Mugging in Moscow

    He was dressed all wrong: ten gallon hat, denim duster, cowboy boots, caked in dust as if he’d just staggered out of some spaghetti western, not into a nice quiet neighborhood pub in the heart of Chicago. Rocco took a wondering sip of his bourbon and made no bones about staring at this apparition in the mirror. Between the brim of that astounding hat and the bar’s dim lighting, only the jut of the stranger’s bearded chin was visible.
    “Barkeep!” The stranger growled. Rocco watched Sal make a slow turn, knife in one hand, lime wedge in the other.
    “What can I do for you?” Oh, that voice. She could have made a killing as a phone sex operator.
    “I want a Mugging in Moscow,” he replied, and it wasn’t a growl, Rocco realized. His voice was just that deep.
    Sal dropped the lime into its bowl and licked her thumb meditatively.
    “Not a chance.”
    “Woman, I have drunk quingke jui flavored with the sweat from the testicles of a water buffalo! Strawberry Surprise made with weapons grade capsaicin! I have circumnavigated the globe twice looking for you. So let’s get this over with. Give me the drink.”
    She leaned forward and peered into the shadows where his eyes would be.
    “You found me. Good for you. Got insurance?” She bared her teeth in what might have been called a smile if one were hopelessly naive or blind, which Rocco wasn’t. The stranger  grinned back and slid a wallet out of his breast pocket. He flipped a card onto the bar top and let her study it. She did, not touching.
    “C’mon babe, give me a chance.” Rocco expected blood at that. Sal was famous for her aversion to anonymous pet names but she didn’t react. Rocco glanced between them; maybe not so anonymous?
    She assembled what she needed: a bottle of cinnamon Stoli from the wire rack in front of the mirror, grenadine, two small containers from the cooler, a metal shaker. She muddled a handful of pomegranate seeds in the shaker, added a lavish amount of the vodka, an ounce of grenadine, and then put the shaker aside. When she popped the lid on the second container, Rocco saw small, angry-looking peppers.
    “What are those?” He asked. The stranger removed his hat and set it on the bar in a small cloud of dust.
    “Naja Viper. Hottest pepper in the world.” They both watched as Sal took one, trimmed the stem, and pressed the rest into juicy pulp over the mouth of the shaker. She lidded it, shook, set the thing in a styrofoam cooler, and dug the fire extinguisher out from under the counter. She gave the shaker a ten second blast and set the extinguisher aside. Finally, she strained the drink into a tumbler and slid it to the stranger, silent.
    “I’ll drink this,” he rasped, “and you’ll give me a second chance. And you’ll stop griping about Amarillo.”
    “Deal.” she smiled, “Now drink up.”

   

#24 Blut und Kartoffeln

2 years. 9 months. 24 days. 168,902 potatoes. Possibly 168,903. Many, many potatoes.How he hated them, rough, plain, with filthy skins and tumorous eyes. He dreamed of them in the ground and out, planted and harvested, peeled and cooked. They were ubiquitous, dense and earthy, central to every meal. Too often, because he was still clumsy and unaccustomed, the wickedly sharp knife slipped in his fingers. His rusty blood would stain- that taint again- the naked tubers. They were freckled and pasty as Irishmen. Disgusting.

    He rolled his lip against his teeth, felt the reassuring tug of his tiny little moustache, and refocused on his work. It was enough to comfort him, never mind that it was attached by a patch of spirit gum.  It reminded him of better times. He’d done many things to survive. The inside of his left forearm arm bore a letter ‘H’ and a string of 5 numbers in dark blue ink. He lived and dressed as a servant woman. He permitted the farm foreman what liberties he demanded in exchange for safety. Terrible things, yet the two that stung the most, that truly pained him deep in his soul, were the loss of his moustache- that last symbol of power and majesty- and having to swallow vichyssoise, or mash, or caldo verde, all of them made, however incidentally, with his blood.
    He reminded himself to keep his knees pinched together. The skirt could easily become a chute for the potatoes in his lap if he forgot himself. He cut into the next jacket. 168,903 or 4? He reminded himself that it was like a hero cycle. A true king must suffer, and expiate his weakness before he could confront his enemies and dance on their bones. Ulysses languished for years as a sex slave before he won his freedom. Perhaps he even peeled his share of potatoes. A shame that proper Germanic heroes wouldn’t work here. They didn’t suffer, they merely died. Dying he refused to do so necessity demanded he seek his heroes in other cultures.
    Work boots stomped up the steps and onto the porch. He could feel the vibration through his shoes.
    “Dolores!” It was Guilherme, in from the fields. He dropped the potato to his lap and snatched at the moustache. It tugged hard at his lip, finally parted with a slow stinging zzzzzzzip! and he tucked it into the cuff of his sleeve. He fumbled with the vegetable and hunched over his work.  The door at his back swung open with a long creak and he felt the weight of the foreman’s hand on his shoulder. “There you are. What’s for dinner?”
    “I thought a potato omelet and greens.” He said, pitching his voice higher as Guilherme demanded. He held his breath until the foreman grunted assent and stomped away, probably on his way to the parlor for his pipe. Adolph sighed and finished the potato quickly. Each day was a  triumph of the will, he reminded himself: one day survived, one day conquered. One day closer to his eventual resurrection. He stared blindly at the window-framed view of the Braganca district with its sloping green hills. He would endure.

It was a very long way from Berchtesgaden.