38, Russians

“Life has no meaning anymore.  No purpose.”  Russian military trained pilot Ivan Portavich had been crying for three straight days with no breaks.  He couldn’t eat and barely had the will to sip water between bouts of sobbing.  “Existence is pointless.”

“You gonna finish that?”  Russian demolitions expert Dimitri Connorvich gave zero shits about his team member.  He belched and the taste of stale gut bile filled his mouth.  He ignored the flavor of his booze soaked rotting guts and pointed to a hard, half eaten three day old piece of pizza on the kitchen table.  “Our people have starved for centuries, Ivan.  You should finish your food.”

“Life is a waste.  All of it.”  Portavich threw his head back in despair, but the tears had finally stopped.  “Motors.  Gasoline.  Racing.  A waste.”

“Well fuck you if you wanna shit all over our ancestors suffering.  I’ll eat it.”  Connorvich took a bite of the three day old pizza and didn’t flinch at the staleness.  He raised the pizza up in the air as if it were a drink that he was lifting for a toast.  “Here’s to our grandfathers who died from empty bellies.”

Portavich dropped his chin down to his chest and breathed heavily.  “Death.  Our grandfathers.  They’re so lucky.”  He sighed and exhaled a defeated deep breath.  “Death.  I’m ready.”  

Connorvich was used to his driver being a mean, grumpy, very arrogant man.  Portavich rarely smiled, never laughed, drove like a fucking bat out of hell, and now showed a side of him that was sensitive and hurt.  Connorvich didn’t care.  “Death, huh?  Cuz you lost a race that wasn’t even a real race, that’s it?  Listen to me, Ivan.”  Connorvich emphasized every word.  “You.  Are.  A. Pussy.”  

Russian military special agent Yaroslov Murdokov sauntered into the room as if he were the cockiest man alive.  “It smells like body odor and failure in here.”  He grinned as he watched Portavich start crying.  Even though Murdokov and Portavich were on the same military secret agent team, Russian guy code demanded that after any loss, a man must be shamed by his friends for three days straight.  “That’s right, Portavich.  Taste those tears.  That’s the taste of being defeated by a woman.”  

“You’re an asshole, Yaro,” Connorvich muttered. The Russian demolitions expert wasn’t being rude to his friend, nor was he being aggressive.  He was stating a fact.  Yaroslov was indeed an asshole.

“Yes I am, Dimitri.  Truer words have not been spoken.  And Ivan is a pussy of monumental scale.”  Murdokov took a bow.

Ivan Portavich had been inconsolable but he finally grinned and laughed an uneasy laugh.  Three days previously he’d lost a highway race to an American woman.  She was driving a big SUV while he was driving a Russian SUV that should’ve been faster and easier to race.  The American vehicle wasn’t even capable of the same speeds and it had a much higher center of gravity, meaning it could tip over easily on sharp turns.  The American woman handled the vehicle like it was a stock car and she was the greatest racer of all time.  

That was the actual issue for Portavich.  He told himself he wouldn’t care if it was a man or woman.  She was indeed the greatest and he was not.  For the first time in his life, he’d lost.  The woman racing him somehow made her Ford SUV go faster and faster while never slowing down for turns or other traffic.  His ego was still broken from the shock of the defeat.

Murdokov walked to the refrigerator of the shitty little Moscow apartment and grabbed fixins to make himself a sandwich.  He nodded at Connorvich.  “Want some real food, or do you just eat stale piazza scraps from losers?”

The sobs burst out yet again from Portavich as Murdokov laughed.  Connorvich shook his head and said, “no lunch here, this pizza should hold me over ’til next month.”

“Suit yourself.”  Murdokov made himself a sandwich as he addressed his friends.  “Ivan, you lost a race.  Big fucking deal.  Get over it.  Dimitri, you smell like gunpowder and vodka.”  He paused, then added, “Personally, I can’t see anything wrong with that, but still man, get your shit together.”  

The three Russian military secret agents had been through hell and back over the last decade.  They were hardened killers of bad men, but they still had infantile humor.  Murdokov asked, “Hey Dimitri, what is the mass of a fart?”

Connorvich thought about it for half a second before blurting, “hopefully nothing, cuz it’s called sharting if it’s not weightless.”

Portavich was an incredible pilot and driver.  He was a stereotypical grumpy Russian male, but this past several days he’d been drinking and crying until he passed out.  He’d awake, rinse, lather, repeat.  He was in no mood for Murdokov and Connorovich’s bullshit.  “That fart joke stinks.  And fuck puns.”  His grumpiness was returning, bit by bit.  With that, he farted.

“Did you just blow me a kiss from your glory hole, Portavich?” asked Murdokov.

“You and your flatulence fetish.  You should write a book about it,” the driver quipped back.

“Yeah, and as soon as I hand it to you, you’ll tear out a page and say you let one rip.”  Murdokov was proud of his dumb joke.

“I said, fuck puns.”  Portavich was serious.

With that, their cell phones all buzzed at the same time with a text alert.  “The Americans!” Murdokov gasped.  “The informant found them!”  He looked at his friend and muttered, “No thanks to you, Connorvich.”

Demolitions expert Dimitri Connorvich looked at the same text on his own phone and shrugged his shoulders.  “My American brother is out there, and I sure as hell am not arresting him, nor will I allow any of you to do the same.  The rest of the Americans, do what you will.  But the man who smells like whiskey and constantly has his eyes half open, he is not to be arrested.”  Again, he spoke plainly, as if he were reading the newspaper.  The other two men knew him well enough to not cross him, even though he didn’t show anger.

“He’s a part of an American special operations unit that shouldn’t fucking be here, do you understand?” Murdokov said with passion.

Connorvich didn’t flinch.  “I will kill you if you cross me on this, Yaro.”  As per usual, his calm delivery showed that he really was a psychopath if his buttons were pushed.

“God dammit, Connorvich!”  He knew his best friend was being serious.  Dimitri Connorvich was a hard drinking demolitions expert from rural Russia who didn’t mince words, and didn’t lie.  If it came down to it, Murdokov knew that his friend would choose his drinking buddy over himself, simply out of pure pride.  “Holy shit,” Murdokov realized, “you love the American, don’t you?”

Connorvich crinkled his brow and looked at his best friend.  “I want to fuck him as little as I want to fuck you.”

“Who said anything about fucking?  You love this American, admit it.”

Connorvich didn’t like confronting his emotions which explained his insanely heavy drinking.  “Yes.  I like drinking with that man.  No three people in our crew can drink like him.”  He nodded to himself, as if discovering a deep truth.  “I love the man.”  He smiled.  “I’m still not going to fuck him, or you, Yaro.”

“What you do on your own time is your own business.”

“Well then, if you need me, I’ll be at the bar.”  With that, Dimitri Connorvich got up and grabbed a coat, then exited the Moscow apartment to head for a watering hole.

The two remaining agents saw their phones light up again with instructions to meet Team Vodka at an old abandoned soviet railroad station.  Portavich was professional as hell and got his act together quickly.  Within fifteen minutes, the two had met up with two other members of the team.

“Good to see you’re not crying like a pussy from losing that race a few days ago.”  Sergeant Shumakov smiled her toothy grin and cracked her neck side to side.  “Tears don’t look good on you, Ivan.”

“Thanks, Sarge.”  Portavich had his head in the game, but his ego was heavily bruised and it took most of his energy to not break down crying again.

Russian military special agent Bradmir Vandalacov looked up from his cell phone.  “Hey guys.  Krasnodor is up one to zero in the second half right now.”  He squinted and looked at his phone.  “Scratch that, they just gave up goal.”  He cursed under his breath.

“You and your fucking sports,” Shumakov bemoaned.

Vandalacov never looked up from his phone.  “Says the woman who has an insatiable need to step into a boxing ring to hit people with her bare hands.”

“Touche, Vandalcov.  Touche.”

He finally looked up from his phone.  “You ready for tomorrow’s fight?”

“Yes, but my mind is always on fighting, so let’s arrest these Americans first.”

“Or we can kill them, of course,” Murdokov added.  

“I don’t care either way.  Let’s just get tonight done with so I can rest up for the fights.” 

“Well if we set this up right tonight, we’ll catch them here tomorrow. So concentrate on how we are gonna set up this place for tomorrows fights, but also how we’re gonna detain or dispose of American soldiers.”

Shumakov was preparing for an underground bare knuckles boxing tournament.  She was undefeated, obsessed, and knew everyone in the Russian underground.  The freaks and geeks were her people.

Portavich asked, “What’s the plan?”

Vandalakov looked back to his phone.  “Our informant found out that one of their members loves to box underground.  Apparently she’s the same size as Sarge, and she’s tough as nails.  We’ve put the info for tomorrow’s fights on the right chat boards.  The Americans will be here. They’re coming to us.”

Shumakov’s eyes got big and her mouth started watering.  “The Americans have a woman who likes to bare knuckle box?”  Her heart started pounding with excitement.  Then, she gasped a large gasp and her excitement vanished.  “No one kills the woman until I beat her in boxing.”  Her tone became stern.  “If any of you harm her, I will tear your heart out with my bare hands.  That’s a promise.”

“Fuck,” Vandalakov muttered.  “We gave up another goal.”  He looked up from his phone and stopped watching Russian soccer.  “As for the fights, we won’t arrest or kill her until you beat her ass, I promise.  Besides, I like my heart in my chest, Sarge.”

“Smart man, Bradmir.”  She looked over at her driver.  “Ivan, after tomorrow, there’s a fight in St. Petersburg in a couple of days.  Can you fly me?”  

Normally, Portavich wouldn’t hesitate.  He wasn’t his normal self.  “Ah, I think so, yes.”  His voice was strained and he had big bags under his bloodshot eyes.  

“Jesus, Ivan.  Get it together, man.”

Portavich shook his head.  “You’ll never understand, Sarge.”  He took a deep breath.  “Yes, I will gladly fly you to St. Petersburg whenever you need me to.”

Sergeant Shumakov smiled widely.  “Thank you.  I need to fight.”

Murdokov asked, “do we have a plan to snag the Americans tomorrow after Sarge fights their lady boxer?”  

Vandalakov looked back up from his phone smiling.  “We scored to tie it up.  Ten minutes left.”

“Bradmir, fuck!  What’s the plan for tomorrow?”

“Oh, yeah, that.  We arrest and detain the Americans who are here illegally.” He grinned. “Or we just kill them and tell no one while letting our politicians sort it out.”  He put his head back down and stared at the commentary texting from his phone.

Shumakov and Murdokov smiled widely.  “I like this plan.”

In the distance, fate brought a completely unplanned, uncoordinated night of hard drinking between two demolitions experts together for the second time in five days as the bar they were drinking at ran out of both Jameson whiskey and Stolichnaya vodka.