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|Indeed, another story (this one's not as goofy) by Glass Slipper, AKA me. If you don't know who Glass Slipper is, you should read Glo 'the Bug' Bowden's Trench Coats and Love Notes. Yes, I have her permission to post. http://www.elfwood.com/libr/g/b/gbowden2/trench_coats_and_love_notes01.htm.html Well, this is the story of Spoon and how he became his cooky self. Oh yes, and we can't forget Olga, can we? His sweet, accident prone little Persian is but a kitten here. Awww! I should mention again that I have absolutely nothing against Russians. Yes, I have permission to post. Enjoy!||
The blizzard blew hard through the Siberian winter, encasing the building in thick layers of snow. Through the sixth floor window, past the barbed wire and various land mines, the genius behind the security measures could be seen, his tiny white Persian kitten purring in his arms.
“It may never end, my sweet Olga.” The mad-scientist-looking man clad in a military uniform said in fluid Russian. “These Americans. So arrogant. So stubborn. We sit on top of our store of ingenious weaponry. We wait. We stare at each other. And nothing happens.” He began to pace the room, stroking the kitten.
“Nothing at all, precious. A complete standstill. You’re right, of course. It can’t last forever. Alas, my many plans of action through these long years have all been rejected, but I have yet to find the plan.” He set her gingerly on his Italian leather chair behind a beautiful mahogany desk. Olga curled up and began to droop her eyes as one of the top military leaders in all of Russia stared at a chess board on the desk.
“No. No. No. That’s not it.” He moved a white knight forward, only to pull it back. He did this quite often, and Olga began to snore. “If only everyone was as clever as you and I, the great Silver Spoon, Olga! I, who have invented the most sophisticated military weaponry in all of Russia!” He had given himself the name secretly in case things ever went wrong, as they seemed to be headed down that very path. A chunk of his inheritance money seemed to be going down the drain, and though he had plenty to spare, it made him uneasy.
“Action. Perhaps the Americans are afraid to fight Mother Russia?” He moved a black queen back a space. “Perhaps there are those within our own ranks that are scared as well.” He moved toward his partially open closet door and straitened the mauve bowtie next to his lab coat before closing it.
“Well, best prepare for the worst, my sweet. If some on the inside are indeed thinking things over, there may be a need for our own defense. I shall return shortly.” He swept through the door and made sure all nine locks were in place. His dear Olga, his only friend, must be kept safe. After all he went through to save her from that mad experimenting lunatic that claimed to be helping her. Like any cat could be made to live for so long and survive through such madness as he claimed. The very idea of these experiments made Spoon nauseous. At least he’d managed to save his kitty and stop that madman. These thoughts spun through his mind as a young officer, looking rather frightened as though Spoon might kill him on sight, stepped forward.
“Sir. A transmission just came in from sector four. They request a reply immediately.” The frightened young man gulped.
“What’s this?” Spoon asked in his all too smooth voice, snatching the paper from the shaking fingers. “Oh. I’ll reply, all right. You shall reply for me, yes? Tell General Gorbachyov that next time he would like an immediate reply to make sure he has his sector in perfect order. His sloppiness is nothing short of appalling.” Spoon read the transmission from the General. “Oh yes, and tell him to keep his abnormally crooked nose out of my personal business.”
“Y…y..yes, Sir.” The poor young man would most likely loose his rank for being so straight forward to the General, but Spoon merely strutted off toward the engineering department, muttering Russian curses under his breath.
“Sir, it’s good that you’ve arrived.” A man in a white lab coat greeted him at the door. “We’ve been having a spot of trouble with the Nameless Dwarf, and thought you might be able to lock down the…”
“Really?” Spoon’s glare could have killed had his small, round glasses been in place. “I was under the impression that you were…oh, what’s the word I’m looking for…professionals?”
“Um…” the other man started, “Oh! I…uh…just meant that none of us have your…uh…great intellect and are unable to work such genius that you, the great Silver Spoon, do…Sir.” A grin at once appeared on Spoon’s face.
“Ah, yes. Well, I’ll take a look at it this afternoon. For now, I have my own little project to work on.”
After going through his security measures, Silver Spoon was in his own private sector of the lab. A workbench sat in the center of the room, and a greenish light came from the ceiling, though no light fixture could be seen. A half-finished android of some sort was in a pile in the corner. Spoon stepped forward and picked up an ebony and silver cane on the workbench. Apparently this was another one of his inventions. He smoothed his hand over the walking stick and grasped the handle slowly. Schssshhhshshhiiiiing! A steel sword of elegant design was pulled slowly out of its sheath.
Ah, what a sweet sound. He chuckled to himself. The good ol’ days of training. No one appreciates the grand art of swordsmanship nowadays. Something to my advantage, indeed. He turned over the sword, checking his finished work. I highly doubt those American’s have any experience, sitting on their little stores of destructive forces. He re-sheathed his creation, chuckling again, and walked casually out the door.
“Sir, did you have that…”
“…when I came in? Of course I did, you unobservant know-it-all!” Spoon glared again at the same lab coat-clad inventor and walked toward his office. “Watch yourself, comrade, or it will be you who is called in to be our next top secret…project.” The man in the coat nodded, not wanting to know what Spoon meant by “project”. Rumors ran wild in a place like this.
Olga glanced up as Spoon returned.
“Yes, my dear kitty, but I shan’t let it get under my skin.” As he moved to stare out the window, Olga’s ear twitched at the all-too-annoying sound of a mosquito buzzing around her head.
“(Russian curse word)!” Spoon whirled on the spot. “How many times have I ordered the biological weapon sector to keep a complete lockdown?!” He snatched up the phone and dialed a quick number. “WHAT do you mean, BUSY?! Do you know who this IS?! It is I! Don’t act like you don’t know!! Get me Admiral Putin at once, you fool!” Olga stood up and began to swipe at the mosquito while Spoon stared muttering again.
“Admiral! Do you know who this is?! Good.” The mosquito began its retreat, and Olga pursued it atop the desk. “Tell, me, Admiral, just how many times have I politely asked you to ensure that your specimen stay within your lab?” The real answer, with the “politely” clause, was zero.
“Several, Sir. I’ve just been telling my crew to take it up a notch.” The answer buzzed through the receiver. Olga swiped the air with a newfound determination.
“Oh. Is that so, my comrade? Then how do you explain this?!” He held the phone out towards the mosquito. “HA! Tell me, Admiral, could you hear that pesky little buzzing creature in my office? No? It seems that you’ve lost your touch then. Yes.”
“NO! NOOOOO!!!” The muffled voice on the other end desperately began to defend himself. “Give me another chance! I’ll work with the supercomputer! I…I can…I’ll…” Spoon sighed.
“I’ll be reporting this. Just thought I’d let you know.” He absent-mindedly began to move a white pawn to the right. “Have a grand day, comrade.”
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!” The soon-not-to-be Admiral let out a cry of despair as Olga made a leap into the air. Spoon hung up the phone.
“What are we going to do about these slackers, my dear?” Spoon moved around the desk and sat in his chair. “How are we supposed to win this war when all we have are slacking officers who sit around throwing empty threats to the Americans?” He removed his round spectacles and rubbed his eyes. Olga made a desperate leap and caught the mosquito in her fluffy paws. By doing so, several chess pieces were knocked around the board by her landing. The black pieces were mostly knocked over, a few leaned on each other for support, and only one remained standing. The white pieces stood triumphant and had taken over many spots that had previously been home to the black. Spoon slowly looked up as the buzzing stopped.
“My sweet! You have been victorious in your pursuit!” He saw a blurry vision of ruined strategy. “But what is this? Don’t worry, my dear, I can’t be angry at you. And what is more, my elite brain capacity has memorized the previous locations of the…” As he put his glasses on his face, the pieces came into focus.
“That’s it! THAT’S IT! Why, Olga!” He picked her up and spun her around. “You’ve really done it now! You dear little kitty-cat! The solution to all of our problems! If you can’t get it done right, do it yourself! YES!” He got a crazed look on his face. “Why, it’s ingenious! We shall start at once!” A laugh began to bubble up inside of him; not a normal laugh, but a crazed, villainous laugh that would haunt his enemies in the days to come. It resounded through his office, echoing off the walls. The sound died out, and he hastily began to make all sorts of phone calls and transmissions, planning a meeting in which to present his (or rather, Olga’s) brilliant plan of attack to his comrades.
The next day, Silver Spoon’s fury was unleashed upon his office as he packed a few belongings into a small carpetbag. “So they want to take away my position, do they?!” He threw a fine glass paperweight into the bottom of the bag. “They think my plan is too drastic, do they?!”
“Yes, you are right, my sweet. It seems Khrushchev and his little friends have gone insane. He once thought as I did. We were partners and now…They don’t know what power this could bring Mother Russia!!! Do they know of her potential?! Do they even fathom what this could bring?! Why, if we’d only take action, Mother Russia would be the dominating force on the planet! Ouch!” He cut his arm on a shard of broken glass.
“Yes, yes. I know. I mustn’t let my temper get a hold of me. But I still hate glass things.” He pulled the now broken paperweight out of the bag with a look of hatred and tossed it into the garbage can. “I must keep my head if I am to go through with my plans. After all, without armies at my command, the plan could take years to pull off.” He picked up the white fluff and began to stroke her head. “And I must plan my escape. I very well can’t let them lock me up whilst I work out my plan, can I?” He looked down at the cat. “That is where you come in, my sweet. If I am captured, you will have to go into hiding. I shall have to send you somewhere…safe until things settle down. I shall have to use a bit more inheritance funding.”
Spoon hastily picked up his phone and ripped out the wires.
“They’ll be tracing all my calls. I must be cautious.” He rewired the phone and picked up the receiver. “Yes, I’d taken quite an interest in your home for sale.” He tried to cover up his Russian accent to the American quite unsuccessfully as he droned on in English, “Yes, I understand it’s a grand estate. Quite secluded, isn’t it?” He stroked Olga’s head once again. “I’ll take it.”
Roughly an hour and a half later, several military personnel, lead by his old partner, who had rejected his plan and declared him mad, came bursting into his office as he sat in his chair, chuckling and wringing his hands. He looked up slowly, glaring at his comrades. “Traitors to your own cause. Ha!” There were too many. He couldn’t take them all. Why had they come so soon? Perhaps they had seen him sending Olga off? He thought not. Spoon stared as the speech was recited to him, declaring him under arrest. He had no means of escape! All that time he spent ensuring Olga’s safety, he forgot to prevent his own capture. At least she’d be safe. He slowly took a metal off of his jacket and slammed it on the desk.
“You can’t keep me hidden forever, Yuri, my old friend. Someday I’ll be back.” He growled.
“Sir, requesting permission to speak.” A voice sounded over the communicator. Khrushchev sat outside the building gathering his thoughts in the chilling air ten years later.
“Sir…he…h…He’s gone.” As he heard these dreaded words, fear that had been inside of Khrushchev seemed to burst inside of him, and his old partner’s last threat echoed inside of his head.
“When?” he whispered.
“This morning, sir.”
“Thank you, General.” He pushed a button on his communicator, closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples. A small click made his eyes open, and he looked up into the barrel of Spoon’s old semi-automatic; the weapon that had been locked in Khrushchev’s office five minutes before. An all-too-familiar voice resounded.
“Hello, my old friend.”
“Meow?” Olga leaped from her favorite spot and ran towards the door.
“Hello, my pet! Ah, it has been far too long. Now we can finally begin on our old plans!” He picked her up and stroked her villainously. “You’ve gotten so big! Look what I stole back for you, my sweet!” He pulled out of a lab coat pocket a small cat toy and handed it to his precious kitty.
“Yes, yes. We must plan carefully.” He set his cane against the wall and straightened his bowtie. “We must begin on the inside…find out their…secrets…” He threw an old chess board onto the coffee table and slowly broke each black piece. After ten years of imprisonment by the government that had (in his mind) turned on him, it seemed that the infamous Silver Spoon had finally gone completely mad. He threw back his head and let out a maddening laugh of victory.
|Twas the Night Before Christmas||Wind-surfing|