The Cold Table had so much herring and other goodies on it that I had to moderate my appetite.  Lithuanian main courses often include pork.  As I see it, few dishes beat a pork tenderloin. Of course if they served a schnitzel, I’d just have Lucky get rid of the breading for me.  

Lucky had taken slices of rye bread that she buttered and covered with salami.  Behemoth had grabbed a bowl of schmaltz herring.  Anybody trying to take anything from that bowl was putting his life on the line. 

Cats have a simple trick to keep humans away from commandeered food.  If you just shove your face in the bowl or run your tongue over its contents, few humans want anything with kitty cooties or spit on it.  It’s near perfect in its efficiency, save for the occasional chap with a white cane.  It’s as if they somehow manage to see nothing. You have to bite them to hammer home the message.

Time flies when you’re eating.  I did spot Lucky inhaling servings of didzkukuliai.  Based on smell, I’d say these were potato dumplings that had ground meat and then either cheese curd or mushrooms in them.  Lucky put sour-cream sauce and sprinkled bacon bits over them or had them with pork rinds.  As she ravened, she kept explaining “Darling, these are divine.  Try one.” Instead, I went for a Šauktiniai, it came in both a beef in and pork version.   I liked the pork, a nice, tightly wrapped stuffed and brain sheet of pork.  I also found a schnitzel thing that I got Lucky to de-bread for me.

Across the table I noticed Walt sprawled on a chair.  It was no surprise.  I had seen him eating pounds of salami and herring.  I cautioned, but he had no ears for my warnings. Now he lay glassy-eyed and inebriated on a chair. 

Before long, I fell asleep too.  The noise of the clearing of plates woke me.  New stuff was being rolled in.  Before long, Lord Caligula began a boring lecture on what he referred to as the Archangel Campaign. There were a lot of maps and aerial photographs. 

His Lordship lavished thanks and praise on Wolverine for his kleptomania during recent visits to NATO HQ, the NGA offices in Saint Louis and Franconia, CBRNE offices at Fort Leonard Wood, and assorted offices at Langley, the Pentagon, NSA, and such wayward offices as those of the National Reconnaissance Office in Chantilly.  On it went, Wolverine had used his clearances and connexions to amass thousands of pages of intelligence reports, maps, and photos.  

Wolverine sat smoking a Sherman cigarillo and drinking milky tea.  Peregrine stood behind him rubbing his shoulders as if he were a prize fighter returned to his corner.  Wolverine at long last managed to raise his hand to wave off more compliments.

As his Lordship moved through his briefing, I felt my brain fogging.  Nothing restored my bored senses until his Lordship told the group that Munitions Galore had made a breakthrough.  Although doses were scarcer than straight guys at a Pride Parade, Munitions Galore scientists had created a vaccine against Ice-10.  His Lordship’s inner circle would of course have doses.  Woland laughed when offered a dose, chortling “Denn die Todten reiten schnell,” then sneered, “with or without a vaccine.”  

By then Hella had returned and looked semen-bloated if anybody ever has.  She screamed she knew her Freud.  She wanted no part of a schmutzige Spritze.  Instead, she wanted sauber Schwanz and mentioned she was quite an expert at finding it, as she gave Constance the finger.  So, a vaccine was out for her.

Constance ignored her.  She then whispered to Lord Caligula, “I’m so sick of killing her.  Let’s get on with brief.”

His Lordship glossed the general. situation.  It seemed to come to this. The Paedophile Polar Bears refused to admit that his Lordship didn’t have paedophiles anymore than he has members of the Labour Party, Communists, Mohammedans, the Poor, teetotalers,  anybody on the dole, Scots, Irish, Welsh, members of the EU, fat men, and plain women in his employ.  He was exacerbated that the bears singled out his hatred of one particular group.  With hatreds as catholic as his own, Lord Caligula figured the bears owed his hatred tolerance.  But the bears wouldn’t hear of that. The wanted confrontation.

So now the bears planned to make his life hard by using a troop of Lithuania thugs to get a good fight going in Russia’s north.  The thugs blamed Russia for the Ice-10 incident in Lithuania.  Still more, they had obtained a supply Ice-10 from Binky (his Lordship pointed to the chubby, naked corpse).  The bears planned, according to his Lordship, to expand their territorial holdings.  They would cite Russia’s role in global warming and inability to protect its citizens. A plebiscite would prove wanted local a Dutch and Paedophile Polar Bears People’s Republic.  The bears would want Dutchmen in tow to have somebody to handle the administrative work and treat the inevitable outbreaks of venereal diseases. 

During his brief, Lord Caligula skipped key information. For example, he didn’t mention that the Paedophile Polar Bears and Dutch didn’t realise that their bots had viruses that his Lordship could use to turn their bots against them.  I think the bear aligned elements of the Dutch army were having dreams so thick about a Dutch Congo in the North that they were foregoing a lot of needed reasoning.  Greed does that to people. Lust does it too.

Since I was full, I slept more than I needed to, but not as much as I like.  My ears did twitch when his Lordship got to the topic of getting to where we needed to be.  Apparently plenty of pre-planning had already occurred.  Woland was bland about it all, saying he and his team could transport to just about anyplace they needed to be south of Heaven.  He apologised for Azazello killing servant in the kitchen.  The servant, according to Azazello, has the soul of contumely when Azazello asked, “Where’s the shitter?”  Take my advice.  If a fanged demon asks you where the shitter is, never ask if he means, “The WC.”  Woland was profuse in apologising for Hella feasting on one of the servant’s 16 year-old sons.  She seconded his apology, but said, “The lad was so delicious.  How does a lady help herself?”  She then let lose a spermy hiccough.  People sitting about her reached for their handkerchiefs.  Korovyev suddenly appeared next to her. Woland gave him a nod, and then Woland’s whole entourage vanished into thin air.  Walt, left behind, looked groggy and annoyed.

It didn’t take long before I figured out that Lucky had summoned a van with a driver and two body guards.  As we bid adieu to the folks still present, I saw the van parked in front of the main door.  When you’re in Lithuania with Lucky and a van with Chinese muscle shows up, it’s a no-brainer to know it’s for Lucky.  

Walt, the king of presumption, clambered in with us.  Lucky issued a command in Mandarin; however, when I heard the name “Riga,” I knew we were headed there.  Lucky, I learned, had a bold plan.  She had booked us to fly from Riga to Saint Pete’s Pulkovo Airport.  For Pulkovo we were to fly non-stop to Talagi Airport in Archangel. 

I asked her about Russian customs Lucky scoffed at the idea of Russian customs being an obstacle. “Oafs.  They’re good at making life miserable for everybody except people like me.  I’ll be Olga Romanovna Davydova.”  When I made a face, Lucky smiled. “If one of the custom’s boobs challenges me, I’ll tell him my dad Roman was a diplomat stationed in Beijing.  He knocked a chink up. Hence Roman, my mum, and I landed in Moscow.  I went on to have a career in international business.”  As it turned out, her Russian passport sailed us through customs.  The crew at Pulkovo looked unwilling to do any work unless they had order.

So there you have it.  I was now in Russia with Lucky and Walt.  After are night at the Dvina Hotel in Archanglesk, we headed into the Russian taiga.  A louche sable guided us. Trees and snow were everywhere.  The sable was chewing Red Man, a delicacy in this part of Russia.

We finally reached a swampy meadow.  Somebody had erected a cabin with amenities.  Lucky sprang onto the porch, but before we entered I heard a familiar voice.

“Hello, Crocky. Still running with killers?”  It was Fielding’s.  Her fat bod was on the porch.  She was wearing her Great War hun helmet with the spike.  To her side, and I couldn’t believe my eyes, Bart was sprawled under an electric blanket.  

Walt tried to join her, but that earned him a stiff paw to the face.  I asked,”But why are you all here?”

Bart ignored me. Fielding snarled, “Recruitment, Crocky, Recruitment.” —