Day 125: Wednesday, February 10, 2010:  The circus called again, but they need a bigger tent.

Severance Pay: Continued from Day 124 . . .

ALSO 1:00 PM:  The Perpetual Motion: Ferg’s grey Camaro rumbled loudly into the parking lot of Perpetual Motion and slid to a stop in front of the door.  A radical racing cam bumped and pushed out over 500 horses before the engine was shut down, and windows stopped vibrating.   

Matviy  saw a shadow blowing past the bar as he said, “Hey,” nodding to the barback, who said “Hey!” to Janelle, who stopped and turned.

It was early in the day for customers, and four state workers nursed beers at the runway, ignoring a woman who used to wrestle in Mexico, now biting a dull brass pole while slapping her own breasts.

The two Ukrainians looked at Janelle’s Boston Bruins jersey and spoke to each other very quickly, in their native tongue.

Janelle said, “Rарний місце (Nice place), and spit on the floor in disgust.

The two men stared, and held the following conversation in Ukrainian:

“Why are you wearing that funny football jersey, little girl?”

“Hockey, you fucking donkey.  Hiding the scars of a back street abortion.”

Janelle sighed with sadness, looking around and approaching the bar.  “These are the things of a stripper, eh?  We know of such things?”

“We know of such things.  What are you looking for?”

“I’m looking for you, of course.  Why else would I enter such an underground shit hole full of disease and lonely fucking people?  Blow me.”

The two men fall in love.

“This dancing woman,” Janelle said, fishing a cigarette out of her purse; looking toward the stage.  “This is what you attract in the dead penis hours?”

She lit a cigarette and inhaled as the men elbowed one another.  “No smoking in here!”

Janelle turned very slowly and stared.  “You didn’t answer my question, fuck face.”

“They have smoking laws to shut us down.”

She blew smoke at them. “You scare easy for a strong looking idiot.  Where’s Victor?”

An evil smile crept across Matviy’s face.  “You know Victor?”

“Intimately.”

“Then you know where to find him.”

Janelle blew a smoke ring and studied her prey.  “Sorry about your mother and all, you know.”

The evil smile faded.  “Uh . . . do I know you?”

“Victor talks in his sleep.”

“Really.”

“No shit for brains, I’m making things up now.”

Matviy sighed and looked down; Janelle’s cigarette completely forgotten as the muscle bound barback moved away, giving them space.

“Don’t hide from me,” she said.  “Don’t change things away from what you did.”

Her eyes locked and held him.

“I was just a boy -”

“I know,” Janelle said, moving closer.  “But not for our country, eh?  You should never drink and talk about things so far away, with so much time and distance.  Things you cannot control.  What would the old people say who passed their precious stories of Stalin and what he did?  What would they think of your fucking weakness now, tовариш?  Would they roll out a red carpet, or send you crawling back to this pathetic Yankee shithole?”

Janelle exhaled another perfect ring as his eyes came up.  “Aмериканський сновидіння (American dream),” she said, smoke drifting toward his face like a small white life preserver.  “Give me a fucking break.”

“You cut pretty deep,” he said.  “You’re bleeding my heart.” 

“What you did and where you are now has killed everything you came after, and everyone back home, believe me.”

A tear glistened in his eye, as Janelle put her cigarette out on the bar and leaned closer. 

Kill switch engaged; imprison their souls and bring on Victor.

To be continued . . .