Fire on the Mountain
(How the great revolt began in four ACTS)
Adler S Walt
Dedicated to: Daria Andreavna Skorobogatova
First Edition Completed January 1st, 2017
In Brooklyn, New York, U.S.A.
Sometimes, old friend, I cry from own weakness. I bash my Jew face against various mirrors around town angered by my own lack of force, lack of seed, and lack of ability to carry my band more truly into glorious and successful battle. I beat my frail fists on concrete walls which always win! I ask my God why it untrusted me with anything at all. For I am so small and so unable it seems to be a good fighter, an adequate lover, or a good leader, or a good son, or a good husband to Adelina, a good much of anything. I started the game with such a strong position but have not leveraged that to advance my people and cause, even protect those I loved the most!
And then I remember my actual role, not the role my mad ego ascribes. I am but one single partial partisan. One isolated man with such true friends.
I am commanding, a funny word “commanding”, more appropriate term coordinating for can one even give orders to a volunteer? A force that numbers at any given time no more than ten to maybe twenty women and men. And no God nor man nor foreign government gave us marching orders; well at times a Russian woman gave me some directions, but only when at most desperate and bleak junctures, I had to no council to turn to. But, I brought almost all this chaos upon my house unaided! But this is hardly a wide conspiracy. But looking into my own soul I am not doing this for God or man, I am not simply avenging my losses, nor am I simply working off a duty to act. No, no; I am self-propelled and highly lucky. I am doing this because my eyes see fire. I am doing this because I have seen the view from the top of the Mountain, I have seen the killing fields too. I have a great empathy with my kind. I wish good to triumph over callous and well planned evil.
And the responsibilities that were impressed on me by the old leadership, they were small bits. And I say to myself that if our little band with no weapons and no training and no funding and the protection provided us only by our passports and various skin tones could do so much! Still we did accomplish a range of small things in the Americas and beyond. We took over buildings, and organized demonstrations, built unions, operated a substantial underground press. If we could build youth brigades and lay cells across four continents; if we could operate clandestine supply chains, raise tens of thousands in equipment and supplies, conduct hundreds of underground political trainings, infiltrate major city civil service organizations, if we could smuggle activists and trainers into distant countries uninvited and opposed by government. If we could do all of this with no outside support and do it with keeping all our partisans out of long term prison, and have only buried three men in seventeen years of war under questionable circumstances. Well perhaps we are all still young and the war shows no sign of being over. Perhaps we have a small latent talent for freedom fighting and if not killed or imprisoned could with a little guidance grow more professional.
And we have not killed one single person in seventeen years, in fact we have with our own hands saved the lives of thousands and counting.
“I’ve always said he has a fucking ton of potential! For good, for self or for evil, wherever his own heart ultimately sends him,” Daria once declared.
So, really as was explained to me then in 2011 before the uprising in Brooklyn by my confidant Dasha Andreavna; I could either surrender, collaborate or be utterly destroyed. But as she gauged my nature was highly American, she guessed correctly I would never tolerate a life of collaboration, so thus death or some impossible victory were the only moves coming.
I have been imprisoned twenty times. My brothers and sisters have never allowed them to take me for long. Each time they have chained me to beds, administered electricity, loaded me with drugs, asked millions of stupid questions to attempt to make me alter my perspective, denounce my own logic. I have observed members of the band lose their very homes and their livelihoods and their freedom and their health. I have seen men thrown through Plexiglas glass windows. We have been held in cages and also tortured. The deaths of McGaffey, Becker and Black were all sudden and violent and unexplained. I remember little Paul behind bars, I remember harassment and humiliation of Comrade Vik, I remember how much was sacrificed vainly in the name of this struggle. This struggle which absorbs my beingness as though it were the love of a woman, but I am a zealot. I am not good for anything but this. I am in love with my entire people and I have resolved that it would be better to be killed, to lose my privileges of skin and class, than to live in a world where a tiny vile few make the lives of the many, the lives of all I know and love a wretched grinding torture. Truly a half-life.
I cry sometimes, no longer in the presence of any others. Dasha mocked me so each time I failed to be a man. I cry because the horror is so vast and the injustice so great. And I have but ten to twenty partisans, several with wives and children. I worry that I am not going to be able to shoulder this struggle, that I lead my closest to sedition and doom. I worry I have not the moral fortitude, the calm patience of humble leadership, the organizational skills the funds we will need, the weapons, the uniforms, the petrol, the Planes, the will. For I am a man and I am seduced sometimes by wanting more good life, wanting to walk away. This is not your fight, she said, no one asked you to struggle!!
Friends, they torture me once a year. They tell me I have an unstable mind. They drag me away over and over and over again. I am grateful for such friends as you, who refuse to accept surrender. Who know that we can win the war. I wanted to tell you all, see what we do with just ten women and men. You have that many fighters too. Here we all are at the top of the mountain, assembled in the ghettos encircling the Isle of Man.
I loved her so much. Maybe only one or two of you know what I’m talking about. They took from me the only thing a man should care about.
I’m thankful for the resistance. I’m thankful for our little Otriad in Brooklyn. For the cells in Chicago, Philly, Baltimore and DC. The underground in Moldova, Cambodia, Haiti and occupied Israel. Thankful for Commander Reed in Mosul, Commander Bonhomie in Port Au Prince. Inspired deeply by the teachings of Solomon and DeBuitléirs. I love my family and my wife, I hope this is the year we go pro.
She is a million miles away, but she can hear me. She can see me. She liked me better before I found communism, liked me better before I rediscovered my religion. She even liked my used suits better than the grey uniform I wear now.
I raise glass to the East, for there somewhere out there I hope she is waiting for me, waiting for us to win. I raise my glass, I look my men and women in the eyes when I toast, “Long live the resistance, God protect the blood line of the prophets and the Meshiach and the Mahdi. God keep us moving along the straight path, not the path of those who are cowards, or those who have been lost and lead astray.”
For those of you who are joining us from home, for those listening from the trenches, from the fields or from the big house, or as servants in the towers. This is just a love song.
A Listing of our Primary & Lesser Characters
ACT I: That Night
Set in New York City
Sebastian Vasyli AdonAEV, a paramedic adventurer. †
Dasha Andreavna Skorobogatova, a wild Russian courtesan. †
Capt. Mickhi Dbrisk, a righteous Jamaican gangster.
Capt. Watson Entwissle, Mullato Ayitian gun slinger †
Capt. Nicholas Rosetree Trickovitch, a private detective. †
Siegfried Sassoon, Cuban out of work actor.
Sasho Alexandre Dmitrievich Perchevney; the Great Bulgarian Oligarch.
Tania Magda Dimcheva Perechenova; Sasho’s wife, queen and Chief of Operations.
Slavi Dmitrievich Perchevney, Bulgarian enforcer & Sasho’s brother.
James White & Irish; retired cop/ Bratva enforcer†
James Behemoth Pérezes; Shapeshifting Ecuadorian-Bratva enforcer
Justin Toomey O’Azzello, Mehanata General Manger †
Amelia Lewis Monteleone, a friendly French translator.
Adelina Blazhennaya, sorcerous of Chelyabinsk
Alan Oleg Leondovich Medved, a former Soviet photographer.
Kudzai David Darious Chikwamba, a Shona warrior and biochemist. †
Yulia Romanova, a fine Russian modal, informant & delta.
Dmitry Khulushin Koch, a lesser Oligarch, Prince of the Eastern American territories.
Raphael Ernesto Lynch Contreras; a Peruvian disk jockey & guerrilla leader. †
Victoria Christina Contreras Lynch; the artistic wife of Rafael. †
Tanya T-Bird Tall Flame Luv, a healer and a Maagi for the Resistance.
Emma Solomon, Tzadikk ha Dror
Mara Fitzduff, Fenian commander of the resistance Communications section.
Avner Mikhail Kreminizer; a Lithuanian Israeli Pararescueman of unit 669. †
Set mostly in New York City, 2011ce
It is not our intention that we should compose such an indictment of the Oligarchy that our reader throws down the manuscript and declares him or herself a revolutionist, for cruel experiences of this world and living in it breed more revolutionaries daily then our pens can expend on poetic syllables.
Instead we wished to put to paper an ethical argument that condemns our oppressors, clearly states their means of oppressive control and thus allows the reader to take what actions thou wilt to participate in the abolition of our collective slavery. We posit like others before us that the system in which we live is exploitative to all within; top and below. We declare that the World System and the Oligarchic Collectives that operate it are but agents of a vast killing machine; sentencing us all to toil ceaselessly; suffer long and die early while they glut themselves on ill acquired wealth.
With that indictment we ask the reader a Talmudic question; ‘a sane person in an insane world is what?’ And there by a conscious person in a sleeping world has what duty ? And furthermore, if the readers cannot be moved by the humble words of this theorist narrator, be moved then by atrocities that are carried out daily paid for in the taxes levied from the sweat of your work and the blood of your fellow humans.
We remind you as have others before me, it is not a mere revolution we are fighting. It is battle for the survival of our species and is still an open question of who will win, for this is a very old war began long before us and will end long after we are gone. But, far more specifically by what conduct, what actions are appropriate in the face of such a holocaust to ensure that there is still a just and equitable world for our children and grandchildren to inherit.
The victory of the resistance movement is question of consciousness. The victory of the Oligarchy is a death sentence for all.
My name is Sebastian Vasyli Adon. I do believe some of that to still be the name I was born with, but now I have multiple names. In the dead of winter, seven years into the Great Revolt; I was captured along with my gun slinging Ayitian partner Watson Entwissle after a firefight in the icy heart of Moscow. We were taken three parts-alive by the Russian Federal Security Bureau and then turned over to their inner most secret police for a most highly spirited interrogation.
They ripped out poor Watson’s eyes; then broke most of my ribs as then beat us both for many days and soon I was pissing out blood!
I will begin by saying that no matter what “changes” or revisions may occur in depiction of my narration that the world changed forever in a very specific way on the 1st of January 2012. Of course in the constellation of dates there cannot be one discovered moment of alteration total; but instead linkages of great historic movements; migrations toward our human evolution out of darkness and barbarity and inequality; into our natural way.
How does one chart such movements; such milestones when they are but realized memes? Realized intuitions that came that pass as world events based on total boldness.
I have not the arrogance to claim a high rank in the revolution. Or the audacity to claim that my role was of some significant aspect for I was but a staff sergeant in vast chain of command were the ranks of war to be applied to the ranks of those who fight for peace. I will have you the conscientious readers to know that I am a poet. Yes a poet; once who delights in making words tell stories; who if left to my own devices would have been happy as a small farmer and passionate lover of my wife and the word; had not the violence swept upon my lands.
Did you know that when the Oligarchy cannot conquer a rebellion they conquer its narrative? Did you know that the truth is not ever truly known except by those who saw a thing with their own eyes? How did it begin? Who was the leadership? What were the demands! These are oligarch questions because the small man or woman; the humble ones; those who submit themselves to a higher power and therefore love life; the children of the believers; we do not beg a political context for the world; one is thrust upon us.
Later on when I was asked or should I say interrogated with beatings, drugs and electricity why I joined the “Great Revolt” and became one its so-called “leaders” they asked me many times to declare the moment when I embraced these “zealous beliefs” or by what life event wedded my totality to this cause. They pestered me with these questions though throughout the events I had played no part except as a member of a small medical detachment putting our meager resources to good use.
They, they being the agents of the Oligarchy referred me to a poem published in one of the newspapers of the underground press I had submitted. It was only once piece of the “evidence” against me, but they claimed my role larger than I ever knew it to be.
I am able to say that I understand the world differently because my memory is longer; because I read books about the past, because I enjoy reading and because as a poet, a sensitive soul I delight in writing down my base human ideas and sharing them; making common cause with other suffering souls.
They would beat us many times and make us many offers. It was fortunate the resistance wiped away my mind so I could betray only myself. In addition, that Watson Entwissle is an Ayitian and therefore impossible to break.
They always beat me and referred me back to these poems. Poems they claimed were “proof” of my highest-level rebel involvement. The uprising had not at that time fully spread to the Russian Federation or the People’s Republic of China. But, I remembered nothing, well almost nothing well. I did remember several things throughout the brutal interrogations that in a way sustained me through their inflicted brutality. Were these things real or imagined, implanted or devised I have no idea for I know neither science nor high-level majik .
I know that there is a secret sleeper organization called the Z.O.B. that is at war with those in total power called The Oligarchy that control the world system core. I know that no one knows what those three letters stands for nor are they originally in English. I know that agents of that Oligarchy raped and brutally murdered my wife while pregnant with my child; they burned my city, they killed my family and my friends, my friends of friends and even former lovers and then there were no ideas or beliefs I needed to then learn to fuel my un-ending resistance after those most hideous events. There after I then breathed in the smoke monster, drank only on blood and nourishing hate.
Finally, I know that an uprising began in a place called Ayiti and that it continues to this very day despite major quarantine and most disastrous set back. I know that on January 1st 1959; that the same revolution spread to the nation of Cuba and has been entrenched there sense were illiteracy has been irradiated and people live longer than in the United American States. And things come in threes, all things; for on 1st January 2012 that long quarantined revolt fought on the fringes of the developing word erupted on the streets of Port-Au-Prince and spread like wild fire worldwide. I know that I am entitled to certain protections under the Geneva Accords I will not receive as a uniformed combat Pararescueman, shield 2952 of the 99th Airborne Detachment from Breuklyn Soviet, epicenter of the latest phase in our latest and most glorious uprising.
They then beat me for many more weeks. They ripped out my finger nails and drugged me into nightmarish worlds of grisly torture. They called me terrorist as though it were my surname. They demanded I tell them “who are my true leadership”, “where is Emma Solomon?” “Where is Avinadav DeBuitléir?” They have nothing to gain because I know nothing but what I have already told you. I am a poet who makes silly rhyming poems to bed young women.
You murdered my entire family, I periodically think inside me self.
Therefore, I joined the rebel alliance as uniformed Pararescueman 2952 of the 99th Airborne Detachment, known also as the Fighting 99th. It was we who helped retake Port Au Prince briefly in 2009. It was we who took back Jerusalem in 66, 112, and again in 1210ce.
And such was the only thing still etched in my mind under vast torture. Periodically I wondered if I could hear Watson screaming, but it is against the code of the Ayitian gentleman to break under torture and I doubted therefore the screaming was coming from him.
In another life. Before knowledge of their atrocities sent me to first to Cuba; then to Ayiti and Syria where I saw with my own eyes the fullness of genocide the Oligarchy was capable of. Before I read my Orwell , my Marx, my Zinn, of course my Emmanuel Wallerstien, and Chomsky; peppered in with my Mayakovsky, my Bell Hooks, my Emma Goldman, some Rist, the great Kropotkin and many, many others. So many books and not enough life times!
Those doomed idealists and wandering; those seculars; those unrepentant exile Ivories. I was living on a kibbutz in the land of American occupied Israel writing small poems, laying out my first novel, working the land; laying sprinkler drip lines, making small art and being very much in love.
They refer me to some poem that supposedly appeared in something called the “Banshee News Service” several months ago. Of course I deny anything they claim I am party too. Banshee isn’t that a ghost, I ask. And a truncheon strikes my jaw.
All I see now is her oy smile, beaming at me by the desolate Brighton boardwalk, there was so much hope that day that we could both leave this grim foreign city and a bleak serf’s life.
Who or what, how now, why is my Dasha?
Dorogaia (dear one) I have failed you, where are you now! What have I again done!!
After reading me this trifle wearing both a hideous and vaguely comical mask; one my interrogators then smashes my face with a truncheon again. And such was the only evidence they ever presented me with. A stupid, non-rhyming poem. A ridiculous, minuscule Partizan Song.
Written in Gamatria (Secret Ivory Code) , ah ha; you’d have to know what that is pig!
In another life I wrote a boat load of little poems. Interestingly enough, or perhaps commonly my mind retreats into itself to escape the shame or torture and also the unending pain of total human sympathy. My memories it seems are crafted devices, walls of data to waylay my opponents and thus shelter my closest friends and associates. What for are then these ridiculous poems? I call them but a masochistic hobby horse. Though they are not all without some talented intent, they serve me no good, not once or ever.
I wrote them all to four various Russian women. Though that cannot be used to say that all four women were properly loved, or that I loved each with equal rigor. Poetry, song and art itself are manifestations yet they are not equal and they are not all backed up with the same stuff, the same longing, the same level of doing of deeds after words.
It should be clear that though I slept in and beside these four women over a period of some six years; I did only love one truly in a humane way. And only she loved me.
Now they’re yelling something in Russian and I pretend as though I do not speak it not at all. But how could I not for all and every of my strangest loves taught me my greatest lessons in that language.
They are demanding all these pieces of myself I cannot even hope to deliver. These interrogators and also those four women. Though I took more than I probably gave.
It seems they are less interested in the recently murdered guard colonel my Ayitian partner and I played the part of recent highway men to gun down dispatch. Less interested in our baser affiliations. It seems that the strong arm of the Russian Oligarchy is most concerned with a brief end of summer liaison that happened seven years prior with a young buxom émigré from the little city of Penza whose name was Daria Andreavna Skorobogatova who for some time I called Dasha, or Dashutka to be even more sweet. Do not ask me to quantify my love and longing for I cannot.
I cannot tell these torturers what names I have invented, or under what puzzling circumstances came upon me when I shed the privileges of my imagined identity and lesser American aristocracy, to make new friends in the Russian quarter, placing myself hopefully in the arms of sweet humanity.
140 Nassau Street, 2011ce
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 to avoid!
Dawn is now rising, breaking and expanding on the roof of the low roof of ancient print house converted at some time in the past hundred years to a seventeen story cooperative. District Financial and with the last manic burst of energy being expended by one of our antagonistic protagonists, Sebastian Vasyli Adon, over a huge bottle of illegally imported Basque white wine, tells old danger tales to those who will and can still listen.
It is the second to last weekend of August and soon summer will end.
Bottle uncorked and the debacle of his oratory may now unfold.
A fake gold watch dangles off his left wrist as he enunciates his wild tale with his hands, although it is known he is only one half a Yid. Covering his dark brown hair cut short for summer is a brown beret newsy cap, called a skally cap, if you were a rude boy from the two tone army like he was. It’s very 1943 . So very neo-hipster or proletarian-chic!
Behold the faces of off duty urban partisans and gypsies who refuse the gift of sleep!
On the 17th Story roof deck of the old converted print house on 140 Nassau Street, slim and enthusiastic Europeans Amelia Monteleone and Victoria Christiana Lynch Contreras snap off photos and clink glasses bantering on care free flirtations and intoxications.
Amelia takes off all her clothing for green money, she’s 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 or become a police spy, which pays a little less but has more dignity.
Raphael Ernesto Lynch Contreras, a Peruvian revolutionist is baby faced with flowing black hair with but a couple salt and pepper streaks is the husband of Victoria. He sits with his dear friend Sebastian and a ravishingly beautiful Russian dvotchka named Dasha and attempts a boozy mediation as the two evil eye each other viciously across a low wooden table.
She has big beautiful crazy person eyes the color of the Caspian Sea. Adon’s soulful orbs are auburn hazel slowly becoming green with sleep deprivation progressing.
The stare down is punctuated by accusations of impropriety.
The two are both “aspiring paramedics”. Ernesto is their introducer and is a frivolous and womanizing artist tamed as of lately by his marriage to Victoria.
Adon is in school to push away death with needles and relative high voltages. Dasha is partially knowledgeable on how to pour away sadness and sometimes temper internal evils with liquid poison and that which she doesn’t know how to mix she bluffs, knowing men are staring at her eyes, amongst other things.
He a brunette normally clad in a dark brown leather jacket and brown skally cap beret. Tonight he is in a white linen suit with his hair cut short. It’s a vaguely irregular look for him that he hasn’t pulled out in some time.
The reason he is dressed like that is because prior to his arrival at the Mehanata Social Club he had been at an all-inclusive White Party, a river cruise of wild Latin salsa based gallivanting circumventing the Isle of Man.
Dasha is a siren to which many men have smashed there ships with a proverbially loaded firearm called her fearsome wits to survive and the belligerencies that pour from her mouth when intoxicated. She captures much attention anytime she steps in the room and onto a dance floor. Her style is quite Postsoviet in its cut and colors. There is well put together sashay and flurry to her movements to be sure. And she has an unnerving look, a cross between a size up and seductive stare, a dismissive dart of her eyes to cut men down.
An affectionate rendering of Daria is Dasha, and this is what Sebastian has been calling her all night. They had been introduced several months before, but both had been too drunk to remember. They both are regulars but he more on Saturday and she more on Friday, but without rhyme or reason despite being regulars for over three years, they had rarely crossed paths before.
Dasha 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 in a tight to the curves light brown leather jacket. She is never cold on the outside.
They are locked in scowling death match of heavy unguardedly hostile words and also a few thinly veiled threats.
He said “don’t smoke in my father’s house,” so she smoked in his father’s house, so he had to yank the fucking smoke out her pouty lips and talk harshly about throwing her out in a cab back to Brighton. Then he “classlessly” handed her forty bucks for that cab, even though it’s really a fifty to sixty to seventy dollar ride, and more if you tip. Which is against all Russian cultural context, to tip a chornay driver.
To which she debased him as a useless man living off his parent’s wealth. And said never in her life had she been so offended by the callous, pompous behavior or an American dog such as himself.
“Less than a dog!” she proclaims.
To show he wasn’t a push over to bombshell, star lit scarlet that no one probably ever said no to 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 cheapening. Men make up all kinds of stories about the motives of beautiful women. Her light up was belligerent and far beyond any international definition of respecting the host. And that’s pretty much how she rolls. Over anyone she feels like.
And yet because she is stunning and pouty and her heels take too long for her to fasten, in effort of perestroika he’s asked he to stay and ten they all ended up on the roof to catch the sun rise.
Now he’s telling a dangerously insensitive story. And she is again beyond appalled.
Sebastian Adon 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.”
Banya is Russian for bathhouse. In the past few years Sebastian has been bathing with Russians regularly to wash increasingly dirty hands from stakes that keep mounting and knock around work that just keeps coming.
He loves the way music sounds in Russian. Though he knows under three dozen phrases and cannot even read Cyrillic.
She watches his words take form with her big predatory eyes.
They peer right into you, and they are not always as happy as the 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.
She participates actively in all she observes.
Maybe not rules men try and make or overly hard work though.
“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 bit of touching at all. Then, you tell them that they’re being filmed and recorded, but that you’re not a cop, agent or a Mossadnik or who-ever dangerous, you’re not there to entrap for absolutely anything. 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 like Charlie Sheen.”
“Tiger-blooded,” notes Raphael Ernesto.
“Then you make tea. 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 our operatives into brothels to feign cardiac arrest and call ambulances and firemen in as reinforcements.”
Her jaw drops.
“They would kill you just for that,” she spits out.
“For bullshit man! For a lot less than bull shit. A number! I spit on your American number. For 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 walk free” retorts Dasha in all of the glory of women few if anyone has ever said no to.
So, he predetermines.
Not a debutante, not a true New Russian. All the regality of being born all Slavic, but outside the great dividing highway that loops the capital 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 triumph of Capitalism has left her charming and capable of fighting. But she is far from Russia with love, rootless and floating in glittery fairy tales that don’t expel the hardships of her new country.
“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.
“He has such American beliefs!” She mocks.
Ernesto always has applauded his radical specifications and foreign adventures over the past three years they’ve known each other and well before. He’s done his trench time, Ernesto. He can recognize a latent revolutionist, from a sleeping one, from a broken man reborn as a hero. Palestine, Egypt, Ayiti, the worst of 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,” she snaps at his bait.
“Hey, lady, you are insulting to my dear friend and our gracious host,” sternly interjects Raphael Ernesto, “This man, you have no idea what he’s been through to back up these words.”
His mind, his name, his face.
His mind flutters something about heroics under siege in land place called Ayiti. His face; vague recollection of doing his job over and over again in bad situations.
A few many baton cracks in the Gulliver. I few to many months in cells.
He’s given lots and lots of militant speeches but never done a very violent action with his hands. Like, Ernesto had to in Peru.
His name? Sebastian is only one of his names He’s piloted an ambulance for the Fire Department for three years in all the city’s worst districts. He has traversed the Levant as Zachariah trying to free slaves and end occupation, the American occupation of Israel and the Israeli Oligarchy’s occupation of Palestine. Vasa, he’s dissident poet.
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!
She could care less. Bold wild statements don’t get first impression credential checking.
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 offers to kill him.
He obliges her. Thinks she’s bluffing.
I’ll kill this over privileged American hypocrite too, maybe 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.”
If she kills him, the tragedy, as far as a memory, will belong to no one.
Ernesto implores her to be more, “Suave, Suave”. To be more calm and “Tranquillo.” The famous Peruvian revolutionist now a New York low key digital disk jockey cannot even barely modulate Sebastian’s posturing and Dasha’s swaggerous, murderous taunting.
Now they’re waving invisible pistols at each other’s’ faces like wild Middle Easterners. They fuel a veritable bonfire of ego and prideful feuding.
Ernesto urges Victoria and Lia Monte to intercede but they are taking lots and lots of pictures and have seen Dasha make a properly rude scene before, of things when men, “get smart”.
“When men get smart with me I cut them apart,” she lives by that.
The job of any and all men as far as she is concerned is please her by makings sure her drink is never empty and that life is a series of taken care of attractions, to make her life more easy. He has failed at both in his utter self-serving arrogance.
“So you’re gonna kill me or just threaten on about it?” says Sebastian secretly hoping she might actually kill him. He hasn’t felt so alive anyway since the last girl ripped his heart out with a dagger in a long game of masochistic sex coupled with co-dependent longing.
There was nothing healthy about his love life lately.
Even the use of the word bids a mind of shame for perpetually having to beg back affections from those he’s thought he’d die with or for. A year ago his previous partner finally cut him off and the struggle, the paramedical one and human rights one and abolitionist one, all firmly linked; that struggle itself has overwhelmed him lately with his purported role, his Icarus sky walled expectations, his place in the chain of command remaining unclear. Truly only the existential problems of an overly privileged first world revolutionist, as Yelizaveta used to declaim. His last six months have been a black hole of studies on how to beat back death with drugs and electricity. There is also a lofty, high risk plot underfoot to smuggle himself and small team into Aleppo to train Syrian Free Army combat medics. But what faction! There are over forty groups of fighters there. All predict a poor end to such a venture, but the same neigh Sayers neighed the same on Ayiti.
When he sleeps he barely dreams, when he dreams its nightmares about the city of Port-au-Prince or about the last woman he was foolish enough to cry love for whose name was Yelizaveta Perechenova. Who left him eventually for a young physics student and with the declarations of his madness by her mother were the nails in the coffin of their two years of life together.
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 though to jump country, apply for work abroad. He was ordered to hold post in the city and keep working. Lt. Moishe Klein, the orthodox Ivoryish 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 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 says.
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 Geary 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 alley way.
A great setting for a hastily arranged assisted suicide.
They’re now boxing. Dasha is properly in 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 concern. Not a bird or a plane 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.
“You don’t want to live here forever?” she taunts him.
Their 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-Ivoryish coop on the districts northern most edge.
She is striking hammer sickle hits 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 big shove and he tumble crumbles backwards into the abyss.
Kill me he beckons and then, she tries so really kill him.
As he plummets back, he grabs out and yanks her with him in a tumble off the very ledge of the roof, plummeting to a certain death in the alley way below.
Somewhere in the Pacific Ocean deeps, 2011ce
A Black Freighter
Far below the waves of the black blue Pacific, 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 Western coast of Nicaragua, sloshing bashing water; cascading aggressively all of these things as its crew makes way toward “New Shoreham”; a tiny settlement on Block Island.
And, says McIntosh, a member of the Trinidadian Special Forces, “A quite stupid name for a town overtaken by the simple name of its own island,” and he knows about such things being a Trinidadian.
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 the Chinese and therefore into her studies were incorporated the most elite techniques for parapsychology cultivated over 4,000 years of Middle Kingdom, as well as appreciations for those aspects of the Mezzo-Americans.
Shortly after graduation she took the instance of her America husband’s infidelity to promptly divorce him and renegotiate her contract to the higher authorities to which she came under employ.
She’s doing her make-up, red lips on beauty. She is very agile looking, big brown eyes and light cedar brown hair; she looks through the mirror into the eyes of Emma Solomon, her commanding officer watching her from the 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 gentlemen, 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.
“I have never read his writing deeply, but I hear from others that he makes sweeping cultural generalizations throughout his 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 better as the serial progresses. The poems I cannot stand.”
“I’ve never read his poems either.”
“You’re missing nothing. Think communist Dr. Seuss with a slight swagger of Mayakovsky.”
“Well I think highly of his contributions to the resistance. I could give a damn about his artistic abilities. Husband?”
“Well a long story is a long story, but suffice to say a need for documents was once involved, on his part.”
“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 activate a chain of cells he’s built up and down the 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.”
“I know my job.”
“My husband has a lot of potential.”
“So I’ve read.”
“The Oligarchy knows the general date for the rising. 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 here.”
“Tight as a drum?” asks Adelina, though trained a linguist and a parapsychologist she sometimes misses 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.”
“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 Sorieya Solomon, the hidden candidate for Messiah of their generation.
Emma nods and places her left hand on Adelina’s shoulder.
“Little darling, just stay out of the New York City.”
Adelina looks at her bulky satellite watch made by an Israeli company called “Superior Alien Military”. In eight hours’ time she and her unit will be launched from this briny abyss via a hermetically sealed fast boat, they will then land on Block Island and be taken to the Hygeia Hotel; given 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 russification, before the infamous martyr operation,” 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 beautiful 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.”
“I will not fail you Commander Solomon,” she says.
“I know little sister,” she smiles, “And when it gets crazy in Babylon you can rely on the rest of your unit. Oleg the Bear, Yuliana Romanova, and Mr. McIntosh are, well suffice to say we don’t use anything but the best players when we’re this close to the edge.”
“We’ve never been this close to the edge before,” Adelina replies, “we’re trying not to lose our heads.”
The Upper West Side, 2011ce
So much light and so much air, still under nine hundred American, my to the chagrin of the Satmar Ivories who own the building; the House Trikhovitch is rental controlled!
Penthouse J has been in the hands of the House Trikhovitch Family the early 1981 Common Era. That was not a hey-day for New York City as some newly arrived hip individuals have come to believe. Heretics.
By the mid-1980’s looters and vagrants were scaling the walls to steal anything not tied down. Well we thought it was the 1980’s, that’s what smart phones and TVs said.
Crack is wack! (Heroin is back) they say, but who do you know that has tried it, sucked the moon rocks, boom! 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. 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 $850.00 American a month for it. A good number of Ivoryish lawyers have been paid to figure out how to extract them from this property, so far unsuccessfully.
It was once a little more of zoo filled then filled again with animals and young girls with long legs.
“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,” utters Sebastian Adon looking out north toward the palisades and George Washington Bridge.
This is the place to jump when you really want no mistakes made on the outcome.
Fleetingly he thinks of the Fort Washington district, the highest point on the isle of Manhattan. He thinks of all the times he’s wandered Fort Tryton Park with a lover holding hands. One lover in particular for after her none of the other previous ones had mattered.
But, then his mind quickly reverts to his newest fascination with the fairer of the species.
All previous lessons are lost.
On an adjacent bench in the roof garden, shirtless with a Noblisse dangling out his lips is his best friend and long-time partner Nikholai Trikhovitch.
Nikholai was briefly a police officer for a short period, and is now working for the Red Cross in a vast housing and logistics Ponzi scheme, he is also one eight the leadership of the Z.O.B. and the editor of its newspaper, “the Banshee”.
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.
Rudely we have introduced Nikholai without introducing the Z.O.B.; the clandestine organization of ambulance workers and West Indian entrepreneurs that bind many of our characters into a pact of lawless mutual aid. The group is best known by its clandestine newspaper and this is often called the Banshee Association, but these three letters better indicate the club’s inner circle, and its place in the international human rights movement.
“It’s a human rights version of the Westies, that’s all I can tell you for now,” says Sebastian often.
“What’s the Westies again,” people ask.
“Um, a small but ultra-violent Fenian gang from the 1980’s,” he often adds then distracts.
“What’s that stand for?” people ask Adon.
“If I told you….” and then he orders a round of water shots.
So many people just call them the Banshee Association, some kind of emergency medical service proto-union alluded a recent write up about them in the blog DNA info.
Regardless. They all just called it “the Club”.
Nicholai has heard all about, literally all about “the Russian Girl” as he calls her.
“This one, despite all your most base prejudices is actually Russian. Not Ivoryish Ukrainian like Yelizaveta or Maria,” remarks Sebastian.
Does that matter slightly? Neither can decide.
They are not Russian speakers though they are the mutt descendants of them, Sebastian and Nikh are four generations made American. Their mothers are 8th generation Americans. Their fathers are third generation Ukrainian Ivories.
Like Ms. Maria Parsheva now married and or Yelizaveta Perechenova, physician in training, soon to be a doctor of infectious diseases says the wire, or just a podiatrist.
“In Russia we were Ivories, outside of Russia we are finally called Russians. We are treated the same,” once explained Yelizaveta’s father Alexandre, or Sasho if you knew him well for he was a fierce and indomitable man, but also a gregarious buffoon behind the doors of his tavern when no one was looking but those he mostly trusted dancing about with a cigar grinning.
Not that these things have anything to do with two fucks of an anything. Those were the two other Post-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.
Sebastian would forever view Maria as his “Betty Shabazz” as their black nationalist associate Justin Thomas described her; a strong woman who stands behind her larger than life man. Nikh just thought of her a Russian geisha, until he watched her do the train job, which we’ll have to consider the details of later. In that moment under fire her realness did come out.
Nikh remembers Yelizaveta emerging into the club picture, and Sebastian’s bedroom sometime in 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, 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. She may or may not have helped them sketch out the entirety of “the Ayiti job” though. And probably pushed Sebastian into joining the original ground crew 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 human rights defense committees and general thought crime since 1999. The year they did their first “job”.
There had been a lot of great and 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 associate; a proud Fenian named Hubert O’Domhnaill had coined that phrase. “Human Rights Westies”, and also his “Russian Amorous Period”.
That was the Z.O.B. in a witty little simplified nugget of Fenian 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. Perhaps the analogy if that’s what it was, was poorly conceived.
Back to the task at hand.
“How do you think that bodes for longevity? More importantly love making? The full blown Russianness of her” asks Nikh.
“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 flings. Those woman walk all over men with their parapsychology and high heels.”
Sebastian had come to believe that Nicholai harbored some rather bas prejudices against Russian 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 party damaged dangerous women, Russia and non-Russian alike.
Sebastian had not previously thought of how Dasha acted in bed. It was as if he had known that already from first sight as she sized him up like a slave on an auction block being told to try a cocktail. She could fuck a man into pieces.
But this was not the immediate attraction. There was some great familiarity she bore to someone he used to know. And it most certainly wasn’t either of his previous Postsoviet partners.
“I bet she is most ferocious,” remarks Nikh.
An apt word for her, all things considering what transpired on that rooftop.
“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. 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 words.”
“This is your main instrument of torture tovarish.”
Tovarish is former Soviet for, comrade-brother-worker. Nikholai is a Russian-Ivoryish-Fenian-German mutt just like Sebastian. Neither of their mothers is a Ivory, so the black hats would of course disavow them and they can’t marry lawfully in Israel neither. They both look like “the Russians” but they speak and they think like children of the American intelligentsia. Both of their fathers are medical professionals; Nicholai’s father is a neurologist and Sebastian’s a puller of teeth. Both fathers being Ivoryish Atheists and both gentile mothers being American sorceresses perhaps predisposed the young two men to “communism” as they’d be denounced as over and over. But they were not 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 Ivoryish as their value for education.
Until the “Russian Amorous Period” they had been concerned with propaganda and human rights, but their jobs had not been ambitious.
It was the end of Nicholai’s marriage and Sebastian’s deportation from the State of Ivory that got them working together again on the cause.
And it was perhaps Nicholai’s inner misery over the fate of his marriage and Sebastian’s inner misery over being denied a homeland he’d imagined was his destiny; that put them back together; left them open to suggestion.
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 four years the Z.O.B. accomplished things no one had though possible. Like organize a newspaper, which organized a general billing strike in EMS, which lead to a trade union of all the cities EMS, which build an ambulance guerrilla movement on the island of Ayiti; and developed a training blueprint for international medical guerrillas. All was poised to smash the 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 death only averted because of certain laws of physics. Well it was impossible to truly know, Yelizaveta the 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 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.
“So what the fuck happened on that roof?” Trickovitch asks.
“Well 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 panting and looking down into seventeen stories of death she 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,” he finally admits.
“You’ve always been a sick fuck. And you need to not let fourth dimensional things interfere with the growing war effort.”
“Well then she calms down and we do this kind of half swoon, half reevaluation of an enemy and she 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. And she told me she will help me identify the biggest trafficker targets in the city. ”
“Don’t project and don’t believe her 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 stage. You know, right before the biggest job to date. Don’t think with your dick. You’re not her type. The whole thing looks fucked at every angle of evaluation.”
“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.”
“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 Postsoviet woman’s mouth drunk or sober. We both know all women lie.”
“Just about anything true, 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 true? All women lie and these Soviet women lie highly convincingly as if it were story telling as art or parapsychology. You magnify and exaggerate all suffering to fit in the contexts of your often convoluted radical politics. You’ve done so time and again. Remember your truest partner Ms. Hali Vik, the one you quite nearly married? Before you dated and slept with former Soviets in endless succession you did date and slumber erotically with Americans for a time.”
“Nikholai. I had two partners after Hali. I know what you’re getting at. But really man, there was Maria and then there was Yelizaveta. And there were a couple short stands in between, but they meant so little and felt like so nothing that I all but stopped my fucking for fun.”
“Hali Vik was the kind of woman you need to find, not these cold, possibly morally vacant Russians. They will never understand you and they’ll never join this cause,” says Nikholai.
He’s referring to the only woman that anyone ever thought had made a realistic and well suited partner for Sebastian Adon. He’s also referring to the “Lowell Job”. 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.
Well anyway, Hali was safe in Italy now and while there may have been a little bit of torture 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 Ivory, he was in paper work 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.
It was these four women that had made him believe in the struggle as if it were love? No, only Emma did, and fine perhaps also Yelizaveta in a completely separate way. There had many lovers. He had well ripped the heart out of 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.
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. The product of near ceaseless sexual harassment and advances. Her father was wealthy and also CIA, disowned her for cohabitating with an Ivory, Nikholai. 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.
They divorced and then she completely disappeared, into smoke. 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?
“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 Erzuli Danto . 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, 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.”
Yelizaveta had a most brilliant father. But he was highly bipolar and the ambulance men carried him off all the time, like every other year. 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.”
Sound firm logical now, but not in 2009ce. Her mother forbid them to see each other and a woman with only one functional parent will follow the will of her mother in the end.
“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…”
He almost said, ‘his murdered wife’ but he decided that Nikholai would then really mock him. A damn construct man! Do not mistake your fucking black Israelite training for reality or it will consume you. That’s what Nikh would yell at him in simulations.
“You love dangerously and inappropriately. Just remember that Ms. Hali Vik was also the closest time, in my memory to you being killed by another man 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. Maybe she hasn’t got a dark past. 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.”
“A black out as a reconciliation for your near arranged murder? Neat, so if she had killed you she wouldn’t even have remembered.”
“A black out woman hides a dark past in my experience.”
“I fail to see what at all is attractive about her willingness to murder you.”
“I’ve always fighters, but this is something surreal. They say she has been coming to the Mehanata Social Club for a little under two 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.”
“That my friend is only called the thing called too much trouble. She is not what you or we need right now.”
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. He pulls glasses on to make a mythology out of the world starring him and his overbearing sense of mission. Often with an unwitting female who tries to love him, but he’s from a house called trouble.
“The trouble is you’re not a hopeless romantic,” says Nikh getting a second 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 post-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.”
“All of them. It’s either a blessing or a 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 poet than as a loosely grounded resistance fighter. ”
“I have no idea anymore. 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. 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 an Ivoryish 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. 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.”
Nikholai then asks Sebastian quite specifically, “What really happened up on that roof?”
Sebastian blows out smoke.
“I died and was reborn, like the last few times,” quietly responds Adon puffing his cigarette, “we toppled to our very deaths. And miraculously awoke panting in the alley way my penis in hand. Walked out as if nothing happened. 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.”
But Nikholai Trickovitch does not judge him because he too knows what it is like to bear forced separation from one you love. He simply is aware of something that Sebastian Adon is not because Sebastian is “sleeping” and Nikh is completely awake.
That a full blown uprising is but three weeks away. And that enemy knows 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 her 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.
Who in all likelihood, coming out of nowhere at this precise time; is undoubtedly an agent of the Mossad. The Mossad or even far worse, the inner most Secret Police, the ruthless agents setting up for murder all who resist the iron heel of the Oligarchy, the grand cartel of power and plutocracy. The Jews and their agents will certainly try and murder us first because of the secrets we stole .
And those we plan to steal shortly.
Below the Bermuda Triangle, 2011ce
“No, I’ve never read a thing, he’s written; though I’m told I’m depicted as some real shtarker . I only just have encouraged him to write,” states Oleg the Bear and all nod in agreement. Yulia Romanova doesn’t even know how to read in Russian or Angliski, she’s paid to fuck men on demand and place satchel bombs in expensive hand bags, simple enough, the extent of her patriotism.
Back in the present, back on the monstrous underwater vessel called “the Black Mermaid”; traveling propelled by a Thorium reactor towards the United States; the extraction squad sits for black bread, herring, tea and Compot, sweet berry punch.
The Chinese had finished a canal across Socialist Nicaragua that was three times the size of the US controlled one in Panama.
But, for some reason no one in the USA even knew the thing was operational. And it was through this cognitively non-existent mega water way the Black Mermaid nuclear submarine was planning to pass on its run into American waters.
McIntosh is a very big guy, big in all four ways that matter. His biochemist brain, his black noble soul, his heart and his Shona warrior hands. And so is Oleg Medved, but they are big in different ways. Oleg is simply physically imposing, but his brain, heart and hands; they are smaller. McIntosh is Trinidadian, dark as night. Black even for the eyes of white men that turn many shades into enemy other. He stands over six feet tall. He is by far the most conspicuous person in the unit that was being briefed one hour before deployment in a hermitically sealed fast boat unto the shores of the United States of America; a border run to a rebel base on Block Island.
McIntosh is muscular and very well trained in the arts of Voudoun. While his size stands out and his willingness to break the backs of any person who might lay their hands on the candidate he has taken a blood oath to protect; his main task one mission will be to allow Ms. Adelina to enter the dreams of Sebastian Adon, and keep him from unleashing his fighters in ways that might trigger a bloody, bloody bloodbath. In fact, their unit, now in massive black nuclear submarine owned by the State of Ivory is hurtling toward the international maritime border.
Oleg Medved will be quick to tell you that “Oleg the Bear” is certainly not the nice Ukrainian Ivoryish 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 as 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. It is his responsibility to work with his very stunning partner Ms. Yulia Romanova, to whom he sometimes called “his muse”, but alongside being a slender and sensuous brundinite she was very good at building bombs and also social engineering. Every artist ultimately dreams of fucking their muse.
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 N.S.A. and Department of Homeland Security; and it was the duty of McIntosh to use his spiritual training to help her enter that glorious rebel of mind of Adon’s; then it was Oleg Medved’s job to teach the resistance how to use the advanced communications and IT tools developed in the Sharashka in Seattle, Washington. This particular “Bureau of Experimental Design” was Chinese funded as said but really was bringing together some of the best offerings in the Persian library vaults and cross collaborating with Cubans and Israelis. These were upside down cake times. And it was Yuliana job to seduce everyone they came in contact with and use her very specific charms to extract data needed. And Adelina being a powerful sorcerous shaman and considered a candidate since birth 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.
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 date of the uprising. But those great spiritual cosmic forces were being factored in.
Before they departed to run the border via Black Freighter submersible they rendezvoused a week prior below the desolate Eastern coast of Russia’s Stanovoy Mountain range; on the island of Sakhalin.
They were all meeting for nearly the first time so 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 back in Sakhalin, them being McIntosh, Adelina and Yuliana Romanova. They were drinking vodka and eating black bread with herring, and salted tomatoes, goose patsy 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 McIntosh who spoke no Russian.
“I am not a believer like you three in some vast forces that I cannot measure hold and see. I am not here there therefore as a fact of faith in Comrade Solomon; I am here because I have money and orders and a contract to be here. And that is simple enough.”
“I was told to come and get these Americans a means to tell their story. The story of their uprising most precisely. I was told to set up these communication lines so Americans can join the global revolution underway for over two hundred years.”
“I am here too to enjoy myself and take pictures!” he declares.
“All the most reputable of foreign scholars have declared an American uprising impossible. That the nation on the mount would sooner watch sports than tune into see the world burning. 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.”
“I’m coming as a highly paid tourist. I will take a million pictures; I will leave behind more than I take away,” and this was the conclusion of Oleg Medved’s little speech back in the Sakhalin Outpost.
“Have you any faith in the prophesy?” Yulia asked him. Yulia was every bit as beautiful physically as any woman Oleg had ever known, 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 things. And what he noticed since the Romanoff Bratva took over his contract was that he had more time to pursue his art. Money absolutely brought options.
He had a morally ambiguous relationship with Yulia founded on the principle that her partner back in Russia was not her boyfriend or her husband. 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 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 Americans,” he declared.
Yulia feigned a small, false pout.
While beauty was not a question her eyes lacked what the parapsychologist 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 even believe?”
The Ivory handlers had put them up in windswept bunker safe house in Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk waiting for the black freighter sub to arrive. The streets were empty because of the snow. Yulia and Oleg were flown in from Yekaterinburg by the Romanoff Bratva that held their contracts. Oil and Gas oligarchs. McIntosh and Adelina arrived together from Seattle.
In the cultural context of both Russia and Trinidad it was necessary to drink a lot of toasts and shots in celebration to possible; the hopeful success of their mission. And secure potentially physical privileges to be allowed of their either female leadership!
And before Adelina could answer Yulia Romanova’s inquiry, her face grinned with a hard and quiet smile now into the thirteenth shot of Russian Standard Vodka.
Drunk, was the only way to even take in or put out this rhetoric, the theories of nonviolent resistance to oligarchy, codified by Emma Solomon, Avinadav DeBuitléir and of course; Comrade Sebastian Adon.
Drunk she carried out a most dramatic reading!
Her eyes began glowing a brown into turquoise, Yulia jumped in her seat, then Adelina’s eyes went grey on grey and McIntosh arched his back contorting into a Bhutto type posture, spasmodically twitching! Grinning obscenely. Oleg lurched out of his seat but then by the force of her mind and found himself saluting her.
And then Emma Solomon in husky, but authoritative voice of a warrior woman spoke out the mouths of Adelina and McIntosh perfectly synchronized, and that was when Yulia and Oleg realized that neither the Romanoff Bratva nor the Israelis were in charge of this ‘job’ at all.
The pair then exclaimed in the voice of Solomon,
“By the time we are done here there will be no more safety for the men in high towers perched atop the mountain of any faction. You were all born serfs or various types of half casted slave, but your unborn children have been assured their emancipation via deeds to come.”
Everyone dropped back into their seats almost postictal from possession. Oleg simply grinned. McIntosh smiled too. Yulia looked truly scared, emotions breaking through her 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 sprawling slum cities. They have more going on than dancing, fornicating and erection of taller towers and bigger, brighter stadiums.”
“Don’t overestimate the prophesy and underestimate the cowboy libertarianism of the American underground,” she tells them, and pours the next round of shots.
“America, fuck yeah,” says Oleg!
113 Ludlow Street, 2011ce
The lights are dim no matter what happens. 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 the Isle of Man. This is its second location since many times police raided and finally burned to the ground in an ugly incident that took place in 2005. Surely it will not be the final location, given the tumultuous nature of the existing times.
At an infamous establishment such as this you ought to always know the names of the men “standing the watch” or women “pouring for your drinks” or the “holding down of your bags and coats”. Most importantly you ought to be cautious of the seductive forces marshaled via inexpensive vodka and black magic to lead you to things you ought not to be playing around with.
There might was well be signs on the wall telling you anything not tied down will be carried away into the night, bags, souls, virginities. Come to think of it, there are such overt 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 bar earn bottle.
It’s a Gypsy Bar. And it lives up to that designation splendidly.
You wouldn’t find it unless you were looking for it. You’d only be looking for it is someone told you about it and perhaps you’d hate them for it later. But, in the wilderness a tavern of wild foreign and domestic people dancing to the tunes of the Roma can draw angels and demons by word of mouth and since 2001 it has been surviving pogroms, police raids and venue changes via fire.
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 Romania. The cast of characters around here boggles the mind.
The club has the look of a vast lawless pirate ship or a wilderness brothel.
The waitresses and bar tenders are skinny or shapely, Bucharest or Sophia girls just arrived recently though generally well educated and for now, un-indentured. They mostly don’t stay long and the reason for that is partly because of the demands of the work, and because their boss is the devil himself. The club is only open Thursday, Friday and Saturday. There are private parties in the basement you’d do well not to crash unexpected or uninvited. The talent is highly various. There’s a rather pal-mal esthetic of transcontinental bacchanalia.
The booking agent 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. The primary live acts are Gypsy. Roma meets Latin American mostly. You get dance hall and reggae tone periodically.
The doughty wine.
The salsa, the tango, sometimes even a little Zouk.
The most popular disk jockeys are Raphael Ernesto Contreras Lynch also called the “DJ Rafflex” and Georgie from Bucharest also called the “DJ Mishto”. As stated “Romanian” but “not a Gypsy”. The most famous of the bartenders is Martina called Hella Dubreskaya. She has been here a good deal longer than the others.
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.
Outside and inside are James White, the retired Fenian cop on ¾ pension after his ACL was torn chasing down a perp and James “Behemoth” Brown Pérezes a smart talking, burly Puerto Rican. Always outside is Slavi, the stone faced until a sneaked grin Bulgarian collecting the irregular admission wearing a Soviet wolf fur hat except during the time of summer.
You pay cash up front for everything unless, unless you’re a card carrying regular. James White and James Brown are sometimes easy going on admission and fierce to squash the fights which happen, generally around 2 AM, but often before and after.
Justin Toomey O’Azzello is the general’s manager. He has wandering hands. He is jovial and likes to tell elaborate stories about his days in the “air force”. 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 wander though.
The owner of this place is a fearsome Bulgarian half Ivory called “Sasho”, but is real name is Alexandre Dmitrievich Perchevney. He has a soft spot for revolutionists, 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. The cooks are all from the tropic of Capricorn but nothing is ever very good eat except the soup or the salad; white cheese over fries or some type of Borscht which is rumored to sometimes contain menstrual blood. 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 American engineered mega tunnels that run under the country in case of insurgency or general emergency. 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”.
Also that patrons must have at least three teeth to enter the establishment.
The music is always playing loud at the Mehanata Social Club where Dasha makes eyes then orders a Vodka energy drink confection, then slides up to Sebastian at the bar. He is wearing a black suit.
“It seems that we have found each other again,” she whispers.
“We were misbehaved I dare tell you,” he says.
“I was bad. Rude should I say? I am told I insulted you greatly.”
“That you did. You remember nothing?”
She just gives me a devilish smirk. And shakes her head.
“I drink a lot for fun. I don’t always remember my Fridays or my Saturday nights. I was told I was bad. So I’m saying the sorry. For the being of bad. What are you drinking? This is our custom.”
“Nothing? No recollection.”
“No nothing at all. Oh, 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.”
“Well we all have our demons in here don’t we. I’m good. Until I 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 thirty 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 cage by a second bar and dance floor.
“That looks like if would hurt,” he notes.
“I don’t remember,” she smiles wide and seductively.
But that’s a silly thing to say. Seductively. She is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen with a proclivity for homicide. Describing just how beautiful she is almost doesn’t fit in a short play. 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 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,” he 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, the grandeismo also the confidant of Rafael Ernesto and Victoria.”
“I’m just Sebastian on my good nights.”
“And on the bad nights?”
“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! 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.”
Martina the bartender comes over and gives Dasha a little wink.
“This is sorry alright. Now I again reserve the right to be rude to you and forget about it later. Fair game yes?”
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?” she asks.
And she thinks, terrible piss but of course she orders him one from Martina the raven black haired Bulgarian bartender. Because Russian apologies are based on acts not words.
“Are you coming to our little festival?” she asks then 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 Ayiti 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.
“Don’t call me dear ever again, I’m not so old. I’ll alert you that I may well come to some of it 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.”
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 comes on and she thrusts herself into his arms for a last dance.
“I knew you back in Cuba,” she whispers.
“I’ve never been to Cuba,” he replies.
She sashays him across the dance floor muscling out the other couples with her buxom. She lets him lead and he does a fairly good job.
“You dance like you’re from the Caribbean,” she says.
“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 replies.
It is 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.
“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 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 dancing with Daria, good for him! She’s got great big ones.”
“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.
“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 burnings of bodies. It’s time to call up all our troops, every single man to the front.”
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.
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 NYU 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 three 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 in the colonies.