“Dance girls…dance!” Alexi said.

Ivan came-to, watching him walk between rows of perfect women, twirling in tight pink costumes, while he drilled them without any interest in their feminine form. Alexi was an artist, pulling their strings, with psychological precision.

“Marilova, your legs are too toned and your glutes, not enough. Stop running, and switch to the butt exercises I showed you!” Alexi squatted and stretched. If Ivan had been a woman, he would not have been able to take his eyes off that, but Alexi was only demonstrating the proper movement. The girls, on the other hand, were mesmerized. Alexi had a way with women. He did not indulge in carnal pleasure; life was a dance, and he moved gracefully—the girls, however, couldn’t stop staring. Alexi, was dripping with masculine energy.

“When are you going to stop twirling, and come talk to me?” Ivan asked.

“You did it again, didn’t you?”

“How can I refuse a 20-year-old, 40,000 feet off the ground?”

“Just say NO! Your decadence is going to ruin this mission.”

“Are you prepared to go through with it?”

“You know how much I want to blow-up Hollywood. They haven’t made a decent film in 30 years.”

“But the cost, if we’re caught?”

“You’re forgetting that we were Soviet Spies, and the world has gone soft. Nobody puts their freedom on the line anymore; probably, because they don’t have any, even if they think they do. That is the great lie, of the 21st Century. We all are free to do whatever we want, and nobody is free because of it.”

Ivan looked at Alexi, as if he wasn’t quite human. There was something about him… he was too pure. He had too much faith in invisible things. He didn’t get pleasure from flesh and blood, or anything he could hold in his hands.

“I’ve got the car, parked out back,” Alexi said. “Girls…dismissed.” The dancers walked to the showers. Ivan wanted to shower. Alexi grabbed him.

“Keep your head straight, man.”

“It is.”

“No, not that head. Just get in the car!”

It was Ferrari red, because it was a Ferrari. Ivan loaded the suitcases, motioning for Number 1 and Number 2 to join them. If you decide to put your life on the line, it should be done with style, and not for fuel economy. That was the problem with the middle-class—everyone was trying to save money, and they had neglected style.

3,000 miles later…

They were in Hollywood California. “If we blow-up every film studio, and steal the gold from MGM, we can buy our own island,” Ivan said.

“And what do you propose we do on that Island?” Alexi asked.

“What else? Make more Russians.”

“Do you ever think about anything besides sex?”

“Hey, ask any man what his ultimate fantasy is, without any social restrictions or religious rules. Invariably, it’s leisure activities and unlimited women. No responsibility. And no boss. Those with power, lose sight of their fantasies, but if you’ve scrubbed toilets all day, the mind has a tendency to wander, and to dream.”

MGM was commemorated in garish gold letters.

“Number 1 and Number 2, you know what to do.”

“Yes, Comrade Colonel,” they said in unison. Alexi and Ivan watched their perfect bodies enter the studio for bit parts, in the next Hollywood atrocity, they called a movie.

“We’ll let them do their work, and then the coast will be clear. Are you sure these Nuclear Suitcases still work?” Ivan asked.

“They’re not as powerful as they once were; too much leakage, but they’ll do the job.” Ivan and Alexi shook hands, and walked inside.

“Where are you going with those suitcases?” The front desk asked.

“We are taking sensitive items to a known film director.”

“Let me see…” He opened the suitcases. “A dildo?”

“You know these Hollywood types…perverts of the worst kind.”

“I didn’t see anything,” the man said.

Alexi and Ivan exchanged glances. Whatever they did, was justified. Hollywood deserved to burn. It was the rotten heart of the West.

Ivan opened the gold doors to the bedroom suite, and there was the director with his tongue lolling out.

“Mission accomplished, Comrade Colonel,” Number 1 and Number 2 said in unison.

“Put some clothes on,” Alexi commanded. “I’ve set the bomb to 15 minutes. Our next stop is the bank. In all the chaos, we should be able to make a sizable withdrawal.”

Number 1 and Number 2 got into the Ferrari first, and Alexi drove.

“Do you think you set the clock a bit too soon?” Ivan asked.

“We have plenty of time to put some distance between us and the bomb.”

“But what about rush-hour traffic?” There was the bumper ahead, and the bumper behind. Their Ferrari was a racecar with flat tires, a life without motion. 

Alexi turned around and kissed Number 1 and Number 2.

“I thought you were a purist, man?” Ivan said.

“Maybe life should be enjoyed while we have it.”

They waited in traffic for the bomb, just like everyone else, waiting on life, waiting on the system, while the traffic got worse and worse, while the air got more difficult to breathe, while the worries and fears went unheard and unanswered. Alexi and Ivan enjoyed their time for the last five minutes…

They had more of it, than most people have in a lifetime.



One thought on “Dance to the Music…Before the Bomb

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