[color=ed1c24]"I-van, I-van, I-van!"[/color] Mikhail Azarov muttered to himself after the match as he changed into his plain clothes. While he could get used to the praise, he imagined they were mostly cheering him on just to spite Max. He grinned to himself. How ridiculous. Word spread quickly around the place about that big match with Max Power. They were bringing in a new roster of wrestlers, some of which have already made names for themselves. Like Ivan. Now he was at the center of controversy, so to speak. Again, not much as to his charming good looks, but because Max got booed. A lot.

Poor Max.

Mikhail took off his ridiculous USSR sweat band and into his little locker. His costume wasn't much, to say the least. The sweatband, wrestling trunks, and his chest hair. He laughed again. Oh boy, he cracked himself up! What kind of person laughs at his own jokes? Putting on an XXL t-shirt, a green vest, some jeans, and a pair of relatively well polished shoes, he exited the quiet locker room. Some of his co-workers chatted around the place, most he did not recognized, but with the big show coming up, he assumed he would get to know them soon enough. But right now, he did not feel like socializing. He felt like going back to his hotel and watching TV. Or plotting his take-down of the capitalist regime.

He opened the door into the cool night, and thought back to the match again. How had they cheered him on? Ivan was not the good guy! Who cheers for a guy named Ivan? Some people could be so resentful. His stomach rumbled. He was hungry. Maybe he would stop by his local chicken place for some wings.

Truly, Mikhail was living the American dream.