Sissy Spritz Euro Trash

The M class infiniti sedan was fairly opulent compared to the transport Yuri was used to schlepping around in. Russian army cargo trucks did have a certain caché which seemed to hang around them like the smell of gunpowder after a firefight, but the aesthetics were definitely lacking. The jet black transport seemed sleek and modern as if it could find its way in any business district, but it might of seemed a bit out of place in the industrial seaports of Yokohama, especially considering it was the car of a man who thought elaborate transport was a camel still capable of mating. Though its dark exterior did make it hard to pick out of shadows in the dimly lit docks, and a lower profile was always a good thing. The windows almost matched the inky exterior, impossible for any prying eyes to see in, and equally difficult for any captive eyes to see out. Not that the interior had any hint of being a prison, the gloomy paint outside led to a supple beige leather interior, easing the weary traveler into a realm of comfort that is so often needed. This fact was doubly true for a grizzled Russian who had become all too familiar with the smell and consistency of moldy potatoes. Right now the two men lethargically slumped in there seats, their vertebrae composing an almost perfect italicized interrogation mark. The sweet aroma of treated cowhide pleasantly lifted the pain away, ironic considering the horrific end the bovine had met with. Nestled gently between the two men in an aftermarket console was a brilliant bottle of Stolichnaya vodka adorned in blue and white, framed by two empty glasses and a bucket of ice. "It's always nice to know that some Americans know the difference between the blue and the red labels," Yuri said through a grin.

"With our line of work, it's suprising pure ethanol doesn't run through our veins," replied Jack, the musical clinking of ice agains heat treated silica the only noise aside from their voices.

The clear liquid was poured hastily into to container for potables, seeming so similar to water, yet leaving a faint residue on the surface of the glass to hint at its stickiness. The Russian raised the glass bringing it to rest between him and the light on the interior roof of the car, letting the artificial photons refract through the various forms of carbon, calcium, hydrogen, and oxygen. Just as it seemed he was to break into a Shakespearian soliloqy, he flashed a smile at Jack and downed the alchoholic beverage. The great thing about vodka, undoubtedly so if it is of premium quality and properly chilled, there is no burn that you associated with the rapid consumption of whiskeys. "I hate to rape such a seren environment with coarse language Jack, but what the fuck was that?," pondered Yuri aloud.

"To be honest, I don't rightfully know. I came down here cuz some crazy-ass Yakuza promised me some military grade guidance chips, and guess who's name floats to the top of the hit list pile whilst I am here?," a boney finger extended from a hand wrapped around the other glass of vodka that Jack had swiftly prepared as soon as Yuri was done, "yours."

A hit? The russian's mind reeled to try and wrap itself around the idea that someone that had enough clout and whom he hadn't killed wanted him dead. One thing was for sure, with the information and slick setup of his demise, Yuri knew that there was plenty of financial backing in the lethal operation. Pick up a package, head back to the office, then do some paperwork, that was all that Okinawa was supposed to be, not death by pungent pommes de terre. He poured another drink, there were hundreds of questions he was wanted to ask Jack, but he needed to clear his mind. There was something he was overlooking, and it was right in front of him, but he couldn't quite focus in on it.

"Listen, I hate to barge in on this Russian mental yoga introspection crap, but we got company," interrupted the gruff American.

The tint had diminished the headlights of the following car so much that Yuri had failed to recognize that he was being followed. As his eyes adjusted, he could barely make out some figures leaning out of the windows. The muzzle flare and gunshots made it a lot easier. The car lurched as the driver swerved to become a more difficult target, yet one thing that a spy learns in the early course of his training is to never spill his beverage. As soon as the potent potables were safely stowed away, the two men ducked down to avoid the gunfire. "Too cheap for bulletproof Millnan?"

"Goddamnit, if I knew I was gonna have to spend so much time saving you Russian sumbitches I would have stayed in Cuba and gotten cirrhosis from too many tropical beverages.."

Jack reached near the top of his seat and pulled, revealing a fairly quick, but awkward access to the trunk. "Besides, you can never have too much trunk space..., grab that tube right there."

Yuri had to laught as his fingers found a firm grip on the telescoping metal tube that was the LAWS rocket. He never would have figured something that very nearly ended the life of his co-passenger would be so fortuitously available in the trunk of his car. He looked up and and thanked the car manufacturers that they had installed a sunroof in this model. Very bad things can happen when you fire a rocket inside a car, things like death and the agonizing pain that proceeded it. Yuri liked it best if they were avoided. "Open it now!," he barked at the driver.

He stayed down until it had completely opened. Why was it they always seemed to open more slowly when one is under durress? When all was ready, the Russian took a deep breath, flashed a wry grin at Jack, and then sprung up through the roof like a switchblade. Time seemed to grind to a halt as Yuri extended the rocket and shouldered it. Whether it is through genetics or livers as hard as the communist hammer and sickle, the vodka had done little to reduce the speed of Yuri's target acquisition. You always had to aim a little bit low to make sure the projectile didnt fly over the target, as the target is coming towards you at a fast clip. He held his breath as he depressed the trigger. The shadows which had encroached upon this nighttime chase were sent scattered by the plume of flame that lance forth from the tube, the squeals of the tires silenced by the deadly shriek of the rocket. There was a bried moment when all was still, and the terror was tremendous in the following car. Yuri's hair was still being blown back from the explosion of the following car when he descended back into the infinity. Such antics made him as giddy as a teenager, and the stunt seemed more like riding in a limo with the sunroof open than dispatching an enemy. Distancing your emotions and rationalizing death, such were the ways in the world of espionage.

Sic Semper Tyrannosaurus

Dave

I was at : 4244 NW 76 Terrace, Gainesville, FL 32606,

Vodka riceburners and ak samurais

Jack Millnan. Crazy as hell Jack Millnan. If the KGB couldn't kill him during the height of the Cold War, it was doubtful God himself could acheive the feat. It wasn't that Jack was that high up on the CIA flow chart, or even that he was privy to any classified materials that caused him to be a high value target to his enemies. Jack was the grease on the wheels that kept the intelligence machine of the western world. He was off the coast of Cuba as a kid, watching the nationalists get slaughtered by Castro's forces. To see a clusterfuck that up-close and personal made the man swear that no other op he was part of would endure such a humiliating conclusion. Many people that had been involved with the agency played the political game and aimed for advancement through the ranks, but not Jack. The man loved to get his hands dirty, and his moral compass went down with the Edmund Fitzgerald. He was an enabler, an organizer, and a scrounger. Jack was there on a mule smuggling stingers into Afghanistan, and smiling like a damn fool at checkpoint charlie when the wall went down. When the milennia rolled over, the agency determined they didn't need a cogwheel like Jack anymore, so they retired him. The result was a decade of intelligence failures and Jack going freelance. He built a nice little fortress about 30 miles out of Beirut and stocked his black book contacts, former friend and foe alike. It was a few years after Yuri had gotten pulled out of front line during Chechnya that they had first met.

      *         *         *

Kazakhstan was the country where dreams and hydration go to die in a very slow and grotesque manner. Two men sat on horseback, headwraps around their faces to keep the constant bombardment of UV rays from blistering their skin. Still, two faint streams of smoke arose from the holes in their protectin, coalescing in a vertical tango towards the heavens. A pair of binoculars peeked through the headwrap of the taller man. "No sign of man or beast, this is truly a land that nature and religion has forsaken,"muttered Yuri.

Yuri and his partner had been tasked with tracking down lost supplies of conventional explosives that had been "liberated" from the former Soviet stockpiles in an effort to clamp down on the black marketeers before they managed to get a hold of nuclear weapons. They frequently chose the lands of the Kazakh to do their business because no one in their right mind would go there. So here they were, waiting to see if a smuggler's caravan trapsed by, looking more inconspicuous by the moment. Due to the quiet atmosphere of the surroundings, the conveyance of choice was typically pack animals, and people seemed to ask less questions about a train of mules than a fleet of cargo trucks. With this in mind, the sound of the internal combustion engine nearly forced Yuri to drop both his binoculars and his cigarette. His ire drawn more towards the prospect of the latter. What was more remarkable was that the vehicle was heading straight towards them. Cars were rare enough in this neck of the woods, but how on earth was somebody able to get an exact fix on their location dabbled into the realm of the absurd.

Indeed it was directly towards the two Russians that the beige Defender 90 barrelled in the midst of the desert. The secret to its owners superhuman tracking skills was the long antenna that ran over the extra fuel tanks on the roof. That radio went directly to a satellite station which was also tasked with monitoring black market activity in the area. No one was supposed to know the existence of the sattelite or the station, but Jack Millnan frequently gave less than a damn about the supposed tos in the intelligence world. All Jack was hoping for was that his new neighbors werent too upset about having neighbors, because a few well placed rounds shot at an advancing target could easily put it out of commission.

Yuri seriously considered unpacking the LAWS rocket and just blowing the vehicle away. He hated questions, and the answers he usually go typically infuriated him even more. A smoldering ruin poses at lot less risks than even the most innocent of human beings. Then the hesitation kicked in. It started with the fact that it was a land rover that came towards him, not a military surplus jeep from the US or soviets, leftover from vtheir constant meddling in the region. This meant an outside player, and a well financed one at that. Any of the people that were trying to kill Yuri in this area would not raise their visibility enough by travelling in an expensive foreign car. The way the car was coming towards him, you could swear the driver was an English lord on the way to a foxhunt. Yuri shoulder the rifle and searched his pocket for a fresh cigarette. He had just finished lighting it when the SUV skidded to a stop about six feet in fronth of the FSB team. Like Puxatawny Phil in early February, the driver suck his head out quickly and nervously from his confines. The owner of this particular cranium seemed to be gaunt and in his sixties, but his eyes possessed the livelihood of a twenty year old. He sported a faded field shirt, a four day beard, aviator sunglasses and a Boston redsox cap. He broke into a smirk as he began to speak, "So I hear y'all got a privateer problem..."

   *        *      *

The eigth decade of his life was creeping into existence and it seemed as Jacl Millnan had shrugged off the mantle of time and its ill consequences when Kruschev ordered the boats bound for Cuba to turn around. He shoved a few extra banana clips into Yuri's hands and motioned for him to keep low. Off in the distance, quite the commotion was brewing, as the Russian could hear the faint echo of a large number of angry voices waltzing upon the wind. Knowing Jack, he had probably created a diversion large enough to engulf a thousand men on the other side of the docks. They moved quickly and quietly, darting to and fro among the containers, like mice hunting for a lone piece of cheese when there are multitudes of famished cats lurking about. Yet all of these nefarious felines had not been accounted for. About 100 yards away from the entrance was a scout patrol, just situated where the containers ended so that nobody would be joining the party late or leaving early. Jack glanced at Yuri, motioned to the two guards on the left and pointed to Yuri, then proceeded to give instructions to the rest of the four man rescue team. In fifteen seconds, it was all over, but due to the lack of silenced weapons, the larger force was now fully aware of their presence. They raced through the gate, to the parked infiniti that awaited them. The driver gunned the engine and they were off. In the back, Jack sat next to Yuri, grinning from ear to ear, almost beaming, "Don't you just hate customs?"

I was at : 4244 NW 76 Terrace, Gainesville, FL 32606,

Third Class Cargo

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,