Come on Comrade

Light pierced the oppressive dark like an arrow loosed from the bow of Apollo. The beams of radiant illumination filled my eyes and sent wonderful pain shooting through my temples. Fresh air invaded my black and musky abyss; the atmosphere swirled around me as the two forces, the pure and the polluted, fought for control of forsaken soil.

The thin golden string of light widened; derelict hinges screeched, shattering a silence known only to the dead, and myself. Heaven’s gates opened before me, and on the other side the curvaceous silhouette of a beautiful angel beckoned.

“Get the hell out, douche-bag!” A gravelly voice demanded of me, it was the tone of a beast that had happened upon wounded prey. I could feel its malice sweep over me like the first cold breeze which signals the onset of a storm on a warm day. Confusion gripped me like underwear on a hot and humid afternoon, crawling up my thighs, constricting upon that which is better left unconstrained.

Oh, the tumultuous trials those wicked sisters three had ordained for me. Never had I been so fortunate to count the fates amongst my allies, but now they endeavored with all their faculties to fracture me.

A hand gripped my arm; be-sparkled talons sinking deep into the tender flesh on the inside of my bicep. A strange aroma of cotton-candy and straight-ass attacked my nostrils. I recoiled, retreated deeper into the sarcophagus; once a prison, now a haven. In the presence of an enemy only perceived the dark is a terror, a black chasm where the imagination constructs nightmares from rough shapes and the fertile mind of the fearful, but once those nightmares are revealed by the light of day, tangible, terrible, and real, the dark becomes a bunker, the blackness a protecting embrace.

My struggles fell short of their desired effect. My bones creaked, my muscles shuttered; the atrophy of confinement entangled every aching fiber like thorn laden vines. While locked away time had faded into a vague memory, the concept of it became to me the face of a childhood friend. I knew not how long I had been captive, but I felt it long enough for the feasting eagle of Prometheus to have its fill.

My deliverer turned tormenter wrenched me from my cell. I plummeted to the ground, and immediately burning sand assaulted my bare flesh. I viewed, for the first time, the exterior of my prison; the trunk of a decrepit 1981 brown Buick Skylark. Rust crept up its wheel wells, paint receded from its hood revealing the sickly gray metal beneath, red blotches spattered its surface; it was  Mikhail Gorbachev made automotive.

“Get up worm, Madam Tatiana has matters to discuss with you.” The gravelly voice assailed me, every syllable a jagged stone.

I placed my palms against the stinging sand, and lifted myself to my knees. As I brushed the film of sand from the side of my face I took my chance to canvass the source of the rough tones. The villain who stood before me, legs slightly apart, knees locked, and arms folded, was a terror I could scarcely have fathomed. Ruin descended upon me, and it was adorned in a silken black halter-top and a sparkling gold mini-skirt; which contained a panic inducing unnatural bulge.

Immediately I was reminded of my first conception of this being. So, I defined the dirty tranny as a “beautiful angel”, but it’s not really my fault. I mean, I had just got bitched-slapped in the face by bright afternoon light, in the middle of some damn desert after being locked in a trunk for who knows how long. I couldn’t really see that well yet, plus I was in a pretty stressful situation and not thinking straight, I mean right. I always think straight, cause I like the ladies; their soft skin and supple lips. The way they giggle when I… I’m gonna get off track. Look, the dude had a pretty feminine figure, just based on the outline, his bra was stuffed pretty convincingly and everything. Anybody could have made the mistake really… and thusly I dealt with the slight pangs of gay.

An ominous and imposing figure approached from around the Skylard, casting an immense shadow over my defeated frame. It was a cross between Hercules and Helen, and that cross was in the dress. A shimmering purple cocktail dress strained against its massive physic. Long straight black hair curved behinds its ears, running like a shining ebony river along trenches cut into the stone of its immense bulk; two strands fell across its brow like talons.

“Little man look so scared he shit in pants. Maybe you borrow dress, no?” A sonorous chuckle emitted from the Goliath. “You should be dead-man now. You spit upon glorious heritage of proud Soviet Union. If not for thick torrents of blood poured from Mother Russia you stupid hick Americans would feast on sauerkraut while driving BMW pickup trucks.”

“What the hell? I don’t even” I weakly retorted.

“You will shut mouth until I am finish. Valerie, make him swim in see of Soviet Stars” It said coolly waving a hand at its compatriot.

The golden mini-skirt clad goon swung a coach purse, the sole purpose of which was evidently transporting bricks, solidly into my jaw. I flailed backwards and sprawled across the sand, sticky blood flowing from my nostrils.

“Well, you lay on ground like bitch when dishes left dirty and drunken slob is made angry so batter her like disobedient puppy?” The Soviet she-thing asked calmly, folding its arms and grinning smugly. I took a deep breath, and with no small effort, began to stand, “You stay on knees, fool. I explain why sand must drink of your filthy blood. I am guessing your transgressions are not remembered in sea of liquor inside tiny brain. You come to my establishment last night. You wreak of expensive French cognac; it is funny, everything you American’s find of highest quality is not of your own production. America is land where fat white rich men with radio microphones shout of American Exceptionalism and drive to home constructed of Mexican labor in vehicle of Nazi engineering. They say government too big like ass of Nicki Minaj, then they say government need censor violent game where child murder more enemy single handed then whole of proud Soviet Army during Great Patriotic War. Child with video game stick of Chinese slave factory plastic not so dangerous as loud man on TV with sheep viewer who graze on Burger King cheeseburger of three meat patties."

“Son of a bitch, Dragov Poplovanavit, get to the damn point.” I exclaimed.

“You rush to meet death, comrade? He is only appointment of day for you. I am busy woman of many enterprise, so I humor you.” Tatiana responded without a hint of irritation motioning to the goon to stay a forthcoming blow from the designer weapon.

“You come to my establishment; you say you want party with pretty girl. I say I have many pretty girl. You take your pick; she is fairest beauty in all streets of Prague. Later you punch pretty girl, and break many fine decorations. You say girl hides barrel of Dragunov rifle in undergarments. I come, I am not angry, you make mistake in coming, is fine. I intend to refund money; I not want to see gulag over drunk American temper of spoiled child. I try to discuss matter like adult. You mimic my talking, you say Stalin is faggot, you insult proud designs of Konstantin Simonov; say browning rifle is superior, you say Kalashnikov is good only for Sudan pirate who attack merchant vessel and Pakistani Tuskan-Raider terrorists, you say Zangeif is shit of all Street Fighter video game character, even Dan is better. Is last straw. I strike you. You crumble like Hitler after he swallow bullet when Soviet Army march down streets of Berlin. I have you put in trunk of shit car, and brought to middle of Nevada desert. Now I leave you here, you walk back. Maybe you make it, is fine, you learn lesson. Maybe you are eaten by ugly bird, is fine too, world is made happy.”

The hulking she thing turned slowly, and began to saunter away.

“Come on comrade. I was mad drunk. I’m dehydrated, and it’s hotter than Kim Kardashian and Scarlett Johansson lathered in baby-oil having a pillow-fight out here. At least give me a bottle or something.”

“Is too bad for you. Next time you come to Vegas, you play slot-machine, you watch performance by has-been singer all think is dead, you drink couple bears, and eat enough to feed small African village at buffet. Then you go home. You no cause trouble.”
“Son of a bitch”

The massive creature nonchalantly entered an awaiting limo, and disappeared behind tinted glass. It pulled away, and within moments was no more than a rolling brown cloud in the distance. The halter-topped goon climbed into the Skylark. The engine turned over and revved high, the tires broke loose showering me in granules of biting sand.

I stood up, and surveyed the expanse of empty land. The air danced across the scorching surface. Oppressive sunlight beat down upon, making me painfully aware of the alcohol still coursing through my system. Feet dragging, I began following the trail which my transsexual transgressors had left upon their exit. Above me vultures circled.