are all quite different loves. One loves the struggle because one always thinks it noble, or heroic and the cause just and the suffering of our people, all people immense. One loves a woman because she emboldens him. Makes him a real man by showing love as something justifying of our human condition.”

 

“Different Sebastian’s have said differing things on the matter over this decade mind you. You must look yourself in the mirror more often or more deeply. For one thing you’re too lean for my liking and you hair is too short it means you aren’t eating. That is always a giveaway that you are about to do something reckless. Police and imprisonment tend to follow old friend.”

 

“You’re being a Jewish mother now. More praying is perhaps in order too?”

 

“I certainly don’t care what you pray to this week, but you do need to eat more, drink less and certainly not be chasing around a woman you hardly know, who happens to show up now. Three weeks from the job. The biggest job ever. And for the love of god: You just got over Ms. Yelizaveta and were beginning to sleep around more casually, so please just don’t get drunk on any more roof tops. Just be cautious of what a wild woman you are dealing with. And please, whatever you do, just don’t tell her you love her until you can pronounce her last name. And have done the homework on the skeletons in her closet. This is a Russian fucking woman after all. They play no games, not with one damn thing. We could sort of vouch for Maria and Yeli, but who is this bitch? Seriously, who the fuck is Daria?”

 

Nikholai then asks Sebastian quite specifically, “What really happened up on that roof?”

 

Sebastian blows out his smoke.

“I died and was immediately reborn, like the last few thousand times,” quietly responds Adon puffing his cigarette, “we toppled to our very deaths. We died in a very inglorious real way. Stupidly and drunk. But, miraculously we then awoke panting in the alley way, holding each other’s near death hand. This all happened in the blink of an eye. Then we got up and I dusted her off and we walked out as if nothing happened. She gave me her number and I put her in a cab.”

 

“And you think you see the soul of your dead wife in her, is that the story?”

 

“Nikholai please do not judge me. If I’m so fucking crazy why is anyone following me into this war?”

 

“Because we’re all crazy. You’re just persistent,” Nikh replies.

 

But Nikholai Trickovitch does not judge him for too long because he too knows what it is like to bear forced separation from one you love. He too is gifted with long memory and knows what Sebastian lost that brought him to revolution road. He simply is aware of something that Sebastian Adon is not because Sebastian is at least partly sleeping while Nikh is completely awake.

 

A full blown uprising is but three weeks away. And that enemy, the Oligarchic collectives, the criminal enforcers, the secret police, the Federal police and many other adversarial elements know that the Z.O.B. has helped organize it, and keeps its factions coordinated.

From which one could infer that the enemy will be moving in on any of the known leadership. And although security culture is tight as drum; Sebastian is a known operator no matter how many faces or deaths he passes through. And that there is no reason in the world why one of the leaders, albeit even one “put to sleep” for his own safety should be getting into a tryst with some new dangerous Russian blondie. Nicholai knows what she is. Not a honey trap, a bonnified hunter killer. Who in all likelihood, coming out of nowhere at this precise time; is undoubtedly an agent of something terribly wicked this way come. The Mossad, maybe, or even far worse, the inner most Secret Police of the regime. Those ruthless agents setting up for murder or total disappearance all who resist the iron heel of the Euro-American Oligarchy. That grand cartel of power and plutocracy. But Jerusalem and her agents would certainly try and murder them, though Nicholai taking in the whole story.

Firstly because of the secrets they had stolen from Israel. And those they now planned to capture shortly from Wall Street under the guise and distraction of the uprising.

That Night, Scene 2

 

 

 

 

Scene Two

Off the coast of Nicaragua

2

 

Far below the waves of the black blue Caribbean, a vast underwater leviathan of a craft named the “Black Mermaid” hulks its way gradually toward the surface. The vessel is forty miles off the Eastern coast of Nicaragua, sloshing and bashing the water. It cascades aggressively. All of these things happen in depths of the sea and black of the night as its crew makes way toward “New Shoreham”; a tiny settlement on Block Island, a rebel enclave off the state of Rhode Island in the United States of America. Which for this aging Soviet era refurbished Akula nuclear submarine, is about a fort night away.

 

Says Kudzai, a Shona Warrior, biochemist and alleged member of the Trinidadian Special Forces, “A quite stupid name for a town overtaken by the simple name of it’s own island,” and he knows about such things being a Trinidadian. Knows about proud yet isolated things from being born in Zimbabwe. Kudzai- which certainly isn’t his real name is inherently skilled in both second guessing postcolonial island nation nomenclature and storming small seaside towns.

 

Adelina Anatolievna Blazhennaya with her soft auburn hair tied behind her head has just graduated from a prestigious Sharashka in Seattle, Washington. This particular Bureau of Experimental Design was paid for by Chinese direct investment and therefore into her recent studies incorporated the most elite techniques for parapsychology cultivated over 4,500 years of Middle Kingdom. As well as approaches to shamanism for those aspects of the Mezzo-Americans that were typified in the studies of Carlos Castaneda. She’s got developed fourth dimensional powers and uses them seamlessly. These days for money.

Shortly after graduation she took the instance of her America paperwork husband’s ceaseless infidelities, if not also aggressive homosexual tendencies, to promptly divorce him and renegotiate her new contract with the higher authorities to which she came under recent employ.

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She’s now doing her make-up, red lips on child like features. She is very agile looking, big brown eyes and light cedar brown hair. She hasn’t aged in a decade. She looks through the mirror into the eyes of Emma Solomon, her employer and commanding officer watching her from the rusty portal door.

            “The greatest trouble with Russian men is that they are animals, though quite good at being men in all other regards were we all measured by our fuck and our fight, our bite and our valor. The greatest trouble with Americans is that while good at being gentle, in many regards they fail at being men for they are quick to make and break promises,” reads Emma Solomon from a book with a grey and black leather binding. She’s quoting something, not speaking in proverbs and jib-jab.

 

“I have never read his writing deeply, but I hear from others that he makes some pretty sweeping cultural generalizations throughout his various novels. Many of which are harder on Americans than is fair and certainly reflect that he did indeed grow up here and not somewhere else,” Adelina says while painting her face for war.

“And I don’t think you can lump us and them into simple gender roles, mentalities and generalizations,” Adelina adds.

 

“I’ve read them all,” says Emma Solomon, “he’s my husband after all, and they get more bleak as the serial progresses. The poems I cannot stand I have no idea how that little traitor whore got so many poems.”

 

“I’ve never read his poems either.”

But, that was an un-truth by futurist omission, for Adelina would indeed soon read poems made just for her. This was Sebastian’s device, his means of being more dishonest about his goals in this life. And she did know that already. Adelina could see the future in her dreams as well as her coffee. Clearly and concisely. Congruent and in parallel time space- not some foggy Hollywood acid flashback.

 

“You’re missing nothing. Think hypersexual communist Dr. Seuss with a slight swagger of Mayakovsky,” Emma says.

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“Well I think highly of his contributions to the resistance. I could give a damn about his artistic abilities.”

 

“I didn’t marry him for art,” Emma says.

“Husband? Is that really true he’s your husband?”

“Well a long story is a long story, but suffice to say a need for documents was once involved, on his part.”

 

No one marries for love anymore, just for Golden tickets.

 

“Ah. Well that doesn’t concern me either.”

 

“You’re a wonderful creature dear Comrade Blazhennaya, your work will not be so hard. We have to identify a chain of small cells his cadre has built up and down the Eastern coast. I will see to that, but you have a sensitive task. You must make him love you and trust you. Mostly with a mobile phone and a radio, but you’ll have to engage him in a variety of emotions, and positions. He will probably try and put himself inside you several times- lovingly and also uncomfortably.”

 

“I know my job, tovarish.”

 

“My husband our target has a lot of potential to kill a lot of people. And get a lot of people killed

 

“So I’ve read.”

 

“The Oligarchy knows the general date for their uprising. I mean how could they not? There is a camera in every bedroom and a listening device in every pocket.  Numerous operators were compromised due to sloppy work on the American end, not his fault, but it’s locked down tight as a drum over there.”

 

Tight as a drum?” asks Adelina, though trained a linguist and a parapsychologist she sometimes misses the vernacular which comes out of hip hop.

“The resistance movement has evaded the American State Security apparatus for twenty years. Everything is going according to plan.”

 

“Or, according to prophesy?” asks Adelina who can converse with the higher power when she feels she must, but trusts completely in the Baraka, the divine charisma of Emma Maya Soraya Solomon, the hidden candidate for Messiah of their generation. Known in Jewish cults as the Tzadikk Ha Dror.

 

Emma nods and flexes in her dark green uniform and then places her left hand on Adelina’s shoulder.

 

“Little darling, just stay out of the New York City.”

 

“What’s in New York?”

 

“The end of the world or the world to come,” she replies.

 

Adelina looks at her bulky satellite watch made by an Israeli company called “Superior Alien Military”. In seven days’ time she and her hastily although systematically  assembled unit will be launched from this briny abyss via a hermetically sealed fast boat, and in that electric coffin motor boat they will then land on Block Island and be taken to the aged but hippy Hygeia Hotel; given some new identities and “Americanized in the greater Boston area”.

 

“I would like to examine something that Avinadav and Sebastian wrote in the summer of 2001, before my capture and crucifixion, before the infamous martyr operation which killed so many at the Millennium Theatre,” says Emma taking out a grey leather bound manuscript:

 

“I’m not afraid of anything you know,” states Adelina to Emma.

 

“I know you’re not, my fearless one. That’s why you were selected to keep him under control. His mind is now in a dark and treacherous place. He’s been in the field for too many lives. He’s losing his mind. They have taken him out of objective reality to torture him again.”

 

“I will not fail you Commander Solomon,” Adelina says, “He always has loved me and always will though he hasn’t met me yet.”

 

“I know my little sister,” she smiles, “And when it gets crazy in American Babylon, which it will, you can rely on the rest of your unit. Oleg the Bear, Yuliana Romanova, and Mr. Kudzai are, well suffice to say we don’t use anything but the best players when we’re this close to being forced off the edge of the game.”

 

“We’ve never been this close to the edge before,” Adelina replies, “we’re trying not to lose, our, heads.”

 

Emma winks, Adelina just dropped a blighted hip hop lyric reference with a straight face. Then she did this little famous victory dance jig she always does when winning. Then both of these powerful women went back to being calm, cool and collective.

That Night, Scene 1

Scene 1

Scene One

New York City

Women boxing on a roof, 1938 (2)

Scene One

New York City

 

Blast the damn heat, for my brow drips. For in New York it gets so hot in the late of August, a swelter box, most people of any means flee to their dachas in Strong Island.

 

Dawn is now rising, breaking and expanding on the low roof of an ancient print house that’s been—at some time in the past hundred years— converted to a seventeen story cooperative. 140 Nassau Street, District Financial. On the 17th story roof deck, Sebastian Vasyli Adon, our antagonistic protagonist, tells old danger tales over a bottle of illegally imported Basque white wine.  A fake gold watch dangles off his wrist as he enunciated his wild tale with his hands, even though it is known that he is only one half a Yid. Covering his dark brown hair, cut short for Summer, is a brown scally cap.

 

Behold the faces of off duty urban partisans and gypsies who refuse the gift of sleep!

 

Slim and enthusiastic Europeans Mary Lia Monteleone and Victoria Christiana Lynch Contreras snap off photos and clink glasses bantering on care free flirtations and intoxications.

 

Mary Lia takes off all her clothing for various colors of money.   “I’m a dancer,” she tells her parents back in the Cayman Islands by way of Italy and France. In another life she’ll hopefully take up photography, which “pays a little less but has more dignity” she claims.

 

Rafael Ernesto Lynch Contreras, a baby-faced Peruvian revolutionist with flowing black hair, with an increasing volume of white and grey streaks, is the husband of Victoria. He sits with his dear friend Sebastian and a ravishingly beautiful Russian devotchka named Daria Andreavna Skorobogatova and attempts a boozy mediation as the two do increasingly evil eye each other viciously across a low wooden table. The stare down, which has endured now for the past hour between Sebastian and Daria is punctuated by accusations of impropriety.

 

Daria has big beautiful crazy person eyes the color of the Caspian Sea. She has an unnerving look, a cross between a size up and seductive stare, a dismissive dart of her eyes to cut men down. She is a stunning high octane mix of wild blonde partisan with her azure silver eyes darting between warfare and wanting; and the bright eyed curiosity of a child in a large affluent glass and steel playground. She is wrapped tightly in a light brown leather jacket.

 

Sebastian’s eyes are always sad. An auburn hazel slowly becoming green with the progressing sleep deprivation that is something of a lifestyle for him. Ernesto is their introducer and is a frivolous womanizing artist tamed as of lately by his government marriage to Victoria. Because liquor is so loose at the Mehanata Social Club, people sometimes have to introduced and reintroduced several times in different states of mental chemistry.

 

Sebastian is a dark brunette normally clad in a tattered brown leather jacket and pleather scally cap that none of his lovers ever want him to wear. Tonight he is in a white linen suit, hair done Dominican with products in his hair. It’s not his usual look. Normally he looks like a handsome grown up paperboy, but tonight a Latino drug dealer.

 

The reason he is dressed like that is because prior to his arrival at the Mehanata Social Club about seven hours prior he had been at an all-inclusive White Party, a river cruise of wild Latin salsa-based gallivanting around the Isle of Man.

 

Daria for reasons more than bust and beauty is capable, knows Ernesto well, of putting out some siren call to which many men have smashed their ships. She quite literally humors no man for any more than one dance. Belligerencies that pour from her mouth when intoxicated, well, they cause fights. She captures much attention anytime she steps in the room and onto a dance floor. Her style is quite Post-soviet in its cut and colors. There is well composed sashay to her movements to and from the bar all night.

 

An affectionate, overly familiar rendering of the Russian name Daria is Dasha, and this is what Sebastian has been calling her all night, which is perhaps a little too friendly amid those who have just met. They had been introduced months earlier, but both had been too drunk to remember. Despite both being regulars at Mehanata for years, the two had never crossed paths before. She is never cold on the outside, but this morning she’s provoked and behaving badly to the host.

 

Sebastian said “don’t smoke in my father’s house,” so she went and smoked in his father’s house, because that was her way. So he yanked the fucking smoke from her pouty lips and threatened to throw her into a cab back to Brighton Beach. Then he “classlessly” handed her forty bucks for that cab, even though it’s really a sixty to seventy dollar ride, and more if you tip. Which is against all Russian cultural context, to tip a chornay driver or take a man’s money and walk out and get your own cab.

 

She debased him best she could as a “useless man living off his parent’s wealth.”

And said “never in my life have I been so offended by the callous, pompous behavior of an American dog such as you!”.

 

“Less than a dog!” she had proclaimed. And the other late night-early morning Social Club regulars sort of stood about in silence, out of annoyance and also out of inebriation. But, Daria took her time. Intermittently insulting Sebastian. And Ernesto tried to calm her down and Maxim Bender, a Muscovite got annoyed and left on his own. Sebastian, to show he wasn’t a pushover to this bombshell, star lit scarlet that no one probably ever said no to, he feigned outrage about the cigarette which barely mattered, just showed total disrespect. Who the fuck did this bitch think, she was. That rolled about his head.

 

“I’m gonna call you a cab,” he said. And then she knew she’d won anyway.

 

He did all that, also because he’d been drinking a lot. And he’s not always the gentleman that he presumes himself to be. Letting any person show such appalling disrespect was late night cheapening. Yet, because she was pretty stunning and pouty and her heels took too long for her to fasten, in effort of perestroika he asked her to stay and then they all ended up on the roof to catch the sunrise.

 

Then the dawn break on Mary Lia, Victoria, Daria, Sebastian and Ernesto. And sometime just after that a dangerously insensitive story gets told. And Dasha is again beyond appalled. Sebastian removes his cap and says,

 

“The job, and operation; call it whatever you want; involves calling on high end prostitutes whose numbers one acquires in the association of men of your former Soviet back ground, mostly at the Banya or restaurants Wall Street guys hang out.”

 

Banya is Russian for bathhouse. In the past few years Sebastian has been bathing with Russians regularly. He loves the way music sounds in Russian. Though he knows under three dozen phrases and cannot even barely read Cyrillic.

 

Dasha watches his words take form. Her eyes just peer right into you, and they are not always as happy as the completely convincing smile she plasters on so regularly for photos. That is acquired art in itself. Either they are blue or they are grey or they are silver when sleep deprived, but they are not the eyes of a spectator.

 

“So shortly after they arrive and give you some fictitious cover, you take a coat and as they walk in and settle on a price that will involve no touching at all. Then, you tell them that they’re being filmed and recorded, but that you’re not a cop, or whoever else dangerous, you’re not there to entrap them. You tell them you’re an abolitionist.”

 

Puff, puff passes along this ill-conceived venture.

 

“You tell them to call down to the pimp’s driver, and say your John is layered out.

 

“Tiger-blooded,” notes Raphael Ernesto.

 

“Then you make tea, like advanced civilizations do. You tell them a story, a personal tale about why you are not a dog or a pig, and how you came to hate this line of work because you had loved someone forced into it. You convince them to take and perhaps disseminate to other persons a number to arrest traffickers and pimps, also to get trafficked and victimized people the resources they need to escape. They get half the job cash for nothing but a number and a way out. They get a number on a card, you ask them to put it in their phone. Eventually, the poor soul either will pass the number or report it directly to the pimps, but you force a violent hand and spread the knowledge that there is in fact a networked way to escape slavery. It’s cheaper and more effective than lobbying or political routes, we must go directly to the slaves and assure them there is safe way out. The next stage then is to get volunteers into brothels to feign cardiac arrest and call ambulances and firemen in as reinforcements. It basically has be understood as major disruptive campaign against all elements of the sex trade. ”

 

Daria’s jaw drops.

 

“They would kill you just for that,” Dasha spits out, “for bullshit man! For a lot less than bull shit. A number! I spit on your American number. On your insulting low grade bullshit that changes nothing. You will die, they will kill those dear to you, and nothing at all will be fixed about anything, not one woman will get out” retorts Dasha.

 

She’s not a debutante, not a true New Russian here to hunt. She has all the regality of being born Slavic, but perhaps outside the great dividing highway that ring roads that loop Moscow separating the have everything’s’ from the have nothings or have only little something’s. Being born so radiantly beautiful and tough and Russian after the supposed triumph of American Capitalism has left her charming, but more capable of fighting. Daria is far from Russia with love, rootless and floating in glittery fairy tales that don’t expel the hardships of her new country adopted via an arranged marriage for papers.

 

“I am not afraid to die for a thing I believe in sweetness, I am not afraid to try and save only one life at the cost of all my American privileges” he flatly retorts in half-cocked rhetoric.

 

“He has such American beliefs!” She mocks.

 

Ernesto always has applauded his radical specifications and foreign adventures over the past three years he’s known Sebastian. He’s done his initial trench time, agrees Ernesto. Palestine, Israel, Egypt, Ayiti, the worst assignments in Europe too and the street battles to occupy the District last fall that went so bloody poorly playing out in split skulls and tear gas all over national television.

 

“I guess you’ve never had to work for anything completely or work to keep something you fought hard for, so you give away most easily. Your life seems so easily offered, to take if you ask me,” Daria snaps at his bait.

 

“Hey, lady, you are insulting to my dear friend and our gracious host,” Ernesto interjects. “This man, you have no idea what he’s been through to back up these words.”

 

A few too many baton cracks in the Gulliver. A few too many months adding up to several years inside uncomfortable facilities. Sebastian’s given lots of militant speeches but never done any violent actions with his hands. He’s piloted an ambulance for the Fire Department for four years in all the city’s worst districts. He has traversed the Levant organizing against the occupation, the American occupation of Israel and the Israeli Oligarchy’s occupation of Palestine. He’s told people of their human rights over and over, until not over, and over again. He delivered a baby once, helped do it many more times.

 

Dasha could care less.

 

She was appalled by the rude cigarette yank and further appalled by his cynical bourgeoisie story about call girls passing itself off as completely vain and stupidly incompetent activism. She only stayed because she doesn’t have a home that’s enjoyable to return to at this hour; an hour away in the Russian ghetto of Brighton.

 

She offers to kill him. He obliges her. Thinks she’s mostly bluffing.

 

“I’ll kill this over privileged American hypocrite,” she thinks. A civic duty to my new country and old country too. Mostly, she maintains a mighty level of the not giving of a shit. She’s also on an off day. She only remembers every other night out when she drinks. The rest of them a blur black haze punctuated with irregular black and blue marks.

 

“From falling down stairs,” she claims to her keeper.

If she kills him, the tragedy, as far as a memory, will belong to no one. Maybe there’s some demon in her. Maybe she’s just blacked out a few hours ago and won’t remember any of this.

 

Ernesto implores her to be more, “Suave, Suave”. To be more calm and “Tranquillo.”

 

The famous Peruvian revolutionist is now a New York low key digital disk jockey at the Social Club and cannot modulate Sebastian’s posturing and Dasha’s swaggerous, murderous taunting. Now, they’re waving invisible pistols at each other’s’ faces like wild Cold Warriors.

 

Ernesto then urges Victoria and Mary Lia to intercede on some level of Feminine mystique but they are long drunk too, now taking lots and lots of pictures of the Sunrise hitting all these steel and glass towers. And, the two young women have seen “Dasha” make a properly rude scene before. They’ve seen her throw drinks in men’s faces and punch men in the face. They detach from this drama for art; when men, “get smart”.

 

“When men get smart with me I cut them apart,” Daria lives by that.

 

The job of any and all men as far as she is concerned is to amuse or please her by makings sure her drink is never empty. That life is a series of taken care of attractions, to make her life easier. If one is well formed and handsome and he does enough work then, well, you know. Sebastian has failed on all fronts in his utterly crass, self-serving arrogance.

 

“So you’re gonna kill me or just threaten on about it?” says Sebastian secretly hoping she might actually kill him, there’s a sickness in his soul you know. He hasn’t felt so alive in a moment anyway since the last girl ripped his heart out with a dagger in a long game of masochistic sex coupled with co-dependent longing. That’s a thing.

 

There was nothing healthy about his love life ever, which was a fact.

 

Even the use of the word “love” bids a kind of shame inside him for perpetually having to beg back affections from those he’d thought he’d die for. A year ago his previous paramour Yelizaveta finally cut him off. The struggle took its heavy toll over the years boxing with monsters and holding such hopes for humanity, always repeatedly underwhelmed by human actions. His Icarus sky walled expectations, his place in the chain of command remaining so unclear. Only “the existential problems of an overly privileged first world revolutionist”, as Yelizaveta used to declaim. His last six months have been an abyss of medical studies on how to beat back death with drugs and electricity, and small talk.

 

Something like that.

 

A veritable blur of a broken dreams to lay down his irrational struggle and pursue medicine, choose life over vain pretenses as a prelude to inglorious martyrdom. His life has taken a turn for the worst now several times “believing in things”. “Being a hopelessly real romantic.”

 

His studies are narrower now.

 

He is enrolled in a one year paramedic upgrade program. He had thought to jump country, apply for work abroad. He was ordered to hold post in the city and keep working. Lt. Moshe Klein, the orthodox Jewish lieutenant on the grave yard shift of Station 31 Cumberland outpost, a sympathizer of the resistance arranged his hasty enrollment in the paramedic academy of Methodist Hospital on Kings Highway.

 

Or perhaps better focused on saving the individual life here and there; not the world in its totality. Which no one asked of him or expected that he deliver on.

 

His weekends are soaked in vodka and with wine, sometimes one poured in the other. And the booze keeps his eyes closed to certain things. And now he’s drunk now again. Acting poorly in the company of a bellicose Russian woman, yet again.

 

Kill me for the sake of it, he hopes. It’s what the world would surely not mind all too much. Drunken thinking of an angry man who’s been hit in the head a few times.

 

“So you’re gonna kill me or just threaten on about it?”

Absofuckinglutely,” she replies.

 

 

 

 

And then before drunken Ernesto who is now very, very drunken, and also very, very tired, after spinning all night can talk them down they’re up a ladder up to the 18th story, more of a top, Easterly deck on the 17th story roof with a deep and deadly edge of death into an 18th floor down plummet with the Gehry Building looking out, a million cubicles of an upper class aquarium. Like a Sorcerer’s tower of steel rising up to the East at them by proximity of less than three times an alleyway.

 

A great setting for a hastily arranged assisted suicide.

 

They’re now really boxing. Dasha is properly in a boxing school. She strikes at him hard then harder. “Die you fucking Amerikanski, you damn wasted one”, she thinks.

 

Ernesto and Lia and Victoria who are always so very stylish, now have stopped their art making over white wine and look up with some very now real possible concern. Not a plane or a mob on a train could have killed him so far. Not spy agencies or police forces with much bigger better threatening fish to fry. A beautiful woman might get close enough this morning.

 

“You don’t want to live here forever?” she taunts him.

 

Their scrappy boxing and taunting has them perilously near the edge to the pit.

The roof deck is a glamorous lit up garden trip into the sweet hereafter where one might fall dead on to the front porch of New York’s highest high rise residential where the rent is now 40,000 American a month on the month before. The pit is just a dead drop, it’s a Fire code ordinance for building in late 19th century, a ventilation shaft for the 19 real story print house now a new riche-intelligentsia-queer-Jew coop on the district’s northern most edge.

 

She is striking out him and he is just taking her hits and then, then it comes.

 

“Hit me to kill me! Just knock me into that fucking pit and make a good inglorious end to it all,” he swagger demands in bellow.

 

The most beautiful woman he has ever seen is just a side story in his own mind to his own tragedy. She cocks back and doesn’t blink.

 

Dasha hits him with one hard jab and he tumble crumbles backwards into the abyss. Kill me he beckons and then, she tries to really kill him.

 

As he plummets back. He grabs out and yanks her back with him in a tumble off the very ledge of the roof, plummeting together toward a certain death in the alley way eighteen stories below.