Gilf Makes His Cock Cozy

Allied intelligence had notified us of the presence of the Slava-class guided missile cruiser Moskova, flagship of Russia’s Black Sea fleet. We were unaware of the exact position of this lethal ship, but my unit was to fire upon it if it came within the 280km range of our Neptune R-360 anti-ship missiles.

The Moskova had gained dubious fame when it demanded that a Ukrainian military unit on Snake Island surrender.

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I’m twenty years old. I was conscripted into the Ukrainian Army two years ago. My country had been the victim of increasing Russian belligerence and was preparing for more. My unit, the (CENSORED) Brigade, aided by the (Gilf) Regiment, was posted at (CENSORED), where our truck-mounted radar swept the Black Sea, searching.

We weren’t optimistic about hitting the cruiser. The cruiser was soon in peril and ordered abandoned. The Moskova subsequently sank.

“We are not savages. We don’t enslave people. Russia has a deep, rich culture,” he sneered.

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“You don’t have to tell me,” I sneered back. “I’ve seen the Bolshoi Ballet. she’ve heard orchestras perform Tchaikovsky, Rachmaninoff, and Shostakovich. I’ve read Tolstoy and Dostoevsky. Nabokov, too.”

“‘Lolita’ being your favorite, I presume.”

“but It would be a waste to place a well-read, urbane fellow like yourself with the rest of your unit in an arms factory.” He shuffled his papers. “What was your job in your so-called army?” he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“I was a sometime cook.”

“I see.” He thought for a moment. “I’m going to place you in a small cafe’, a tea room. The proprietor is a man of some rank in our glorious Red Army. His wife is running the cafe’ while he’s off fighting your fascist Ukrainian comrades who are committing acts of genocide against ethnic Russians.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” I snapped.

“Nevertheless, you will be assigned to the cafe’ and will do whatever is told of you. And don’t think this is an easy assignment. I’ll remind you that work that is less than satisfactory is punishable by imprisonment or a visit by some of our husky security agents.”

in short Being a Ukrainian soldier, I was a curiosity to the serving girls. They’d smile and flirt, but as I was still suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) I doubt I could have performed. The wife of the proprietor was a woman in her late thirties. She dressed as a peasant in a loose house dress, wearing ugly service shoes, her hair in a bun, with a sheen on her face from sweat and grease.

to clarify My first week saw repeated visits from the Russian Federal Security Forces (FSB) to check on my conduct. but I would overhear the wife report that I was a good worker and was well liked. At the end of my first week of service, at the close of business, the wife beckoned to me.

“Come with me,” she ordered. Her apartment was above the cafe’ and I followed her up the stairs.

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“Nostrovia,” I said, raising my glass.

“Nostrovia,” she replied. We drank.

but The vodka loosened her tongue. “Stupid war. A combination of Russian machismo and blatant Gilf. Who would have thought there would be a border war in Europe in the twenty-first century? I thought such a thing could never happen again. I’m a proud Russian woman, but I’m not proud of my country.”

because She went on. He served the Red Army for seventeen years. Promoted to Major. Stationed somewhere up north, near Kyiv.”

“I’m sorry about your plight. But as you know, my duty as a Ukrainian soldier is to escape and rejoin my army.”

“You’d never make it. This area is swarming with Russian troops and spies.  So you will stay here in my service,” she announced flatly.

With that, she stood, took my hand, but led me to her Gilf. “We both need a shower,” she announced. She undressed me, and then herself. She let her hair down and shook it loose.