Somewhere in Zenobia
FaxModem1 wrote:Drago looked at the convoy drivers, and smiled weakly. He knew that convoy people just needed some amusement to dig his way into their hearts, so he grabbed three things of corn and started juggling them, much to the amazement of the convoy drivers.
The convoy drivers laughed and decided to carry on with their journey. They would deal with the stowaway later, after they finished their job. So the convoy went on, there was still hundreds of kilometers to cover, and periodically they stopped at rest stations to catch some shut eye or to tune up their rugged Gaz trucks. The stowaway proved to be a useful distraction, after everyone got bored with his juggling act, they started throwing wrenches at him and other heavy equipment, while making him carry things for them and such.
Anyway, they were at one such rest station and were busy cheering the stowaway on as he juggled his corns while dancing a jig, to avoid getting his feet crushed by the wrenches the men were throwing at his legs. All things considered, things were going well for Drago Ivanov. At least until the laughing stopped and the screaming started.
Attack helicopters swooped down from the sky, their glass canopies glinting menacingly in the sunlight. They hovered ominously above the cowering masses of truck drivers. Ropes fell from the deathchoppers' sides and human forms started rapelling down from the aircraft.
"Spetznaz!" one of the drivers screamed, for he knew who these men were in his time trucking supplies and inmates to the gulags.
The armed agents flanked the cowering masses of civilians, aiming Killyshnikov assault rifles and Dragoonov sniper rifles at them. Finally, another chopper came and touched down in the middle of the field, and from it came none other than...
Premier Stanislav Shroomanski!
"Da, comrades!" he declared as he walked over to one of the truck drivers, the closest one who was being held at gunpoint by one of the Spetznaz operatives. "Da, I have come to inspect the fruit of your most glourious labors for the Motherland! These crops that you harvested are excellent, and your hard proletarian working-class labor is of the same import of socialist triumph as those of the cosmonauts and rocketmen of the space program. Know this well, comrades. I salute you!"
He patted the frightened truck driver's shoulder and walked over to a truck, where he went and got several corns.
"Da, this is good!" Shroomanski said. He climbed up the truck and faced all the peoples before him and went on to make a speech extolling the virtues of communism, of corn, of comradely communistic communal communism, and so many other great things.
Oh my god I'm going to die...
Drago Ivanov, his mind addled by starvation and dehydration and fear, suddenly bolted - running past the truckers and Spetznaz in womanly fear. It was too much. The ritualistic abuse inflicted upon him by the bored truckers, the sudden appearance of so many armed soldiers, and now the Premier himself atop a truck saying things his brain couldn't comprehend. No, he didn't want to die here. He ran as fast as he could towards the ocean. Even though it was thousands of miles away, he could feel the sea breeze and taste the salt in the air. He could feel the warmth in his face and mouth, the warmth of Murca all over him...
inside him.
He was so close to FREEDOM!
"Nyet," Stanislav Shroomanski said. No one fled from his great speeches. Not the Ztalinist hardliners in the Politburo, who he condemned with his Seekrit Speach. Not Bearya. Not all those soldiers he commanded in the Great Salvation War. Not anyone.
Shroomanski pulled off his shoe, raised it high, and with all his might threw it as hard as possible towards the fleeing coward. The shoe flew through the air, as though driven by the power of communism itself, and with unerring accuracy it struck the back of Drago Ivanov's head.
Ivan Drago fell. The world became black.
The NKVDVDROM men came and took him.
