There was something comforting about the Marche Slave. It seemed to resonate within the soul, and really demonstrate the angst, anguish, anger, and triumph of a people in a musical sense. There would always be a more somber association for it in Yuri's mind. The slow, droning begining almost infers the presence of death and decay, and it seemed to become the theme to the time Yuri spent in Chechnya. The federal government had adequate rights to be agitated with the region, as their violent tactics made many scream for retaliation. Some would have called the unit of FSB the sharp end of the sword, Yuri called it the blood smeared face of the Russian hammer. He didnt even know who sent the orders, they just came in a sealed envelope and bore the highest clearance. Make the Chechans know the fear that their radicals were exercising upon the Russian populace. So, they became a renegade squad, terrorists sanctioned by the federal government. If the recieved a tip on the location of an enemy leader, they blew up the entire building. Individuals weren't executed, mobs were. Every time Yuri got picked to do grave detail, it was the Marche Slave which played through his head. Grave, what a terrible farce on the word. They commandered a backhoe from the local transportation bureau and dug a hole the size of a swimming pool on the outskirts of some po-dunk village. They went inm slaughtered anybody suspecting of having opposition ties in the russian standard way, the ak-47. They then proceeded to load the bodies into the truck. The blood was so ubiquitous, it was if the red army had been reborn. The FSB then drove to the oversized ditch. Opening the tailgate to the cargo truck let loose a torrent of blood that would have been a vampire's wet dream. This was usually the first point when the new guys lost it. The vetrans usually began sticking cigarette halves up their nose to block the smell. Usually it was the guys who vomited that were picked to toss the bodies into the man made pit. For some, this was too much, as they evacuated the rest of their stomach, the blood, mud, and vomit making an abhorrent stew. So in they all went, and even their makeshift noseplugs couldnt block that smell. The smell very much resembled......
Moldy potatoes, damnit it was almost like being in Chechnya again, those poor bastards. Though he still hummed a few bars of marche slave in memoriam as he cleaned the ak of any potatoe residue. He was gonna have to pay that bastard back, even if he had saved his life. Alas, there were more important things at hand, like whose grandiose idea it was to lock him in here. The first suspicion was Mr. Wirey from the bar, but he had the stench of a third party, he didn't demand on seeing him open the envelope, he just did what he was paid to do and got the hell out of there. It could be the driver, but he came across as too stupid to mastermind it. This was only the third time Yuri had been to Okinawa so he doubted he had pissed off any of the local Yakuza for them to give a damn. That left someone who knew a hell of a lot more about this job than he did. That meant someone in the Russian government or someone who could tell the Russian government what to do. Hell, after the Communists left, that could be a lot of people. What the hell was he supposed to pick up here anyways, they had lead him to believe it was a satellite navigation circuit board and corresponding software stolen from an American contracter. The muscle they used wasn't usually this subtle. There, the gun was clean. He was also getting to the uplifting part of Marche Slave. The container lurched. "What the ..., how did I miss the sound of the crane?," the Russian exclaimed as he tried to steady himself.
"Well, I hate traveling first class anyways...."
I was at : 4244 NW 76 Terrace, Gainesville, FL 32606,
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