[b]Sevan, Armenia[/b] Sahle had sobered up enough by the afternoon to make a decision. He did not visit Aaliyah. Instead, with only enough wine to make him confident, he strolled through the hallway of a plush hotel on the downtown strip and gave two firm knocks to the door of an upper-floor room. It was all in motion now, he could not stop it. He was going to do this. He had staked out this hotel over the course of weeks. He had learned her room, and memorized when she came and when she went. He knew the habits of the doorman - a short, elderly man with spectacle glasses and a crisp red blazer who always ate a small supper on the job at six and was on the toilet by seven. He knew that the maids were Russian immigrants who couldn't speak Armenian. He knew this hotel so well that the spongy carpeted floor felt like stepping into a friend's home. And, the suspicious comings and goings of most foreign residents of Sevan being what they were, nobody ever seemed to notice him beyond a cursory glance. And so here he was, after all this time, knocking on the door he had so long dreamed about. It was Vladmira who answered, Oziryan's beautiful blonde-haired Finnish associate and Sahle's obsession. She wore an ankle-length red dress and house slippers. There was a blue glimmer in her eyes - a spark of intimidating intelligence, as if she was easily prepared to outsmart any man who came her way. "You... you are the drummer." she said in a Russian accent that was uncomfortably sensual, as if she was trying to attract him and not the other way around. "The one who had the strange name. Soul-mill?" "Samel." Sahle told the lie that came so natural to him now. "Like the animal." "Samel." when she breathed, her chest bobbed in a way Sahle couldn't help but notice. "And why are you visiting me here now?" It was time to be confident, and a part of the old Sahle leaked through. He leaned against the doorway and looked into her eyes. "Vladmira, I want to make love to you." Sahle blurted. And there it was. All out on the floor. For a moment, time stood still, and Sahle felt his thoughts coming at him all at once. Part of him wanted it to happen of course, so that he could itch this itch and move on with his life. Another part wanted her to be offended and shut the door. That was what he expected. If that happened, she would be closing the door on his chances and he could learn to accept that this would never happen. Then when he went back to Aaliyah, all would be fine. "Oh, is that what you want then." she replied. She stared at him for a second with a look that drilled right through his skin. "Well then, come in." [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OcaPu9JPenU]action tiem[/url] Sahle's heart leapt into his throat, beating as quick as it had when he was a young boy and new to women. It was as if all of the pressure that had been building up since they arrived in Sevan was released at once. He eagerly followed. When he was inside, Sahle did not notice the bed except for that it was big and fluffy. The floor was carpeted, and there was a window with some outdoors outside of it. He didn't care, none of that was important. He didn't know what to expect. Was this some sort of trick? A ruse to catch him as a cheater and ruin what he had with Aaliyah? But when she started undressing, it no longer mattered. The here and now was everything. "You know, in Russia, life has changed in the last several years." she said, bending down to pull her slippers off and toss them on the floor. "There are some, they turn to the church and become stubborn people, but the rest of us? We have seen death so many times that little things like this don't seem to matter anymore." Sahle did not care for reasons. He was transfixed on her, anticipating every time she revealed more skin. He tried to undress himself clumsily, but he did not know where his hands were half of the time. His entire being was in three places - his imagination, his heart, and the other thing. She unbuttoned the back of her dress slowly, revealing the strap of her bra and a freckled pale back. Sahle had his shirt of, and he was struggling with his belt. "I wonder, did you not have a wife?" "No" Sahle choked. His mouth was dry. "That one girl with the mask, is she not your wife?" she said as she let her dress slide to the floor. Her underwear was all the same sheer egg-white. Sahle inspected her form obsessively. The curve of her hips, the slim form of her naked belly, and the freckled skin of her cleavage competed for his attention. "We are good friends, but I am not married." he said. He wanted to rush at her now, but she was playing coy with him. Any time he tried to move toward her, she stepped back - not quickly and off putting, but slowly in a teasing way. "Then I do not feel guilty." she smirked. She was unhooking her bra now, and Sahle's pants were starting to become unbuttoned from the inside. He watched, mouth hanging open, and she revealed herself, and she was everything he had wanted her to be. There was a slight sag to her breasts which made them all the more pleasing. Her freckles ended where her bra had began, so that her bosom was as white as the snows in Russia. He wiggled free of his pants. "I think it is your turn." she said, making no attempt to cover herself. He complied and took the last of his clothes off. The feel of the cold air-conditioned room on his naked pelvis made him feel eager to do what he had came her to do. Her panties came off next, revealing a patch of dirty-blonde hair between her legs. He was ready to go. Before she had tossed her underwear to the corner of the room, he was already moving. "Not quite yet." she stopped him. "We don't know each other yet." Sahle was confused. "I am Samel." "Samel." she looked down. "Just like a camel. I know, but that is not knowing each other. Be patient, let us play a game. I want to know who my new friend is." she said. He watched her perfect butt sway perfectly when she turned around, but was confused when she pulled out a chess board. -- It was torture. They were laying in her bed, both completely naked, but they were playing chess. Sahle didn't even like chess under normal circumstances - it was the type of game his brother loved, more about proving how smart you were than about having fun. He felt ridiculous, and horny, and that was not a pleasant combination of feelings. But she seemed to be enjoying herself, as if this was normal for her. Was this how she got off? Did she like beating her partners in games by using their distraction to win before finally taking them to bed? How was this going to effect things when they finally did get down to it? "Your moves are very strange." she teased. "I do not know if there is a strategy. Is that your strategy, to be chaotic?" Sahle looked at her - that was his favorite thing to do, though it caused an agony in him now. She was laying on her side, with one leg bent out in front of her in a way that covered her bush and brought attention to her butt, while her chess-playing arm hung over her breasts and obscured them. That did not help - actually, this pose made her even more attractive somehow. "I am bad at this game." Sahle replied. "But I am good at the game I came here for." "Tsk tsk tsk." she tsked. "Be patient." She moved a piece. He did not pay attention to which. "Chess is the game of Tsars." she said, watching as he fumbled a move. He tried to move his knight in the direction he vaguely remembered them to go, but his arousal made him so clumsy that he knocked over another piece. When he moved to fix it, he bumped a second piece. "That isn't the game." she giggled, helping him straighten it out. He chuckled, and for a fleeting second he forgot that they were naked. When he caught a quick glimpse of her nipple, he remembered again. "I am not a Tsar." Sahle smiled. Vladmira looked into his eyes thoughtfully. "I can see that." "This is enough chess, don't you think?" Sahle pleaded. "I mean, I can't even play properly." "No no, I like this." Vladmira grinned impishly. "We just need conversation to distract you from your... needs. We are here to learn about each other, aren't we?" "In a different way." Sahle sighed. "I like my way." she persisted. "Tell me, where are you from?" "Africa." he said. "An entire continent? That is a big house to have?" "You wouldn't know my house." "Maybe not, but be more specific than 'Africa'." she made a move. When she looked away from him, he followed the soft curve of her body with his eyes. He wanted to reach out and start something, but she seemed too serious. It was then that Sahle realized something about himself. When he had been a prince, or even Emperor, he wouldn't have thought twice about tossing the chess board off the bed and starting things right there, but time had changed him. He was afraid of losing this, but what was this exactly? "I am from Ethiopia, the same as my partners." Sahle told her. He made an awkward move, but he did not know what piece he had picked up, or where he had moved it. "Oh. Their war must be effecting you then. Do you still have family down there?" "Yes." he answered. He figured it was best to tell the truth up until a point. It would make it easier to form answers. "I feel for you, Samel. I lost my family to war." she moved a piece. "Did Vasily ever tell you how I came into this business?" "Business?" he asked. "I am here to negotiate support for my comrades in Volgograd. We are rebels, you see." she giggled, and the way she squirmed caused Sahle to go hard again. "Everyone is Volgograd is a rebel, but that is not the matter." "I feel like I know you already." Sahle said, faking confidence this time. It did not work. "I and my family were comrades of the great Viktor Laine and Juhani Mikael. Great, grand Finnish patriots." when she said this, she motioned with he hands for emphasis, and Sahle got the full view again. "Their families and mine all died in the war, but I went with them and we assassinated the Tsar's daughter. And then we assassinated the Tsar?" "Wait, [i]you[/i] assassinated the Tsar?" he was surprised. "No no, that was Viktor. I was his spotter." she said. "But that is me, now about you. Who is Samel?" "I am a musician." he said slowly, still stunned that the woman he lusted for was an assassin. "That is all I have to say." "One word and that is all?" she pouted. "Come now, you want me more than that. What about that scar below your belly button, right there." she poked. "That was a surgery, just... I had an appendix out." "Oh." she said. Her mood seemed to shift suddenly, though he could not detect why, or even how exactly. "Do you want to do a few lines before you go?" "Go? But..." "We will know each other soon enough, Samel. But today I have work to do. It is nearly showtime too, now I think of it. Don't you have drums to bang?" "I have..." "Don't say it." she smiled. "I was setting you up. I know you were going to say 'me'." When she climbed out of bed, Sahle stared at her ass. That was all he could focus on as she pulled a small snuff-box and poured a tiny line of fine white powder. Every move she made caused Sahle to ache. "You said that we were going to..." "Do not fret." she cut him off, sniffing a line of white powder. "We will, just not today. Perhaps we can make this into a daily thing?" "Playing chess?" Sahle stood up. He wanted to go for her now, to change her mind in other ways, but something was stopping him. He stood there naked and dejected as she slipped into a new dress. "Oh, maybe for another day. But when we were done with that." she walked toward him and gave his balls a slight squeeze. "We will do more things. I like you men of Africa, and you are the first one to have the testicles to walk right up to my door and knock, so you can be my African until I leave." With that, she finished dressing and left him alone in her apartment. He felt used. Used, and horny. Before he left, he went to the bathroom and finished himself in her toilet, but there was no joy in it. In fact, he was fucking angry. He did not flush, and when he was done, her stole her cocaine and left. If he couldn't have what he wanted then tonight, he was going to party. -- It was July 17th; Independence Day in Armenia, celebrating the third year anniversary of the day when Hasmik Assanian officially declared Armenia an Independent country. In the morning, people had assembled near Sevan island to watch the on-going war games being practiced there. In the afternoon, the holiday had been children dancing in colorful ethnic dresses while families ate lavash with harissa and young veterans traded war stories. At night, however, the celebrations were different. Sahle knew that sweaty old men would be fucking their saggy old wives in cloistered bedrooms all across the city, while the young partied in the streets. There were fresh posters on the walls warning people to '[i]Save your Ammunition for the Turk.[/i]', but they would not listen. When the sun set, men drank and fired their weapons into the air while fireworks bloomed above the lake in explosions of gold, blue, and red. It was in this environment that Sahle found Marc and showed him the kidnapped cocaine. Who was Marc? Sahle had been his friend for several years now, and he still didn't really know. He was the cornet player in their strange little band. It had been him and Yared who found Sahle in the desert when he was still Sahle; an identity they still were not aware of. To them, he was Samel. But still, who was Marc? Sahle did not know his last name. He was younger than Sahle, but not by much. He would have been of age to fight in the Civil War that brought Yaqob to power; so would Yared, but neither ever told war stories to suggest that they might have actually fought. As far as Sahle knew, Marc and Yared had drifted out of Ethiopia in a wandering stupor, unconnected to any real past. What ever they had been, it didn't seem to matter anymore than Sahle's identity. There were a few things Sahle could say about Marc, or at least one overriding trait that seemed to dominate his personality. Marc was an addict in his very image. He had a drawn look about him anymore, and his nose was always runny, which caused the skin on his upper lip to be permanently red and raw. There was a constant sleepy look about him as well. And he always, no matter where he was, managed to get the drugs he wanted. It was the only coherent thing he could do besides play the cornet. The two friends snorted their lines off the hood of a truck at the only car rental shop still open on the holiday, and when they were done they decided to go and rent a car. It seemed like a good idea. They could get some air and see the city much easier that way. It was true that they had little money, but one of the luxuries of Sevan was its cheap car rental. All the city had on offer were the cheap and ugly open-top Polish tub cars, but that was all they needed. So long as it moved, held them, and gave them a place to put their stolen cocaine, it was fine. They drove away in a screeching blur, and then they were on the streets. "Armenia!" Sahle yelled, echoing the patriotic hollering of the people filling the streets. "Armana!" Marc slurred in reply. Marc was the better driver, and so it was him behind the wheel. He always seemed capable of driving even if he wasn't capable of forming words. "Fuckit... this is the wa... we spose'd to live!" A young man - no older than thirty, in Sahle's estimation, fired an assault rifle haphazardly in the air. The bullets rained on the marquis of a nearby theater and put out its lights. A women screamed and fled from the rain of broken lightbulb that followed, but nobody else in the zombie-like crowd seemed to be paying attention. It was a moving party. Sahle smelled the pungent stench of reefer, and the scent of alcohol was everywhere. Not to mention the vile odor of the people themselves. Two kids dodged out of an alley and ran across the street. Marc hit the brakes suddenly. The kids were chasing each other with firework sticks that shot colorful sparks, and they did not seem to mind the traffic at all. "Brotha, we need those..." Marc struggled to express himself. He let both hands of the wheel and gestured manically. "Things!" "No." Sahle was giggling for no reason. "No! They have to be saved for the Turk!" Both Sahle and Marc giggled now. They weren't waiting for anybody now. They were just stopped in the middle of the road, laughing. It was only when a beer bottle burst against their car that they knew it was time to move. "Pull into here!" Sahle pointed to a strip club. There was a peeling picture of an old Turkish celebrity painted on the it's front wall. Sahle suspected she had not given them permission to use her image. Just one more way to humiliate the dastardly Turk. "I want to go there! Pull over!" "Ah..." Marc slurred. "Whad is there to see there?" "What is there to see?" Sahle punched Marc in the shoulder. "What is there to see? What are you, man?" "Awright." Marc parked on the sidewalk. "All right. We do th' thing then." They both did a line, and then they went inside to see what there was to see. Sahle remembered how Barnham had been the only person powerful enough to circumvent Islamic law in Cairo, which meant his club had been the only one with nudity. Though there was an mystical orthodox morality in this country, the Armenians weren't as squeamish as the Muslims. And in Sevan, they did not fuck around. There were sixteen fully-nude girl clubs in this little resort city, each one operating to please a nation of revolution-hardened veterans. When Sahle and Marc entered this place, they were greeted by all the painted sluts in garish high heels they could ever want. One woman was holding a tray of bite sized honey-cakes right up to her perky chest, and Sahle couldn't help but take one just so he could cop a feel in the process. The lighting in this place was dark enough that it was hard to make out the faces of anybody who wasn't a few feet in front of you. The exception were the few scattered dancing stages, where girls gyrated under spotlights. "Brother." Marc said giddily. He wasn't so much giddy about the women as he was just... generally giddy. The cocaine had him. "Those smells!" he took a big, snotty whiff. All Sahle could smell was alcohol, vomit, and tit sweat. What Marc was talking about was something only Marc could possibly know. Sahle was looking for any stripper that might look vaguely like Vladmira. He didn't know why, but he didn't care why. It was what he had decided to do, and he was doing it. There were some Russians here - women that had fled the violence of that collapsed country for the new Armenian nation-state. When he saw a woman he liked the look of, he would stop. They were doing wiggling dances with colorful ribbons of cloth, and all to the same live-band jazz tune. The music was slow and seductive. "What are you here for?" he heard a girlish voice rise over the cacophony. He looked down to see a short brown-haired dancer staring up at him with beautiful doe eyes. "I know a place we can be alone." "Oh yes?" Sahle wrapped his arm around her. "And what do you do?" "I'll tell you." she said, rubbing against him as they walked. "But you will have to give me something." "I have top-notch snow!" Sahle shouted as low as he could shout, pulling a small bag of white powder and shaking it in front of her. "It's from South America!" "Where? All of that stuff is from South America." she giggled. "No!" he was struggling to shout over the music and the sound of the crowd. "You don't understand! It is from Sotelo's personal farm!" He didn't know if that was true, but Oziryan claimed to have access to Sotelo's supply, and Vladmira was Oziryan's guest. "Who?" "Sot... never mind! It is really good snow though!" She shrugged and seemed to accept that. Sahle felt vindicated. Vladmira had sent him away with blue balls, so he bought himself a hooker with her supply. They pushed through the crowd; mostly veterans with minds fried by war and booze, and elderly wealthy post-war opportunists visiting from Yerevan for the holiday. It was a remarkably small room, Sahle realized. Perhaps no larger than a Chinese soup shop in the run-down part of town. There were mirrors on the walls that made everything looks slightly bigger... ...That was where he saw her. It wasn't Vladmira of course, but a dancer that looked exactly like her. "I am sorry!" he shouted hurriedly at the doe-eyed girl. "I have somewhere to be!" He left her before she could respond and slipped into the crowd. The look-alike was always ahead of him, moving between the press like a shy animal sliding through the forest. She was perfect - exactly what he had came here for. When he saw a door open and shut, he went for it. The door opened, cool summer air washed over him, and... And suddenly he was standing outside. A stubby man in uniform had a black-haired woman pinned behind the dumpster, and he looked like he was getting his money's worth. Neither of them seemed to notice Sahle. Besides those two, there was no sign of the look alike. The door opened again and Marc poured out. "Good thing." Marc slurred. "I did'n like the smell." "Fuck it all." Sahle grumbled. "Let's go back to the car." -- After the encounter in the strip club, the night seemed a little darker for Sahle. Perhaps that was because it had, in fact, became darker. The air was filled with a gunpowder smog now, concealing the stars and turning the moon a dull shade of red. There were fewer people in the streets now than there had been before, but it was by no means quiet. Still, Sahle wanted another distraction. He had done his share of cocaine, and he didn't have the strength to do anymore for now. For Marc, that was not the case. The addict that he was, he snuffed a new line any time he felt his high slowing down. There was a man asleep in the road, using an old rifle as a pillow. They drove around him cautiously as Sahle watched him snore. Nobody else in the street seemed to care. What was that man's story, Sahle wondered? Why was he so stupid to sleep in the road with a gun? "It is a mad house!" Sahle exclaimed. "No control!" "It's like..." Marc struggled to form an idea. He moved his arms like a sloth conducting an orchestra. "Like the children are loose!" "Go the fuck to bed!" Sahle yelled out toward the crowd, and then he began to laugh hysterically. "Bed." he managed to squeak again between giggles. "Fuck you!" an Armenian yelled from the sidewalk. "I fuck... I do the fuck ever I do!" "It is a mad house!" Sahle repeated himself. "We need women. Man, I need... I need a woman." Marc did not have time to respond, because something else entirely drew their attention. "Want to buy a cow!" an old man was shouting from the sidewalk. Surely enough, there he was; a hill person climbed down from his hills with a skinny brown cow tied on a rope. The man was scruffy and middle aged, and he was dressed like some sort of medieval peasant. Still, he didn't seem put off by the city at all. Was this his gig? Did he sell cattle in the streets any time the entire city was drunk? "Why are you selling a cow!" Sahle shouted. "Why now? It is a mad house!" "I've been trying to sell this cow for six months!" the man shouted back. Marc pulled the car over to the curb. "Is it broken?" Marc inquired hazily. "It is just old." the man replied. "Nobody wants it, but I don't want it either." "We don't have much money." "Give me ten and I will be fine." "For a cow?" Sahle exclaimed. "That seems cheap. But fuck it." he dug through his pockets and found enough change to add up to the amount. "Where are you going to put it?" the man asked. "Let's put it in the back." And so they did. With a little help from the seller, they packed the full-grown milk cow into the back seat and began to drive. "We should take this cow to see..." Sahle began. For a hazy moment, he forgot what he was going to say. "The sights, you know? Let the cow see the lake. You know the lake road?" Marc ignored him. "Give snow for the cow!" Marc was shouting into the streets, and at nobody in particular. "Give... give Feelgood for the Cow!" Everybody in the street ignored him, but Marc continued. "Give me something for the cow!" A drunk on the sidewalk dropped his pants around his knees and waved his discolored junk in their direction. "Reefer!" Marc yelled for no discernible reason. "That is where we will go." Sahle pointed to a small place with Asian lettering. "I know that place." "The cow?" Marc asked. "It too." Sahle jumped out of the car before it stopped. -- The place Sahle had chosen was a little Chinese massage parlor not far from where Vasily's friend taught Wushu. There was a small community of Chinese immigrants in Sevan. When the Communists came to power in China, many people fled to Russia. And when Russia collapsed, they were forced to flee again. They, along with the Russians and the few remaining Turks, made up the poorest of the poor in Armenia. They ran soup shops in the cheap-rent storefronts in the Turkish Quarter, where the meat was never identifiable and the horrible smells drove most respectable customers away. And in their apartments, they had massage parlors that few people visited for massages. That was because the girls here knew that there was safety in numbers, and that there were other services that netted them more business than a back rub. They went through a hallway that was only wide enough to fit one person at a time. Marc, devoid of reason, brought the cow. Sahle was met at the beaded doorway of what had once been an apartment by an older Asian woman in a red ankle length dress. The building had a strange smell, like boiled chicken marinated in cheap perfume. The women had invested in a colored lamp, and an almost sinister red light poured out of the room. Sahle put a crumpled wad of money in her hand. Before she could lead him in, she saw the cow. "What is that?" she shouted in a shrill, Asian voice. "Don't mind my friend." Sahle said. "He is in love with that cow." "Go love the cow somewhere else!" she shouted. "We do not love cows in here! Do you hear me!" Sahle turned to Marc. "Leave the cow out here, brother." But Marc would not cow so easily. "Well good then! If you are too good for the cow, you are too good for me!" the coked up fiend yelled at the little old Chinese lady. "I will keep her compan... companionship out here!" "You are a strange man!" the Chinese lady shouted. "You are a strange man!" Sahle went inside. The parlor consisted of two Apartments that had been combined by knocking out a wall. The carpet and the walls were both red, and the scent he had smelled clearly had its origin point here. There were two younger women in knee-length dresses. The older woman barked something in their language, and one of the girls stood up. "She will take care of you." the old woman said coldly. And that was it. All three women left the room, leaving Sahle to undress and lay face-down on the massage table. He made sure his pocket was within reach; he would need it later. His head was through a hole in the table, allowing him to view the blood-red shag carpet in all its detail, but it lacked any interesting detail to view. He heard the door open, and it started. She began by rubbing oil on his back. Sahle heard the cow moo in the hall, and he wondered how long the madame would allow it to go on. But this girl, she did not react at all. She did not speak - she most likely wasn't good with the language, he knew. He sighed when her hands reached his buttocks. It was time. He hadn't come here just to have an oily ass, after all. He reached down and pulled out another wad of money. He tried to count it as discreetly as he could, but he knew her type, and he knew that she would be too clever to not notice. All he could do was hope that the rest didn't get stolen. He handed her the amount and turned around. She smiled and stuffed the money in the drawer. And then, as graceful as an antelope, she climbed on top of him. As she guided him into her, he was surprised that she didn't wear anything under her skirt, but suddenly it did not matter. Right then, all of his worries melted away at once. This is all he had needed, the simplicity of this thing. It was what the Finnish woman had promised him, and then cruelly took away. His head swam. Fuck cocaine, this was all he needed tonight. In the thrill of the moment, he reached up her shirt and cupped a tit that was too small to grasp. He realized for a short moment that his second hand had been on his pants crumpled up on the floor beneath him. He let go of his pocket and reached for another tit. The girl gasped a squeal of - surprise, delight, professional courtesy? Fuck it. He didn't care. He heard himself grunting from the strain. It went on - longer than he expected, which he didn't mind - and when he finished, the girl dismounted him and struck a small gong on the table. Sahle smiled, got up, and got dressed. He was satisfied. He heard the cow moo in the hallway. When they left the Parlor, they found that the streets were mostly dead now. It was late into the night. "Did you have fun, brother?" Marc crooned. They loaded the cow into the back of the Polish rental car. "That was what I needed. Though I am almost broke." He reached into his pocket and was delighted to find that they hadn't stolen from him. "How about this." he said, waving a wad of cash. "I thought the other girl would crawl in and take it or something." "They were watchin' me." Marc grinned. "And'th cow." They climbed into the car and drove, With the streets mostly clear of people, they drove through the quiet city with relative ease. The city was littered with broken bottles and random debris. In some places, it looked almost as if Sevan had been looted by a marauding band of beer-swilling barbarians. Sahle watched the city go by in silence. Soon, they were in the countryside. Marc was driving with one hand and snuffing fingernails of snow with the other. His pupils were dilated now, and he was beginning to go quiet. Without Marc's babble to distract him, Sahle watched the countryside go by. He was too aware of the cow awkwardly balanced in the back seat, and he kept one hand perched behind him on the side of the car, as if he could influence the momentum of a one ton beast of living beef with a single arm. The fireworks and wasting of ammunition was done now, but the haze remained. It masked the moon in a grey-red fog, and left a moody glow on Lake Sevan. All around them were the shadows of naked hills, rising into the mountainous highlands of Armenia. It was a beautiful place. This looked like the landscape that vampires might prowl; windswept, ruinous, and veiled in all the colors of dying fire. But despite all of that, it did not look sinister. This was a primeval road they were speeding down, and as the cool midnight wind rushed over Sahle, he had time to reflect. He thought about his fading past, and the future he planned to live with Aaliyah. He thought about his mother, and how her death had sent his past-self spiraling like a Spanish missile into his new life. He wondered how much of that had ignited his simmering attraction to the Russian woman. Perhaps he had just fallen off the wagon. They passed Sevan island. The cow stamped a hoof into the metal in an awkward attempt to keep its balance. Sahle reached back and patted it on the shoulder. "Be calm, friend." he said softly, but by the sound of the wind rushing past his ears he knew that nobody could hear him. He watched the tree-covered rock that was Sevan Island pass by. From here, the road paralleled a lake, which was separated from them by nothing but a steep decline. "You should slow down, brother." Sahle patted Marc on the back. Marc looked wide awake - so conscious that he paradoxically looked like a statue. His eyes looked unhealthy, and he was sweating so bad that large droplets streamed down his face. Sahle was beginning to worry. "Brother." he patted him on the shoulder. "The cow." Marc looked at him with wide, cold, dead eyes, and blood trickled out of his nose. "The road." he said in a ghastly voice. That was all he managed to say. Sahle jumped for the steering wheel and grabbed it. Marc did not seem to react, and Sahle only barely had time to notice that his friend had passed out. It was like he had suddenly been possessed by a ghost, and the moody atmosphere of the highlands transformed to evil in a heartbeat. Sahle brought the car flying into a ditch on the left side of the road. The last thing he felt before going unconscious was joy that he prevented the car from careening to the right, and into the lake.