The Blog

(No intention to show me off as a gray cardinal having access to the most secret dossiers in the steely safes of the Center, I’m just selling for what it was bought in the city, where everybody knows everything about everyone else plus what is there three meters deeper, specifically, under you.

We are such gossips in the outback, you know.)

Now, it only remained to clean up the rear in Karabakh, where the Commander-in-Chief opposed the President and vice versa, out of habit.

The confrontation boiled to the point when in the dead of the wet March night, the Presidential black Mercedes was shot at and stopped, the driver’s carotid artery wounded, the vehicle’s door slammed open and there sounded the ruthless round from a Kalashnikov muzzle at the President’s legs…

The next morning, the organs of the KG… damnation! it's got ingrained… the National Security Agency, I mean, are arresting the Commander-in-Chief and his brother (the Mayor of the city of Stepanakert).

Izho’s closest bodyguard (the same one by whose hands fell the invincible field commander handled Fragment fighting in the forest, when he looked around and said, “Hey! But where is this one shooting from?”

A bullet entered his conveniently set up forehead removing any questions, and the killer dropped his assault-rifle and shouted, “Vai! How come? Kill me bros!"

His life was spared, and a month later he became the senior bodyguard of Izho) testified now that it was he who shot and wounded the President on the order by the Commander-in-Chief.

The hirer is sentenced to 7 years in prison. Ain't we a civilized country despite the nonrecognition?

It’s only that the editor of the Russian-language newspaper in Yerevan whose Karabakh correspondent I was at that time, didn’t take into account Arcadic's proficiency in Russian and printed my “material” about all this crap, for which mistake the President of the RMK, still on his crutches, got to the daredevil (via ground communication wires from pole to pole) and made him wet his pants by scaring the daylight out of the editor with such mother-of-Kuzka, that the poor guy got through to Modern University for Humanities branch in Stepanakert (by the ground wires) to warn me that we were not any acquaintance both before and any more.

In his haste, he missed to warn that I would not be paid for the article, yet I forgive him, even though he is not a cardinal and miles from being my namesake…

Base Metals company of indistinct affiliation pops up in Karabakh, creates a large plant for processing a big toomb near the village of Drmbon, crushing it for years on end and turning into a deep pit in order to extract (by the official version) copper ore.

Some undisguised maiming of the mountainous wildlife…

A group of Gypsies, but not those who were around before the war (shift workers?) returned from evacuation to live in Stepanakert…

Hence, Watson, deductively, it’s better for them not to walk with sieves so that Base Metals do not track down the treasured adit…

* * *

Bottle #28: ~ A Lady's In Danger! Saddle Up, Posse! ~

The evening is not there yet, however, the daylight has waned, grown softer, loosing its uncompromising brightness from an hour back, it does not flow in any more but keeps seeping imperceptibly thru the frame embounded glass dam in the balcony door.

Stretched supine, he props the sheer barrier up with his stare, not because of doubting the robustness of the structure or from a big-hearted tenor to back idly any contraption stability, just in case, but because you have to push your stare into something. Anything at all. That’s what a stare is for.

He blinks. Not often though.

No desires whatsoever.

And all his nagging, ever present thoughts are also not there. It does somehow not matter any more who he is, where from or what for. Who cares?

Look! There is the balcony door which you can push your stare into and this serene repose, and the caressing touch of the bed sheet fabric which covered all of the body from the blue mark “UF-3” all the way down to his very toes.

And sees he then that it is good. That all and everything’s so muchly good.

Well, really good, huh?

‘Mm-hmm’, agrees a soft voice by his side.

His head rolls slowly over, from its back onto the left temple. The light by the wall is even more subdued and, a bit too close to him, on the coach pillow there, dark curls stuck to the forehead in the sleeping face.

The face has no stare. It’s hidden away behind the curtain of eyelids twitching so lightly and pretty rarely when bounced at with the eyeballs shifting to follow the turns of whimsy current in a going-on dream.

Maya. Snug curves in the delineations of her lips and nostrils rounded so sweetly. The silky skin in her cheek streams up the ramp of her high cheek-bone.

Chris called her ‘Mulatto’. Might very well be so. Chris was an old-timer who should know.

From over there…

The lids jumped up setting her stare free, abruptly. The eyebrows leapt to their get-together in a squeeze over the nose bridge yet, in a split second, the spiky look switched over to recognition.

"Mmm. Freaked out at you… where’s the beard, Nob…"

"I’m Inokenty!"

"Whoa, man! Pope without his ID… And tomorrow what? A try to pass for Francis?.

A stallion from Vatican that’s who you are!.

Gimme a cigarette… Check the jeans over there."

His head rolls over to its opposite, right temple, then leaves the coach surface to hover over the floor as far as the neck allows.

A crumpled bump leans onto the leg, within the reach. His fingers collect the jeans cloth into a tighter lump to clutch and raise up at the outstretched arm’s length.

He slowly returns to his stretched out posture, the ball of the blue luminary up in the zenith over the coach…

Meanwhile, she had raised herself to sitting up already, her back leaned on the wall, the legs folded into an ankle-over-ankle relaxed asana of no strain, and cover them with a bed-sheet skirt underneath her navel.

A little below the mildly rounded shoulders, two flawless replicas of the dome of St. Peter's Basilica in Rome stand out in soft, horizontal projection, but instead of those silly superfluous spires, the tiny cupola of tender brownness in her nipples, of course…

She angles a nearly new pack from the pocket in her jeans and drops them back to straddle where they were before…

On the bedside table next to the low coach head-side, an ashtray sits next to a lighter tumbled to idle flatly.

Maya grabs it, setting the domes a-swaying yet those do not lose the slightest tittle of their impeccable sphericity. Her lips part for the milky white teeth to pincer and draw out one of the cigarettes which she lights up before adding the pack to the lighter in her right hand, and setting both next to the ashtray restoring its company, doubled, by the move.

In lazily slow meandering, up flow the blueish-white wafts thinning in leisurely swerves and tumbles, turning a transparent haze under the low ceiling.

"Why do you smoke?"

"For the over-nosey pryers to sniff at. Are you from the order of white-robed preachers?"

"How do you mean?"

"A bunch of SOBs who substitute 'Hare, Krishna' chant with 'Who gives up drink-and-smoke will die twice healthier than a horse!'”