Tracklist:
Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door – Bryan Ferry
Begin the Beguine – Artie Shaw & His Orchestra
Lone Red-Tailed Hawk – Allen Bruce Ray
14
Duke Konstantin Nichego dreamed. The images that passed through his slumbering mind were shocking and indecent, the furthest from anything found in a normal and healthy psyche, unless, of course, the person reading this is also a power-mad Russian mafia boss with a fetish for women’s hosiery, in which case the dreams were perfectly acceptable. He dreamed of being a slim foot of size seven (women’s), of being washed, powdered, and manicured, of sliding into the thick cotton of an athletic sock, ready for a jog through the park, a sweaty yoga session, or a lazy morning spent trying on silk stockings and watching HSN.
It was not meant to be, however, because the dream girl stubbed her silly toe on a doorjamb. Duke Nichego gasped, suddenly awake and his head throbbing in pain.
Everything was as pitch black as the inside of the Devil’s underpants and a soft material pressed on his face and body. Given the subject of his recent dream, this confused the Duke more than a little. He would have fallen asleep again if not for the pain coming from a large bump on the back of his head.
The Duke flailed his arms and struck hard, unyielding surfaces on all sides. He began to panic, imagining that he’d been buried alive. The fearsome mob boss kicked, cursed, and screamed at the top of his voice.
After long effort that produced only bruises and a ringing in his ears, the Duke gave up. Tears rolled from his eyes, something that should happen to a grown man only at the end of Star Trek II, or when he’s been told that Pauley Shore is still alive.
“Please, God,” he whispered. “I promise to be a good person! I’ll give all my money to widows and orphans! I’ll go to church and live a simple life, maybe as an insurance salesman or manager for a local progressive-rock band!”
A voice spoke faintly in the dark, as if filtered through the unknowable thickness of Satan’s unmentionables.
“No more socks.”
Nichego gritted his teeth and kicked against the sides of his coffin, redoubling his efforts. He quickly exhausted what little strength was left.
“Very well, Mister God,” he said. “I’ll return the socks I stole from women. If they are in prison it’ll be easy. Not so much if they are hiding or somehow drive boat to Alaska.”
Covered in the strange shroud and surrounded on all sides by silent walls, he felt and heard the beating of his heart.
“What else, Mister God?”
“Give your driver a raise of twenty-thousand rubles and a house and Diner’s Club.”
Metal squealed and the cloth was pulled from Nichego’s face.
“That is good joke, yes?” said Vassily.
Nichego squinted against the bright light. “It is such good joke I will use it for your tombstone. Possibly today.”
Vassily pulled white nylon material off Nichego and helped him out of a sturdy wooden crate.
“This is parachute cloth,” said Nichego. “I was in Soviet Air Force––I know parachute cloth.”
“You are correct, as always,” said Vassily. He waved at the inside of a wide hangar lined with boxes and machine tools. The building was empty of aircraft apart from an old helicopter, upon which “Tony’s Sightseeing Tours” had been painted in flamboyant, cursive script.
Nichego pointed to an open box identical to the one he’d just escaped, also filled with white parachute cloth.
“How did you get out?”
Vassily shrugged. “They made mistake and forgot to lock my box. From his speech, the man-lady in the white coat was in a hurry.”
“Dean’s father?”
Vassily nodded. “I heard them talking. It is possible they flew airplane to Cincinnati, Ohio, but hearing is difficult when locked in box and wrapped in parachute.”
Nichego touched the bump on the back of his head. “We must leave in airplane, too, because I have score to settle with this older man-lady. Also with tiny gnome who is Dean’s mother, nerd-boy Chip, and one other person.”
“Who is that?”
Nichego sneered. “Dean Cook.”