Home Forums Hunting & Shooting Canada A Short Cold War Story

If the Commies can write about that once proud institution Abercrombie & Fitch - now a pale image of its former self - I can write about some bygone exploits in Osteuropa. Nicht wahr, Tony?

Have no fear, it concerns hunting, but of a different kind.

Hey Ivan, I know where you are!
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About 30 years ago, I was in Bucharest on business. It was after the earthquake, but before the revolution in 1989, when they tossed out Ceausescu. Bucharest is a beautiful place these days. It's not far from the Black Sea and Bulgaria too. One day I'll tell you about Bulgaria.

I was one of a group of foreign diplomats who were in the capital as observers. Strange goings on with the secret police and Romanian politics. The citizenry were hungry. Life was generally miserable and everyone was angry with the government and Nicholae Ceausescu, their president. (Commie creep!) Everything they made or grew was being sent out of the country to get rid of the country's debt. While noble in purpose, Ceausescu was trying to pay it down too quickly. As a result, everyone suffered. He was many bricks short of a load.

Gorbachev even tried to get Ceausescu to ease off and treat the people with more kindness, but he would have none of it. Anyway, that's why I was there. I was observing. But you're probably more interested in how I ended up bruising my brain.

I struck my melon on a curb outside a local drinking establishment and nothing has been the same since. It's the damn flashbacks that pi$$ me off the most. The loud yelling in my ears - people protesting the lack of meat, bread and toilet paper. Thanks goodness for the Dambovita River! Many pairs of soiled undies ended up floating in there. (Along with government employees, politicians and Communist sympathizers...)

In the late 1980s, I was assigned to work with some Americans in Europe. We were "vacationing" in Romania and were just outside Temeschburg (German pronunciation). Timisoara is the correct spelling. Our job was to enjoy ourselves and check on he welfare of some western university students.

Just before Christmas of 1989, all hell broke loose. Ceausescu was the president of that place and like a lot of Commies, wasn't playing with a full deck. He ordered the state police and the military to retaliate against some Hungarian-Romanians that lived there. They were trying to support a dissident religious guy who was being kicked out of his apartment.

Anyway, a bunch of students joined in and in went the uniforms. At this point, I have to say that there's nothing finer than a good, old fashioned student ass whoopin' - regardless of country or political affiliation. The trouble was, some Yanks got mixed up with things and we had to help them leave. Additionally, there was a small problem with the state police. I won't bore you with the details, but we convinced them to leave us alone.

The last thing I saw was one of those Commie operatives from the directorate of counterespionage chew through his own neck. He was lying on the stone steps of this apartment that were had been staying at, chewing and bleeding out on the marble. I guess he couldn't handle the stress of the job.

There were some Jewish students there too, but we didn't really have much to do with them.

That sounds like a rough neighborhood.

It was. The whole eastern bloc has always been that way.

We had an operative that got hit by a bookmobile. He was lying against the curb, all busted up and in pain, screaming. Some babushka walked over to him, bent down and went, "Shhhh".

One time in Sofia (Bulgaria), my pants caught fire and some Commie tried to put them out with an axe.

Russian operatives were horrible drivers. I think that's why they were sent to satellite countries. At any rate, I watched one guy slam into a deer with his Lada. It was in a zoo.

We ran up to the cage, and we couldn't help but notice there was a pair of shoes on the dashboard. The driver said they belonged to the last guy he hit.

And that's why I still have AC/DC 8-tracks.

Some more confusing posts to scare away the even stranger posts made by horrible capitalist movie spammer guys!



Years ago, I was known as...

Nikki Nikkersen - Cold War Crack Shot

Confused yet? I thought so. Think, but not too deeply deep. Slowly now, or your lobe will melt...

Okay, so this isn't the wild west. I wouldn't have wanted to be around back then anyway. Not enough good shooters to keep me busy and too many bad shooters to take an afternoon off. The world is a cruel place and getting crueler. And colder. And les liturate.

But, I'm bragging. With these good looks, intelligence and sharply honed shooting skills, most men would be falling all over me if they knew exactly who I was. For you see, I'm Nikki Nikkersen, Scandinavian Sharpshooter.

Ah yes, Nikki Nikkersen, Scandinavian Sharpshooter. Loved by many. Feared by more. Reviled by a few. Yet, strangely, some were only mildly annoyed. I give lesbians and wannabe shooters hot flashes. I give hot shot shooters the cold sweats. I'm a feverish Gelidian.

Try to burn me and I'll send you into Pauly's rimy maw. I'm a frozen soul with a burning desire to be cool. Sizzling, yet oddly frigid in a wet spot. Wildly calm in a weird way. Like jello, only with bones. Give me a heater and I'm cold logic. But hey baby, don't try to burn me...

I know. You're confused. Confused by the Khoikhoin. Confounded by my intensely dry wit, you're getting the cold sweats. I don't blame you. You're not alone. But you could be. Or maybe not, because, well, I can't exactly see where you are right now. For all I know, you could be sitting on the toilet reading this, completely naked...

Still, I trust you. If only a little. I'll bet you're scared because I use words like cucumbers, jello and knickers. Don't let that bother you. And don't be too worried about my id either. I'm used to being around me. I've been stuck with me for most of my life. Excepting of course, the six years I spent in a black, smelly, overheated Saharan death pit with six Italian midgets and a Frenchman named Antoine. I didn't like garlic. He didn't like clothing. I was half mad. And I think that Antoine was the other half madder. Those daze are a blur...

But back to the story of your fear and lust. The soft, icy rivulets of perspiration that even now are running down your back. Legs wet with anticipation as I prepare the skivver and meat wrap platter. Don't tell the guests you lust for fish. This is cattle country...

Later, you'll suck out all the headcheese as you descend slowly into a pig's madness. We'll all watch as you spiral into the pit. Like the first time you saw Christopher Lee in a bad vampire flick - only without the sound or blood or teeth or screaming...or something.

Or a bad accident with some Parisian girl named Chloe driving a purple Citroen. No, no Frankie. Beg! Lourdes be a Lady Tonight! Even now I can see the revulsion and desire in your eye. But what happened to your other eye? No, no. Don't tell me. We'll all find that out sooner or later.

For now, just remain calm and squeeze some Brylcreem into the palm of your hand. Then rub it across your groin and yell out, "Svetlana!!" or some other uninteresting Russian girl's name. After all, you are almost spent...



For you, it's always been about sex and the Soviets, hasn't it?

You ran, but you ran too loudly. And you ran with other Moscovites posing as a sousaphone player in an all girl band. "I don't play any instruments with strings," you said, "so don't fret..." We should have known.

Even at the embassy, you acted like someone that wasn't really someone. Actually, you acted more like a nobody wanting to be someone, but, knowing no one, you seemed like nothing - more or less. Yes, that's what they nearly all said later on when they almost didn't discover you missing. Or were you there all along? Like Shakespeare said, were you, "To be, or not to be?"

Forget all that. Remember those nights in Lubyanka? Oh yes, those dazed nights. Plotting to plan. Talking of Ottawa in a muted voice. You, with the 14th. Me in the 1st. Scared that we would be discovered not plotting and planning for the glory of the greater good. Remember forgetting about Mother Russia and Comrade Andropov?

Those were the days my friend. The days after I rejected the dream of becoming the first Deputy Chairman. When things started to fall apart. The years in hiding. The years of secret study in hopes that I might become manager of Dyetsky Mir? My hopes were crushed even before they began.

Now, in the pale, cold light of a frosty Moscow night (Romantic is it not? Oh, my darling Ivana!) I thirst for the sands of North Africa. But I can never go. Now, my legs cut off and firmly tethered to a sewer cover in front of the Sandunovskaya Baths, I am dependent on the State. The State that I still serve...except when it rains really hard.

No longer pursuing people who have violated our Code of Criminal Procedure, I am forced to listen to tourists boasting of their theft of state property. They speak of how rude people from St. Petersburg truly are and how poorly the zastavy are operated. Fools! We will rise again. I will need prosthetics from America though...

Shhh! Listen for the guards muted steps! Listen for the accented boys whose behaviour reminds me so much of our days in the Lenin Military Political Academy. We were so dispassionately integrated apart... Salud!

SOMEWHERE NEAR RED SQUARE - PRESENT DAY



Don't cry out! Do you want to have your head removed and decorated for sport? Western idiot! The government would have you eating Brussels sprouts if we were in Belgium. In Moscou, we eat peat. But only if you are a party member. The rest of us just mill about the city sewers. And all this after we deposed the Communists!

Listen carefully. My time is short. Take the bus from Lenin's Tomb and go to Lenin's Museum. Once inside, go up the stairs and tip your hat to spooky Comrade Lenin. He lies near the stairway...



Look for Lenin's death mask and slippers. Begin a peasant dance. You know, the ones that Vladimir loved so much. Hum softly, but do not play the violin lest the guards hear your musik!

This will trigger the secret entrance to the Narrow Council of People's Commissars, located between the walls. There you will be greeted by three ghosts. The first ghost, who looks oddly like Stalin, is called the Ghost of Revolutions Past. He will take you down memory lane. The good old days before spy satellites, defectors and indoor plumbing. Beware! He will try to send you to a gulag! But he is only a ghost and is powerless.



Andropov is the Ghost of Revolution Now! A strange group of confused Communists that threw a temper tantrum and changed the way people used telephones and munitions. They may have overseen the fall of Communism, but they would gladly overturn the turneroverers to get back in power. KGB careful!

Finally, your trip to the museum will finish with the Ghost of Russian Rapper "Bolshoi Boi Goy". After seeing his futuristic show, you may want to go back to 1917.

My god, don't you see? We are trapped in a hellish dimension of time between the US and Klingons! Even a Borg collective would be an improvement. Help us, please!