Flash Fiction #4
I’d been deep undercover since the end of the big WW2. Moscow was not the best place to be stationed during the winter of ‘58. First off, it was cold. Secondly, unless you were part of the party elite, there was never enough food to go around.
Supposedly I was training the women’s track and field team. The Canadian Olympic Committee wanted to determine if all the female shot-putters with mustaches were actually women or not. Judging from their Adam’s Apples and visible packages, I was pretty sure they weren’t.
The government subcommittee wanted to be sure though. I think it was because I’d been sleeping with Dief’s wife. The Prime Minister wasn’t happy about that. Not that I can really blame him. For the sake of the country, I’d accepted this post.
Natalya and I had just returned from watching a smuggled in version of Dracula. Christopher Lee is as big a ham as I remembered. At the Hop was blaring from the downstairs babushka’s illegal transistor.
The only good part about being stationed here was Natalya. She was a Slavic Goddess, less the mustache, Adam’s Apple, and package. These Moscow girls make me sing and shout, that Georgia’s always on my mind. Never mind the Ukraine girls.
Natalya wanted to drink. Seeing as there was nothing else to do, I grimaced through three glasses of the cheap stuff, before retiring for the night. I was lucky to have someone keep this comrade warm.
Supposedly I was training the women’s track and field team. The Canadian Olympic Committee wanted to determine if all the female shot-putters with mustaches were actually women or not. Judging from their Adam’s Apples and visible packages, I was pretty sure they weren’t.
The government subcommittee wanted to be sure though. I think it was because I’d been sleeping with Dief’s wife. The Prime Minister wasn’t happy about that. Not that I can really blame him. For the sake of the country, I’d accepted this post.
Natalya and I had just returned from watching a smuggled in version of Dracula. Christopher Lee is as big a ham as I remembered. At the Hop was blaring from the downstairs babushka’s illegal transistor.
The only good part about being stationed here was Natalya. She was a Slavic Goddess, less the mustache, Adam’s Apple, and package. These Moscow girls make me sing and shout, that Georgia’s always on my mind. Never mind the Ukraine girls.
Natalya wanted to drink. Seeing as there was nothing else to do, I grimaced through three glasses of the cheap stuff, before retiring for the night. I was lucky to have someone keep this comrade warm.
posted by Surly Canuck at 12:23 p.m.
4 Comments:
You had the same idea I did with the deep undercover agent...funny. The Moscow, 1958 thing was tough.
hey! that's how my gram's says my name, only she does it more in the hispanic way and less in the slavic way...
russians refer to ww2 as the great patriotic war. canadians refer to it as the second war. americans call it world war, too. (ha! i made a history funny). but nobody calls it the big ww2. i dunno, that just grated.
Mare - Um... your geek is showing. =)
I don't know that anyone in 1958 would refer to a man's "package" either... but we work with what we have. =)
Post a Comment
<< Home