[h1][color=DDA0DD]Sasha Zhenya Kuznetsov[/color][/h1]

[color=DDA0DD] [b]Monday Morning, Undisclosed Apartment building[/b][/color]

Sasha let off an undignified yawn as he attempted to pulled himself off the floor of his crappy apartment; after a multitude of failed efforts he resigned himself to lying still for the time being. Despite its garish appearance at least the off-colored carpet was relatively comfortable. Sasha felt like an utter mess as memories from last night whizzed around in his head causing a slight migraine.  Ugh, perhaps he indulged in his vices a little to liberally last night…might have to dial things back in the future.  Sasha couldn’t help pondering as he shakily rose to his feet how much of last night’s odd events were chemically induced, the result of his unfortunate tumble, or from a yet unseen part of his inner self.  Those weighty thoughts were hastily shaken off as they were obviously better examined by a trained professional perhaps an impromptu visit to the esteemed psychological guru Dr. Allister Huxley was in order.  It was bemusing that Dr. Huxley was so derided by the medical community sure the guru was forced to appear on a plethora of occasions in front of the Senate’s consumer protection panel due to supposedly promoting miracle cures, but Primal Scream therapy despite not be empirically proven was always quite exhilarating.  

Sasha poured himself a glass of orange juice before taking “The Chairman” off the kitchen counter. While, the $5000 burner phone in his clutch was the Vertu Constellation coated in legitimate alligator skin “The Chairman” was his true preferred cellular device.  The android powered phone designed by Swiss watch manufacturer, Ulysse Nardin, featured a kinetic rotor power system visible through the backplate and around 3,000 hand-cut 17-karat diamonds adorning the faceplates; it retailed for around $ 130,000.  Sasha perused his missed text messages on his bedazzled phone and it seemed that most were from his beloved Uncle updating him on mundane business matters, what a shame…how utterly droll. Hmm, it seemed he had one voicemail he overlooked from an unknown number. It would be easy enough to just delete it as it was probably spam, but then again perhaps not. Sasha listened to the message, but the recording was so garbled that even on repeat listens he could not make heads or tails of it. All Sasha could piece together was the following conversation that was held in Russian. 

Voice one was that of a man who spoke soft and slow, “…Sixteen Hour Flight from Moscow to Sol City is quite daunting to say the least. I’ve never even been on a plane before…”

The retort was by a voice whose age and gender were hard to determine “…I bet he owns his plane that ric...I do not understand we are attempting to even reach…those were not his wish…”

“Enough is enough we are going and that’s… we have to show them that we are not…” commanded the voice of a stern woman. 

Before Sasha had time to ponder the odd voice mail any further his expensive mobile device begins to ring indicating that Lupe was trying to facetime him. Begrudgingly accepting the call caused the Cuban’s face to engulf the screen.  Of course, the fat fuck was eating.
 
“Bless up.  Like where you been at dude. I have not seen you around the penthouse in days. You on a bender or something.  Oh shit, don’t tell me you took that game of kings shit seriously.  That was the molly talking not your homeboy here. Ha! The look on your face and your dye job tells me that I gotcha good.  You done been punked son.  Russia is a cold, boring, shithole, so we all knew you were tough as diamonds.  You be some prideful ass mofo though. You lucky you weren’t kidnaped son as this city is filled with the desperate. Speaking of which fuck Sol City dude. You got some Harvey Dent Distract Attorney here. Punk had the gall to tell my father… an esteemed senator mind you…that he is considering moving forward with the case against me.  Called me a menace to public order and threatened to throw me back in the slammer like I was some sort of real criminal. Chump is walking on thin ice. For real. Pissant doesn’t seem to whom he’s messing with. Scrappy Doo better learn that he is messing with the Big D-O-G now”
 
Sasha tempered his seething anger at his bulbous roommate before speaking.  [color=DDA0DD] “Seriously fuck you fat ass.  I could have been killed out here in the ghetto and guess what the DA could’ve added accessory to murder to your litany of charges.  Who’d be yucking it up then darling? I warned you that this is not Miami Dade county when all three of us bought the penthouse, so it is your own damn fault that you found yourself on the wrong end of the puritans’ moral crusade against fun.  You’re lucky I tolerate your presence pig, so I suppose I’ll do you a solid this once and have my Uncle call the DA’s office on your behalf.  He’ll remind Mr. Bigshot who financed his campaign last election cycle and your charges should be dropped.  In the meantime, inform my driver I wish to be picked from this tenement up post-haste and make sure Marcus brings some Oolong tea from new tea place down by the harbor.  Don’t get the wrong idea… I am still livid that I dyed my hair for a joke. I can’t wear some of my favorite outfits thanks to your ill placed sense of humor” [/color]
 
“Of course. What can I say humor is a harsh mistress Sasha.  I appreciate the solid though. Speaking of mistresses, you want to go to crash some shindig at the dustbin record shop later. Got word from a mutual friend of my drug dealer that killer babes are going be present and you know the Partyman loves himself some fresh booty. Before you start yes college-esque events are lame, but only when you are in college boy; Now that we are luminaries these are things are the bomb. Us Three Wise Man…Us Three Kings dropping truth bombs on our parishioners.  We be lighting up Instagram and Twitter. So do yourself the biggest favor of your life and say yes.”

Sasha considered telling his cohort to leave him alone, but being admired would be a good boost to his confidence. [color=DDA0DD] “Alright. Alright. I’ll go to on condition that I get to sing.” [/color]

Once an agreement was reached Sasha exited the dreary apartment and into the passenger side door of his awaiting cocaine white 2017 Lykan HyperSport aka the best 3.7 million dollars he ever spent. The Lebanese really knew how to build a car, with its holographic display system and each LED headlight encrusted with 220 diamonds this was truly a beautiful machine. With an acceleration of 0-125mph in 9.4 seconds Sasha felt sorry those fools stuck driving lesser cars.  He smiled as driver Marcus presented him with a biodegradable cup filled with Oolong tea. The tea was indeed delicious and was just the thing he need to jumpstart this already good day. 

[color=DDA0DD][b]91st floor Penthouse, Monday Afternoon[/b][/color]

Khorshid seemed overexcited to see Sasha back at the penthouse and he embraced his friend in a tight hug. “I was so worried about you Sashy.  Lupe had me convinced that you were going to be eaten by the homeless, but in all actuality, I knew it couldn’t be true as your slender figure wouldn’t provide them with the proper nutrition.” Staring aghast at Sasha’s dyed hair color the former Yale cheerleader stopped his blabbering before chiding “My gosh why’d you go dye your beautiful hair? Ugh and you haven’t been practicing your braid dear. Let me remind how to do it.” 

Sasha let his dimwitted friend lead him to the couch knowing better than to resist. Sitting down in front of the dullard, the Russian shivered in pleasure as he felt those soft hands begin to tug at the hair on right side of his head; having his hair braided was one his weakness. He bit his bottom lip to suppress a moan; the pain of the pulling stirred something pleasurable deep inside him. He closed his eyes and blissful thoughts raced across his mind’s eye.  It was unfortunate that the experience ended as quickly as it did. 

[img]https://i.pinimg.com/originals/37/5b/55/375b55861132adbb1d29657429ac08bd.jpg[/img]

It seemed that in the interim Lupe entered the room and know was going on about something or another. It was clear they had some planning to do. He looked up at his Indian roommate and flashed a thankful smile before turning his full attention to his Cuban compatriot.




[H2]Merle G. Kersten[/H2]

[b]Monday Evening, Swan Songs.[/b]

To the untrained eye they were perhaps invisible or even indistinguishable from the actual press there doing puff pieces, but the paparazzi of Sol City were descending on the musical event like a swarm of locusts. After all they were the ones with the tip off as an anonymous, yet reliable source called the major sources of entertainment news earlier in the day to proclaim to them that the Perfect Posse would be out today in full force.  While most of the lot just mulled about waiting for the actual celebrities to arrive, some of the so-called journalists with agendas to push rudely prodded patrons for quotes or eavesdropped on conversations. Merle G. Kersten was unfortunately one of those unlucky sods that was writing for an organization with some sort of slant to it. Luck of the draw he supposed.  [i]The Blaze[/i] was a fledgling sensationalist UK based website that had some socialist or perhaps it was social justice motivations behind it, not that Merle cared because a true centrist like himself would proudly write for any organization whose checks cashed. 

Using his motorized wheelchair to navigate the growing crowd was not impossible, but it was growing rather frustrating. He decided to just collect some quotations from the first group of twenty somethings he came across and call it a day. He wasn’t here for the circus act like his colleagues as his mission per say was to record reactions and opinions on Vencorp International and the allegations they might be connected to the legal gun trade in Africa. A big issue in England apparently.  The Russian socialite rumored to make an appearance later in the evening apparently was the nephew of the guy who ran Vencorp or something. Again, Merle did not care, he only took these writing gigs to supplement his laughably small disability check.  He adjusted his Garfield tie (It ironically mentioned not liking Mondays)  before approaching a group of people as the little pride he got out of the jobs was that he dressed relatively better than his peers. His suit while not terribly expensive was at least freshly pressed and at least he was not wearing a fedora to cover his prematurely balding head.  Waiting for a lull in the conversation Merle sped on over mentally noting that one of women sounded particularly English. 

“Pardon my intrusion ladies and gentlemen. I am Merle a free-lance journalist for [I]The Blaze[/i] crown and country’s number one source for progressive coverage and I am just wondering if you wonderful people could inform our readers across the pond what you personally think of recent allegations lobbied against locally based conglomerate Vencorp International. While similar allegations of supporting the legal gun trade in Africa have crippled shipping giants across the United Kingdom, it seems our American counterparts are hesitant to take any legal actions against this certain accused billion-dollar company. Is it perhaps that the current administration in Washington wishes to use exiled Russian oligarch Aleksey Matfey Petrov and his company as leverage against Putin? Is it just sickening knowing that the privileged few profit off the misery of others. What are your thoughts on the matter as many wish to know.” While rather monotone Merle managed to talk a brisk pace to silence any potential interruptions. The look on his face told those assembled that any answer or insult they flung at him would not surprise him in the slightest, he seemed quite world weary for a journalist.