Bang, bang, bang! Down one level in room 604, Dragunovich wrestled a rusty lug nut off of a pipe attached to the toilet in his suite’s bathroom. It should be noted that the burly man did so only after he cut a section out of the wall that exposed the pipe entirely.
“Bah!” Dragunovich said. He lifted his bulk off the floor. His once white dress shirt had become rancid with grime. “Where is device?”
Inside the sitting room, Vasiliev was decked out in a fluffy white robe, his hair slicked back after having taken a long, hot shower. He strummed a guitar. “Oh yeah, baby! I am funky American rock and star! Ladies, shake your tatushkas while I boogie down!”
The wannabe star’s partner’s shouts carried out of the bathroom. “Viktor! Bring me device!”
Vasiliev ignored Dragunovich’s command, opting instead to hop up on a table. He tickled the strings of his guitar furiously. “And now, a song I wrote all by myself! Show me…your tatushkas! Your big fake American tatushkas! Show me…your tatushkas! Your big fake American tatushkas!”
Oddly enough, the Russian had picked up some skills in his day. He shredded that axe and licked the end of his instrument as he performed for no one. “We’re going to bring…death to the West! But not before I see those big silicone breasts…so show me…your…tatushkas! Ow! Yes, baby! Dyn-o-mite!”
The show ended ever so abruptly when a roll of toilet paper collided with Vasiliev’s head. The rocker turned around to find a furious Dragunovich staring him down.
“Sergei!” Vasiliev said. “I am taking requests!”
“You will be requesting my foot out of your ass if you don’t make with the device,” Dragunovich said.
Vasiliev sighed. “Very well. And now, it is time for spoiled American rock star to trash hotel room with guitar in a rude and childish manner!”
The rocker jumped down to the floor. He raised the guitar high over his head and wacked it down on the table, over and over until the guitar cracked open.
Dragunovich was mortified. He rushed over just in time to catch the device he had been looking for. It was a long cannister, close in shape to a cardboard wrapping paper tube, except that it was black and made out of metal. The ends were closed off by caps and an attached strap made it easy to carry.
“This is more precious than your life!” Dragunovich said as he shook the tube.
Vasiliev smiled as he tossed the broken husk of what used to be a guitar away. “Come, comrade, let us make our motherland proud!”
Dragunovich nodded. The pair entered the bathroom.
“Wowee zowee, Sergei,” Vasiliev said as he took the tube from his partner and set it down ever so gently on the tile floor. He whistled as he surveyed the damage done to the wall. “You have really fucked this place up. I don’t think we are getting our deposit back.”
“Shut up, imbecile,” Dragunovich said as he attached the wrench to the lug nut. “Be useful, for once in your life.”
Vasiliev joined his partner and grabbed the wrench. Together, they counted to three, then turned, turned, turned until…voila! The nut was off and a spout was exposed. They dropped the wrench.
Dragunovich wiped the sweat from his brow. “Prime the specimen.”
Vasiliev picked up the tube. He flipped a switch and a small, touchscreen panel opened. He punched in a few digits, which caused a whoosh sound.
“Specimen is primed,” Vasiliev said.
Dragunovich removed one cap from the tube, then connected the device to the open spout. He hovered his finger over a blinking red button on the panel that read, “EXECUTE.”
“Hold on, comrade,” Vasiliev said.
“This is no time for cold feet, Viktor,” Dragunovich said.
“No one is having cold feet,” Vasiliev said. “It’s just that…don’t you think this solemn occasion must be memorialized with our most patriotic song?”
Dragunovich nodded. He put his arm around his partner and he began to sing. “Mother Russia! Mother Russia! You are so cold you freeze off my nuts! All the women have hairy butts! And the entire world wants to make you its putz!”
A tear rolled down Vasiliev’s cheek as he joined in. “Mother Russia! Mother Russia! You just got the 1980s action TV show Airwolf last week! Jan Michael Vincent is the best! Anyone who disagrees is a freak!”
The pair brought it home in unison. “Mother Russia! Mother Russia! The land where we sacrifice for the greater good! Don’t worry, you’re not missing much! Toilet paper isn’t even that good…”
Bookshelf Battle 