Ivan was a terrorist; not a freedom fighter, or a religious fanatic, but a fanatic—his cause was something more difficult to define. He served the Soviet State, and when governments changed, he served the new one. His friends spent 50 percent of their time talking about politics, even though they didn’t know what they were talking about. Ivan didn’t know much about politics, but he knew enough about people to understand when their conversations were bullshit. Recently, he had had enough. It was all shit; 50 percent, and the other 50 percent. Most guys who realize their friends are useless, get new friends, or if they can’t pick and choose new friends, they spend time alone. Unfortunately, Ivan got new friends and they were the same. It could be him; he was the common denominator, but doing math at this time in his life seemed futile. He had tried to change, and when that didn’t work, he realized, he would need to change the world. Governments change, but they stay the same. It’s only a matter of time before the people in-charge think they know better than you. They had something wrong with them. They wanted to mold and shape the world to make it a better place, without the fundamental knowledge, that it can’t be better. I guess it helps to come from the bottom, and fail. Failure teaches a man that the struggle for supremacy is futile. The things that matter have nothing to do with ideals, and everything to do with style; how one dresses, how one acts, how one interacts with women, how one handles an out-of-control car, and an out-of-control country.

Ivan felt better about himself with two blonde bombshells under each arm, walking out of the abandoned Soviet Building. They believed he was their Comrade Colonel, and they would do anything for him. Forget political power; forget the respect of your colleagues; all a man needs are two naive blonde bombshells who respect him. His suitcases were in the trunk. His girls were in the backseat. He drove carefully. Ivan did not want to get into a wreck. He didn’t have anything against the every-man who was only trying to survive, and steal a crumb of the world for himself before he died— sad really. Most guys that snap, don’t have a plan. A man is only as good as his plan. Ivan was on a mission for the first time in 30 years. He had a purpose now, driving through traffic, waiting for cars, that took longer than they needed to, to move. He wanted the whole world, and nothing else, and when a man is denied what he wants, he will do one of three things; he will lay down and quit, run in place, and hope he gets somewhere, or attack the people who started the race in the first place. There was the airport. The girls were so gorgeous. All he could find were two extra small blue jumpsuits, that wouldn’t quite zip-up in the middle. Husbands and boyfriends in the airport, couldn’t take their eyes off him and his girls. He was doing something obscene, just by existing, and it felt good to be obscene. To have that kind of power, not even celebrities enjoy; well, Hugh Heffner, but Ivan was the real deal, and rather than getting old, and trying to keep-up his image, he was going out of this world, on his own terms.

He checked 6-suitcases. The scanner picked-up women’s underwear, some illegal toys that were banned in the old Soviet Union, and some detective stories. Nothing suspicious, unless you were a believer in one of the Abrahamic faiths, and even then, the times were lenient. A man could get away with just about anything. These suitcases were scanner-proof. Soviet Spies had worked on them, right before the collapse of the Union, so they registered nothing but women’s undergarments. The flight to the USA and the Eastern Sea Board made Ivan dizzy at 40 thousand feet. Number 1, grabbed his shirt sleeve, and walked to the restroom like a cat. Ivan followed her like a dog. By the time they landed, he was barely breathing; his life force had left him, but it was worth it, to be half-alive. The ballet school wasn’t far. Alexi had chartered a limo, and when the plane landed, four ballet dancers were waiting for him. When Ivan got inside, one of the dancers spoke…

“What can we do to relax you?”

“No need…” Ivan fell asleep, collapsed really, and when he woke up at the studio, Alexi smiled; their plan was 50 percent effective, waiting on the next 50. Ivan and Alexi were not talkers. They did not talk about women. They did not get angry about politics. They did things. They put their dent in the system.

To be continued…

3 thoughts on “The A-Bomb and Two Blonde Bombshells

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