The Historical Slavic Tale

Part 5 - Sneeki Breeki & The Situation Twist

   ,,Aha! Very nice planes transporting slavs to safe zones." Boris smiled whilst looking up at the sky. His hands were leaned against his hips, making him look very proud--which he actually was. White, massive planes were crossing through the clouds like arrows. Every hour for the past three days, a group of them would show themselves up there. The week passed by really slowly due to the fact that almost everyone was staying tuned for news from the Western spies' base. Fortunately, things seemed to go very well for the Slav Team. 
   ,,Not nicer than mine." Letro murmured, frowning a little. He could be bad-ass slav, in a really attractive and well-looking tracksuit. But phew, he was also a too much proud person sometimes. Watching Boris' acts of amusement, Letro took a bite of his precious kielbasa, eventually taking shots of rakija to add a bonus slavic essence. For a moment he silently hoped that Boris didn't hear, but since no reaction came, he assumed himself to be fine. 
    Eventually, Boris came to squat beside Letro.
    ,,So, Letro, one of the most important pieces of southern Slavic Union... how is your day so far?" He asked with his familiar and possibly patented accent. 
    ,,Normal, yours, Slav Superstar?" Letro left eating his kielbasa for a moment as he decided to pay full attention to Boris. And what? It was his duty--and mostly decency. 
    ,,I can't say I'm happy and I can't say I'm satisfied." Boris shrugged his question off, someho venting his insecure feelings to Letro. 
    ,,How come?"
    ,,I can't be simply satisfied until this entire thing ends in our favor." 
    ,,Feel you..." Letro nodded, glancing around. There was really nothing interesting, only a sillouette of someone squatting in the distance. However, Letro wasn't completely sure who it could be. ,,Boris, who is that guy over there squatting?" He pointed over at him.
   ,,I can tell it's Mikaelovitch." Boris giggled after tilting his head in the direction and taking his time on guessing who the person was. ,,He's really bummed out since his bloodline left this place."
   ,,I see. He rants about missing her so much sometimes." Letro laughed. He was completely realizing it was not a funny thing, though, he still had to. There was a bit too much seriousness in the past days and it began bothering him on the highest level. ,,Looks like he's holding a cellphone." 
   ,,Does it?" Boris moved his sunglasses a little to focus his stare on Mikaelovitch. 
   ,,Mhm," Letro said, taking another bite of the kielbasa since he didn't do that from the start of their conversation. Talking to Boris was honorful, but every slav would understand that letting your kielbasa get cold is the original sin. ,,he's probably talking to Sasha or something. Collecting these very useful informations and curses about Western spies." 
   ,,Suspicious..." Boris put the sunglasses back fully on his nose again, turning serious in seconds. ,,That's Anton's job."
   ,,Well, maybe he just borrowed it from him! I wouldn't search for a bigger meaning, we've got enough drama for now." Letro stated. It was just when Mikaelovitch hung up and stood up to stretch his arms and legs. And so did the other side.

   Sasha shut down her old Nokia and shoved it back into her pocket. She let out a sigh as falling back on the westernish bed. It was way too much soft, nice-smelling with sheets designed by only one colour. That was hell for a Slav--now, why? First of all, when you come from Slavic countries, there's no use to own a soft bed. Your bed has to be at least a bit tough so your bones and muscles won't hurt and feel all mangled once you wake up. Especially when you're a hard-squatting slav who drags wooden logs all the way home so you can put something in to the fireplace and keep yourself and fellow gopniks warm. Also when you squat, your legs need to have some good rest--not to get burried into wet-sand-like top of a bed, blin! Second of all is the odd, perfectionistic smell. They spray your bedsheets with chemistric parfumes, just no! As a slav, you need to smell the essence of blins, shashlik and vodka. And then the last one--one-coloured bed sheets? WHAT THE BLYAT IS THAT?! We're not used to that! Where are our traditional babushka's striped sheets?  It was really a struggle for a slav to handle the Western life. 
   Someone knocked on the door. Sasha desperately hoped for it to be Yoshka, so she doesn't have to deal with more Amerikanski accent. It was starting to get on her nerves, she wanted to make a slippery-slope plan and make them all pull off straight into a trap. But they were way too doubting and cowardly for such a massive strike. Their strategy was to take the Slavic Union piece by piece by sending spies and attacking innocent people, or scumming on important Slavic sights. Their only big and "worth-it" move was when they've decided to provoke and possibly injure them by attacking The Place. When it came to war, these people sucked really badly. What was the point of them starting something up, then? They probably thought they were actually good in that. But that's where they went terribly wrong. Slavic silence doesn't mean fear at all, as they apparently thought.
   She sat on the bed.
   ,,Come in!" 
   The door opened. For Sasha's luck, it really was Yoshka. How glad she was for that. Yoshka stepped in and closed the door behind her as she made her way towards her friend, and co-worker. 
   ,,This place sucks a lot, right?" She let out a sigh, most likely feeling the same way as Sasha. 
   ,,Believe it or not." Sasha giggled. ,,We need to make them fall into the trap. As soon as possible." 
   ,,That will happen. They're so easy to manipulate, really." Yoshka nodded, jumping on the bed. She self-confidentaly laid down and stretched, yawning. ,,It's so uncomfortable!"
   ,,I know, I know. We should get some sleep though, anyways." She pointed out, unwillingly laying down beside her. The entire days are nothing but shit-talking and theoretizing, and listening to these craps can be exhausting. However, not everyone would expect that--even they didn't.