The Ballad of Nixon and Brezhnev

Chapter 5 - Vodka v. Whiskey

The room had grown quieter as the evening went on, and there was a strong aroma of alcohol and cigar smoke in the air. Nixon was leaning back in his chair, holding a half-empty glass of whiskey, while Brezhnev sat across from him, drinking his own beverage, a tall shot glass of clear Russian vodka. Slowly but surely, the tension of the night had given way to a different kind of conflict between them, one centered more on pride than strategy.

"You see, Dick," Brezhnev began, swirling his glass and raising it to the light, "vodka is not just a drink. It is the spirit of the Soviet people. Clean, strong, unwavering. It brings us together, makes us endure the winters and hardships. One drink, and you are ready for anything!" With a dramatic flourish, he slammed the glass back onto the table to end the shot.

Nixon snorted, his face red from the liquor and maybe some residual anger from the poker game. "Yeah, well Leon, let me tell you something about American whiskey. This—" he raised his glass, amber liquid catching the light— "this is the drink of freedom. Bold, rich, and it doesn't go down easy. Just like our nation. It's for men who carve their own path." He sipped slowly and thoughtfully, his gaze never leaving Brezhnev's.

Brezhnev chuckled, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Path? Maybe in America, you drink to numb that path, da?" He grinned widely, pleased with his jab. "But in Russia, we drink to remember our strength, to remind ourselves of the motherfucking power of the Motherland!"

Nixon's smile stiffened. "Oh, come on, Leon, you can't tell me you actually prefer that stuff over a real man's drink." He pointed to Brezhnev's shot glass dismissively. "That's friggin' water, right there."

Brezhnev's face lit up with mock offense. "Water? Water?" He let out a booming laugh. "Richard, my friend, you insult me! This is the lifeblood of our people! You Americans... you drink whiskey like it's fucking medicine, too afraid to feel the full power of real vodka."

Nixon leaned forward, his voice thick with sarcasm. "Yeah, well, we don't have to drink like it's a national duty just to survive a hellhole Siberian winter."

Brezhnev's eyes glinted with amusement, but there was a sharp edge to his grin. "Ah, but maybe if you did, you wouldn't be such a softy."

Nixon lost his rage, slamming his whiskey glass to the ground, the liquor gushing over the sides. Nixon was always vulnerable to slights, real or perceived. "Soft? You think Americans are fucking soft? We built the greatest nation on earth, Leonid! We didn't need Goddamn vodka to do it."

With a shrug, Brezhnev poured himself another shot, unconcerned by Nixon's fury. "Perhaps Dick, but the greatest nation on earth doesn't need to boast so much, no?" He raised his glass and downed it in one smooth motion, smirking as Nixon's jaw tightened.

Henry Kissinger and Andrei Gromyko sat at a tiny table across the room, watching the discussion play out like a slow-motion auto collision. Kissinger moaned and massaged his temples, as Gromyko remained expressionless, hands folded over his lap. Both men understood this debate had long since strayed from its intended path, but neither dared to step in.

Kissinger leaned over to Gromyko, whispering, "Well, this shitshow is going better than I imagined." His voice dripped with sarcasm.

Gromyko, expressionless, replied in a deadpan tone, "I did not expect diplomacy to devolve into a drinking contest, but here we are. Шука блять."

Meanwhile, Nixon, his frustration mounting, poured himself another whiskey. "I'll tell you something, Leon," he slurred slightly, holding his belch, pointing his finger in Brezhnev's direction. "Whiskey—bourbon, specifically—that's what men drink when they're making decisions that fucking matter. When they're running the free world. It's not about quantity, it's about the fucking quality."

Brezhnev raised an eyebrow, refilling his shot glass with a smug smile. "Quantity and quality, my dear Richard. You forget—Russia has been here for centuries. We have history, tradition. You say whiskey is for decision-makers, but vodka? Vodka is for survivors. And we, the Soviet Union, we survive everything. Fucking, everything."

Nixon leaned in closer, his eyes narrowed and voice low. "Survive, sure. Yeah, yeah...survival, sure. But you're not thriving. Not like the God-blessed America."

Brezhnev's smile faded slightly, his eyes hardening. "Perhaps we do not thrive in the way you think, Richard. But the Soviet people...we endure, for sure. We do not give up when things are hard."

The two men gazed at one another across the table, their drinks serving as metaphorical weapons in an ego-war. Sensing the mounting tension, Kissinger cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, perhaps we could—"

But before he could finish, Nixon threw back the rest of his whiskey, slamming the glass on the table. "I'll tell you what, Leonid," he said, his voice thick with drunken confidence, "let's settle this shit right here, right now. You think vodka's so fucking great? I'll drink you under the table."

Brezhnev grinned, his competitive spirit flaring to life. "Challenge accepted, Dick."

Kissinger closed his eyes, knowing what would happen eventually. Gromyko didn't say anything, but he moved a little in his chair, like he was preparing for what was going to happen next in the farce.

With the vodka and whiskey bottles positioned directly in front of each leader, the evening quickly turned from lighthearted banter into a full-fledged power struggle. As the leaders of the two world-powers sank into inebriated ridiculousness, each shot became a symbol and each drink an implicit proclamation of superiority.

By the time the final glass was emptied, both men were slurring their words, their bravado long since replaced by woozy laughter. Brezhnev leaned over the table, barely able to sit upright, but still grinning. "So... we agree, сучка рыгать," Brezhnev holding his belch, "vodka is better, da?"

Nixon, equally inebriated, waved him off with a chuckle. "Nah, you're out of your mind. Whiskey... definitely whiskey."

The two guys chuckled at each other, rivals engaged in a losing struggle that neither was prepared to give up on. After the laughing died down, Kissinger and Gromyko looked at each other wearily. What little dignity remained had been destroyed by the anarchy that had taken over the night.