The Ballad of Nixon and Brezhnev

Epilogue

The typical bustle of senators and staffers bustled through the Capitol, but down in a corner bar, out of sight from the press, Nixon sat sipping a bourbon, the ice clinking softly as he swirled the glass. Despite the difficult years after his presidency, he maintained an unwavering calculation and sharpness in his eyes. Standing beside him was Ronald Reagan, who was still in the throes of his second term and exuded that signature Hollywood charm. He seemed to be carrying the weight of the office like a well-delivered line in a film.

Reagan laughed, slapping the bar top lightly. "Dick, I tell ya, the way you handled those Soviets back there—brilliant. You had them right where you wanted 'em. That whole détente business, though, I never quite bought into it."

Nixon smirked, taking a sip before responding. "Détente was never meant to be a friendship, Ron. It was a game. And the trick was making them think they had the upper hand when, really, they were playing into our strategy. Brezhnev... well, he thought he was smarter than he was." He let the statement hang, the bitterness of old rivalries barely concealed behind the bureaucratic smile.

Reagan raised his glass. "Well, whatever you did, it laid the damn groundwork. But trust me, it's a different ballgame now. They're holding onto their empire by the skin of their teeth, and I'm gonna make sure the skin tears. Hell, I'd summon fuckin' Cthulhu in the middle of Koreatown, if that's what it takes." He chuckled; the sound almost too easy. "I heard Brezhnev once joked about selling the Union for a slice of pizza."

Nixon let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "If only it were that shit easy. But those boys in Moscow—they never fold that cleanly."

"Maybe," Reagan replied, raising his glass again, this time with more gravity, "but I think you'll find I have a knack for showbiz—and for knocking down walls."

---

In Moscow, however, the atmosphere was less tense on the inside but more laid back on the outside. A fire roared in the hearth of Brezhnev's old dacha, and the air smelled strongly of something very un-Russian. The youthful Mikhail Gorbachev and the elderly Soviet leader shared a table with a slightly rumpled, greasy pizza box with the slogan "Geneva's Finest" plastered over the top.

Brezhnev, looking much older than in his days sparring with Nixon, chuckled as he pulled out a slice, holding it up like a prize. "Brought this all the way from Geneva. Imagine that! A Premier dragging pizza across Europe. They call it diplomacy now. Ha!"

Gorbachev, more restrained in his laughter but visibly amused, took the offered slice. "Times change, Leonid. And maybe we should be taking a closer look at how diplomacy really works these days."

Brezhnev leaned back in his chair, a glint of humor still in his eyes. "Ah, but here's a question, Mikhail: You'd never sell the Union for a spot in a pizza commercial, would you? You know, for a slice of the capitalist pie?" His laugh was a rumbling, wheezy thing now, the joke coming out half-serious.

Gorbachev's smile faltered for just a moment. "Боже мой, конечно же нет," he said, brushing off the comment. "But there might be other things we'll need to sell to survive. Change is coming, whether we want it or not."

Brezhnev took a bite of the pizza, chewing slowly, his gaze fixed on Gorbachev. "Change, da. But some things... some things you should never let go of. Remember that, Mikhail. Remember it very clearly."

With laughter and pizza and a future neither of them completely knew, the two men sat across from one other while the fire crackled and cast long shadows on the dacha's walls. Brezhnev was beginning to fade, and young and ambitious Gorbachev was still not fully aware of what was ahead. However, they pretended that tonight was still simply a game with lower stakes than it actually was.

Note from the Author:

I honestly don't know why I needed to narrate this entire shitshow and compile it into this book. It has been a week, and my back is still killing me for somebody my age. I'm currently listening to Godless by The Dandy Warhols on Zune, as I'm typing this. I download albums from Limewire, these days. I'm going to go to the pharmacy, after this, to get some pain relievers. You know, the one with a symbol in which a serpent is coiling around a stick. Or, is that just every drug store ever?