for vengeance pales to your cravings,' said The Major.

'Come now,' Medvelov chuckled. 'I never devised a plan for my life after leaving Gimry. Everything happened through happenstance.'

'Doubtful,' The Major snuffled.

Explained Medvelov: 'I was a young boy with a different name when the Russian Army rode into Gimry. My father was one of the village leaders; his name is Shamil. My mother -the third of six wives- played a diminutive role rearing me. Instead, I drank from a collective teat. Well, it's easy to get pushed aside when you're the second youngest of nine siblings, all boys. Left to my devices, I got cozy with the few books available in Gimry; I drew pictures and wrote.

' _Humph_...introspectiveness and creativity weren't characteristics my father valued. Why would he? Iman Shamil,create a deplorable ruckus. No hands can grope my garments.'

'Yes, raise h——,' Medvelov seconded. 'Make the mestnaya work for their ribbon.'

'Doing what?' asked I.

'Fall down...fall into a soldier...fall into _something_ ,' Medvelov said.

'If all fails, I'm shooting my way in,' The Major announced.

'Relax, old man,' Medvelov said. 'Over the last few days, our comrade author has honed the art of distraction.'

The Major didn't appear mollified: he patted his chest every couple seconds until I was confident he'd let unload his diminutive arsenal into anyone wearing a gray uniform. The sluggish movement of the partygoers didn't help...

I side-eyed Medvelov; he side-eyed The Major; The Major stared dagger at the grand entry.

_So much for certainty,_ I thought.

An impatient fellow in front of us fussed to the woman beside him, 'Believe