The darkness blankets the senses, a fog of shadows, its coolness bringing a false sense of refredhment, a momentary lapse of reality, which was four corrugated metal walls, an AK-47, a large mound of moldy potatoes, and an emotionally detached russian. Said individual breathed in, trying desperately to limit the passage of air through his nasal cavity, in a vain effort to escape the stench which flowed around him like an angry poltergeist. This was swiftly followed by a drawn out exhale, trying to create a sense of catharsis in a seemingly doomed situation. The arm arose, causing a few of the tubers to roll down the mound innocently, the hairs starring to become matted down from continuous interaction with the decomposing produce. On the wrist, one of the specialities of Switzerland lay, an end to all chronometric devices, and our beleaguered captive could discern the position the Earth's rotation currently found itself in. "Nine A.M. what I wouldnt give for a bagel and some coffee right about now...." lamented Yuri.
He looked where we surmised to be the vents in the metal container were,noting the lack of luminesence entering the temporary prison, or crude grave, one could not be sure at this moment in time. He made his way over to that side of the container, leaving the pomme de terre nest he had created. Even in a bizarre captivity, there is no need to ignore the issue of comfort. He moved forward carefully into the inky cloak which envelopped him, his arms slightly outstretched, he has out front, acting as a buffer so he didn't smack to hard into the borders of his newfound home. His fingers felt the frigid slickness of metal and he came to a halt, leaning slightly forward to gain a better understanding of the demensions of his current confines. Once he determined how he could jump with the least porbability of injuring himself, Yuri made a hesitant leap up to grab a hold of the small openings near the top of the container. They were found to be only about five inches high and about a foot across, enough to stick out an arm, even though the most useful thing that could produced would be a lopped-off arm. His fingers held firmly, as he stilled the rest of his body and dangled from the opening. Yuri tried to concentrate on the sensations that his fingers felt on the outside of the container, hopefully giving him some further insight. A gentle breeze brought a wry grin to the russian's face. So the container was indeed outside, though it seemed to be buried amidst a great number of similar containers, as no light was penetrating the large cluster. He dropped back down to the floor and flopped down on the potatoes, an unseen cloud of fungal dust arising from the disturbance. Yuri still had a few days he could survive without water before real mounting health concerns would arise, and since he had nowhere to go and nothing better to do, he laid back and closed his eyes. Sometimes, the darkness was so profound, he couldn't tell the difference if his eyes were closed. There really was no matter, since one's mind started to run with unsettled dreams and nightmares as soo as one was devoid of any optical stimuli. Fire. Screams. The smells of gasoline, gunpowder, and blood. The act of killing an unarmed person, wrenches at a man's soul, and Yuri often tried to rationalize it to switch his focus to more pertinent things. Thank good he had those cigarettes up his nose, who knows what the melange of lye and death would have done to his olfactory memory. It was either the deceased's life or his and Yuri's together, that was the only though that let him sleep. At that moment, a dagger of salt cut through the wafting cloak of putrid spuds that surrounded him. He was well on his way to sea. There was a benefit to temporarily detaching yourself from reality, as it destroys the perspective of time, and if you focus hard enough you can eliminate boredom. The state of being bored dulls the mind more than an MTV real world marathon, and he had to be ready for immediate action when that dore opened. There was only the clip that was in the gun as far as ammo goes, so Yuri was hoping there wasn't more than six of them, otherwise he was gonna have to finesse it a little bit. There was always hope that someone else opened the door, and the FSB agent simply walked out the boat. However if this was a straight up Japanese operation, then you could count on their being a fair amount of thouroughness and effeciency. There was little he could do, and after playing out a dozen or so scenarios through his head about a hundred times a piece, the Russian relented on thinking solely on his eventual opportunity for survival. "Never become too attached to plans, for the rarely turn out as expected," murmured Yuri, the saying an ethos in the world of espionage.
Happier thoughts were the suprise he found when he let his mind drift. A hotel room in St. Petersburg in late December. An overcast day, no need to test the surroundings for ice to skate upon. A large bed, the red comforter ensuring the warmth of all that would inhabit it. A window cracked open, the first few flurries of the day's snowfall somehow finding their way inside. A nightstand, with a clock showing an unimportant time. A bottle of vodka, standing tall, blazing forth the image of the old Hotel Mockba. Two glasses, filled with ice, crying out to be replenished. A head of long, luxurious black hair cascading downwards, rising and falling slightly with your respiration, her body giving you that touch of extra warmth to add to your comfort. Your arm cradles the outline of her body on the comforter. You raise it, bringing the hand close to your face. It is here that your age is exposed, as the fingers look tired and worn, the skin seeming to have giving up hope of looking lifeful long ago. Somehow she doesn't notice. Thank goodness she doesn't notice. Such are the dreams of prisoners, as the poor lonesome soul who inhabited the Chateau d'If thought of a lovely woman named Mercedes. It was during this thought that sudden clank brought Yuri out of his day dreaming.
He wasn't sure the dream had lasted just a day, as he had no idea how much time had passed. All he knew was that he had completely missed the boat docking. He now heard the other containers being pulled away, one by one. His adrenaline pumped furiously into his system, his grip tightening like a vice on the AK, keeping it trained. The anticipation was growing maddening. Finally, Yuri began to make out some human voices, though he could yet decipher exactly what they were saying. Then a louder clanging and a sharp burst of light shot into the space like an ICBM out of a silo. The gun still pointed firmly a the door and whoever now soot in it. "Easy there fella, don't get too trigger happy. Though a little's fine. Damn, figured sticking a Russian with this many potatoes woulda had a couple cases of vodka, eh? Well I know it was shit poor accomodations, but across the docks there is an angry group looking at a container full of dirty laundry when they thought it was gonna be you. Prolly shot a bunch a holes in my undies. Helluva ringer, though. Damn long intros, welcome to Yokohama, Yuri."
Sic Semper Tyrannosaurus
Dave
I was at : 4244 NW 76 Terrace, Gainesville, FL 32606,
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