Growing up in the soviet bloc during the 1980s wasnt exactly the same as Ferris Bueller's Day Off. Government subsidized housing was not the plague of the poor, but the birthmark of generations birthed by the same maniacal doctor. If one was bright enough and brown nosed the right people during the obligatory period of military service, it was conceivable that a russian youth could graduate into a cushy government job, and maybe retire with some decency. Jack Millnan thought he would be dead by thirty. All prospects of an affluent life were covered by the shit smog of factories and car exhaust. A lifetime of dodging explosions and pointing loaded guns at the right people had bought him a mediocre government pension and a bad right knee. Yet the contacts he made had afforded him a current lifestyle beyond perceptible means.
The suite was made for presidents, movie stars, and crass CEOs, yet now it was inhabited by a broken down spy and another who found himself careening in his footsteps. Millnan immediately went to the back door and stepped onto the patio. It was a moonless summer night, and a hint of cherry blossoms ran through the air. The elder intelligence man grabbed a pair of board shorts and tossed them to Yuri. "You smell like a freaking yak who jumped into a pool of rotten eggs and then rolled in the world's biggest pile of garlic. Wash up and then hit up the hot tub. Best thing after a fire fight."
It was true, the hideous stench that permeated the russians skin would probably taint the hotel room for a year. And so he shambled towards the shower, shirking his clothes in a sorrowful trail of stink. The creak of the faucets led to the angelic chorus of cascading water on the tile. He wandered in and sat down, lacking the strength to stand, letting the universal solvent pelt his tired skin. No matter how many missions forces one to suspend hygiene for weeks, maybe months, the body always feels the need to be refreshed and cleaned. Once he felt several degrees of humanity and its corresponding society seep back into his pores, yuri exited the shower, and headed to the hot tub. The scalding water singed off any remaining putrescense. The clink of a glass next to him stirred him from his semi-conscious state. A half-pint of guinness. And a shot glass of some amalgamation of irish cream and whiskey.
"That'll kickstart your mind," grinned Jack.
He dropped the shot into the glass and chugged the velvety concotion. His current predicament seemed like something cooked out of an absurd reality, where things are random, yet can be predicted.
Sic semper tyrannosaurus
Dave
Location : 4244 NW 76 Terrace, Gainesville, FL 32606,
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