Chapter 25 - Lets Party

   Since we were waiting, we did what we did some more. We shopped the market, we looked for novel edibles. Panic was slowing down his little shopping spree. Not so much because he wanted to, but because you don't want to weigh the jet down too much. Its not a military cargo plane. Stripped down to fly, with as much open space as possible inside. That space and weight went largely to luxury accommodations.

   The villagers were happy to get the goods coming in. All they knew? They got to see things on television, and now on the internet with the occasional cell phone. To them, well... getting to get things they saw people have in advanced countries, was living large. When one of them bought a Chinese knock off colorful leisure track suit? They simply walked around ten feet tall, with a kind of a hitch in their giddy up. Some cheap truck stop level jewelry, and all they knew was they now had some bling. Like people had on television and the internet.

   To us? This was childish and silly. Like some high school kid showing everyone his fake Rolex he had scored. Happy the two molecules thick plating hadn't started giving up the ghost yet, giving the game away. Hand held two way radios and CB units were hot items here. One guy had a tiny street and trail motorcycle, and had rigged up metal milk crates to transport things from village to village. It looked comical to see a CB mounted to the handlebars and a big antenna coming up the back like a giant remote control toy, but this was no doubt part of his prosperous little business.

   He traded staple food items, for bolts of cloth and sheets of tanned leather. Then clothes and things like knives that now had leather sheaths? Went out and were bartered with as well. The occasional two way hand held radio came back tucked in as well. That, was a serious luxury item he could trade for here. Panic got along quite famously with the burrito guy. And the wicker man, and the knife and machete maker. Wicker and knife were single, what Panic had thought was the burrito man's wife and kids? Turned out to be a relative he was looking after. Her husband and father to her two children? Had been killed in some fracas a few years back, somewhere else.

   I had located pigs. Or more accurately? My nose told me where they were. I knew the direction, no self respecting farm girl is unable to locate a pig sty. Panic thought, what the hell. We're just waiting. Why not have a little party. Wicker, Knife, and Burrito. They could bring some friends. Food? To us its so cheap its like they're giving it away. Now, where was the booze. You need people, we had that. You need food, we could get plenty. Where was the booze at. No society of human beings on the planet? Doesn't have booze around, somewhere or in some form.

   Burrito told us. He left his female relative and her two kids to do the food stall, and walked us to an out of the way corrugated metal shack. Sure enough, there it was. Huge piles of way over ripe bananas. An older woman running it. Local kids were roped in to squash the bananas into big earthenware jugs. Hey, its the local version of kids cutting grass for pocket money, I suppose.

   Panic explained that it was basically making banana wine or banana beer. Call it what you wanted, same thing. She let him drink some, and he nodded. Sweet with the tang of a little alcohol. She had a still. She mixed the liquor that came out of the still with various fruit pulps and juices for taste and potency. He had me and Vlad sip the taste trials, and we all settled on something that strongly resembled banana schnapps with fruit flavors.

   Booze, food, buddies. We got to organize a party. Panic wanted to roast a pig on a spit, over a fire. What we were calling banana beer and banana schnapps. Locating food was obviously no problem. The reasoning, was how could it possibly hurt to ingratiate ourselves with the locals. A party with booze would also set tongues to wagging. And really, what the hell. Something to do.

   Getting a pig was no real problem. Panic was figuring the pig would arrive killed and gutted. No. A live pig, that I would have described as market weight? Arrived grunting. No one in the entire town had a gun. Vlad said there were a few handguns in the plane under lock and key, but, we weren't to have anyone know we had any weapons. We were to be harmless information seekers. Vlad grinned.

   "I have solution. I need my razor."

   Panic, and me at that point, thought a razor wasn't exactly the right thing for killing and gutting the pig.

   "Ah. Is not razor, like you think. This? Is Slavic razor. Wait, you see."

   Vlad went into the plane and was back out, wearing one of his now customary track suits he liked. He was standing next to the pig with a rope collar keeping it from running around much. We were waiting, and in one smooth motion his right hand went up and back behind his head, and his right hand whipped down in a blur, and... the couple hundred pound pig didn't so much as get a little squeal or a grunt out. In fact, it stopped dead in its tracks. It shook and twitched on its feet, then fell sideways to land on its side, nothing now but autonomic nervous system leftover movements.

   He had buried this giant... thing in its skull. It somewhat resembled a meat cleaver? But not as tall as one, and longer. Thick metal for a knife, but straight. In quite a nonchalant manner, he put his foot on the pigs snout, and rapped up with the palm of his hand to liberate the wicked looking thing like an ax buried in a stump. He drew it across the pig's neck while it still twitched, and everyone got the back legs up to drain the blood out. Burrito and couple of local teenagers gutted and skinned it, and pounded a sharp sapling up through the body and out the mouth.

   Panic was grinning, and asked to see it. Vlad smiled quite proud to show off his "little razor" to us, handing it over after wetting it and wiping it off carefully.

   "Slavic razor. Very quiet. Very useful."

   Panic hefted it and played with it, like a teenager handling his first gun.

   "Is not for use every day. Would ruin edge. Be careful."

   He held his hand out, and Panic set the handle in his hand. Vlad dropped a piece of fruit, and it didn't just stick in it, it magically came apart. It was literally a razor's edge. Panic asked where he could get one.

   "Must make. No store, sells these thing."

   "Its thick. Full tang handle."

   Vlad beamed.

   "African ironwood, for handle. Was going, to get real ivory? But, Yuri. Yuri say, I look like pimp. And so? I keep ironwood."

   "What kind of steel?"

   "Ah. Slavic razor start? With old, rusty file. Big old file. One, that rust makes it no longer useful, as file. But? Is best thing, to make Slavic razor from."

   "That would be... brittle."

   "Yes. But? You bake in oven, for two hours. I like 475, Fahrenheit. Color change. To pale yellow. Is called, straw color. After two hours, at 475? You simply shut oven off, and let cool slow all night, staying in oven. In morning? Clean. Is now very hard, but not so hard it break like file, when you drop. You tap with metal? You tell by ring it make, it has changed. You can now file or grind and sand."

   It wasn't just the wicked, long, thick, heavy razor blade. It was the speed with which he whipped it out and put into a blur of use, all in one swift motion. He showed Panic his scabbard. It was on his back, strapped like a gun rig. Also? He showed us. Told to put his hands up? He gets talking, and his hands are behind his head. A slight distraction? Like Yuri insulting the person holding a gun on them, for instance. He can take the gun hand clean off at the wrist. He demonstrated on a tree with a branch out, about the thickness of my wrist.

   Clean off, like a warm knife through butter.

   I don't think I'm using much imagination, to say I now know what he chopped up the dirty police that raped and killed his wife and children with. I'm imagining the look on the others faces, when he lopped a head off and they knew they were next. He said its handy. Being chased? You get around a corner, and time it, and... take off a head, an arm, or disable a leg.

   He had what Panic calls pips. Little dimples, from a light punch tapped. Panic uses a pip, to locate a drill spot in metal, so the drill bit doesn't wander. There were fourteen pips down the top edge of the handle, on the thick metal between the African ironwood handles.

   Vlad simply stated, with a shrug and no emotion.

   "There were fourteen police, we trapped in station."

   Yuri had apparently awarded him the honor, of personally dispatching the dirty police they trapped in the police station, while dressed in stolen uniforms.

   Panic was in love with the thing.

   "I have to have one."

   "Is handy. No serious knife collection? Complete, without one good Slavic razor. But? You can not have these one. Is not for sale, at any price. These one? Have great, sentimental value. But, you tell me, you make knife. You can make one. Just find biggest, old rusty file, you can. Bake, at 475, for two hour. Let cool in oven, till morning. Then? Make."

   Panic showed him his letter opener he carried right then.

   "Is, what. Plastic toy."

   Then, Vlad winked to let him know it was a joke.

   "Mine? Is bigger."

   Panic snickered.

   "Yes. But mine? Goes through metal detectors."

   The usefulness of that? Dawned on Vlad, and it showed in his eyes.

   "Is also... handy. But? We play game."

   "Vlad? I don't want to... play games with knives. We're friends."

   "Trust Vlad."

   Vlad felt the edges of what was essentially a plastic dagger. Panic explained it was a carbon fiber composite, for strength. Sold as a self defense training aid? It was... useful for other things.

   "You hold."

   Vlad put the knife in his hand. Then, he placed his hand on Panic's wrist.

   "Game? Is to touch me, with knife."

   Panic smiled, but... Vlad was chuckling. I saw the cogs turning look pass over Panic's face. He couldn't touch Vlad's arm with the knife, and it was getting to be funny.

   "What is matter?"

   "How, are you..."

   Vlad laughed.

   "Is called... Systema. Is Russian? For... The System."

   "I've heard the word, Systema."

   "Once communism wall comes down? It get out, to rest of world slowly. Is, Russian martial art."

   "I've seen little practice fights. Systema videos, on the internet."

   "Yes. You ever see, tall, now fat old man? Giving demonstration, in large auditorium."

   "Now that you mention it? Yes."

   Vlad smiled.

   "That? Was man, that invent, and perfect... Systema. Was, for Spetsnaz, only. Originally."

   "Russian special forces. You, were..."

   Vlad laughed.

   "No. Yuri sponsor me. To go, to big university. I am big young man. In Russia? Young man, if he is to be man. What. Must read books. Play chess. And? Exercise. I am university, for several year. Yuri suggested. Join club. Systema. Tall, fat old man, you see in video? I know video. That, was my university. That man? He invent, Systema. For Spetsnaz. He used to go, to my university. And so, he teach Systema, to Systema club there. Is like... learning boxing? From man that invent boxing. Who better, to teach."

   "Wow. Now that, is cool."

   Vlad shrugged.

   "Yes. I was not interested, in girls. I go to class. I get good grades. I get degrees. But? Must do something. I read books. I play chess. In chess club. In Russia? A man is consider to be... more of a man? When he reads many books, and plays chess. Also? To exercise. Also, I was in Sambo club."

   Panic's face lit up again. He nodded and chuckled.

   "Now Sambo? I know what that is. You, Vlad? You... can handle yourself."

   Vlad shrugged and grinned.

   "I am okay. Yuri insisted. You see. When Yuri first found me? I was... big, happy Vladimir. But, I tell you what happens. I was then... all fire. All anger. I am big strong man. Was useful. But? Yuri, insisted. Big and strong? Is very good. But angry? No. I must learn focus, and dedication. Control. And so, instead of getting degree in girls, at big university... I do other things. I read many books, not for class. Chess club. Systema club. Sambo club. I do this, for several year. Yuri says, this is like... another degree. To go with my, university degrees."

   Yuri knew he had found a true diamond in the rough, in Vladimir. He was too perfect. Big and strong. All good values. Naturally loyal. And after what happened? He was pissed off at the world. And he would have a special burning hatred, rooted deep in his soul? For police and governments.

   What Panic was to Little Robbie? Vladimir was the same, to Yuri. Vlad could be trusted to have his back. Never to turn on him.

   "And you. Do you, spend time in... clubs? Exercise."

   Panic nodded.

   "Is good. Books? Chess?"

   Panic nodded and grinned.

   "Is very good. Did you have a... Yuri? A Yuri of your own."

   "Yeah. I do."

   "All men, should have a Yuri."

   Vlad put his hand on Panic's shoulder.

   "I already know you fight. I hear many times, about... American cowboys. But? We are friend. We play on... same team. We will not fight. Maybe, after all of this, ends? Perhaps, we will have time. We will exercise. Then? Play chess, enjoy a little vodka."

   "Sounds like fun."

   "It will be."

   Christ. These two? Are bonding like two teenage girls at a sleepover. They're not trying to impress, out do, or one up each other. There's no competition. It does remind me of seeing Panic with Little Robbie. These two? Are kindred spirits.

   Getting people together, and offering them a party. A pig roast. Booze and other food. It did produce a loosened atmosphere and wagging tongues. With Panic translating and doing the talking, Vlad gently used him as a translator. Vladimir is in his own way? A businessman. Even if he used to do it on a small scale, in his village? Then later, being Yuri's trusted right hand man in what were no doubt mixed dealings. I don't care if you're buying baby socks in bulk at a low price per unit, and selling them at the higher single unit price... that's business. Legitimate, black market, or the gray market between the two. Its all the same thing, its just the type and nature of the product that varies. A pimp is a businessman, he's just selling pussy.

   Vlad made suggestions, and Panic got the information. We were about 40 or so miles from a spot on the coast. There was a place where the water was deep, right up to the shore. But, a large flat rock with a slight slope. A natural sort of dock, that a big boat could pause at. Cargo ships, liked to pause there. It was in the middle of routine cargo load trips.

   The men liked to get out and spend some time on shore. Fresh water, and novel fresh foods. Someone, saw to provide things a ship and its men would fancy. A dock, a bar. Some maintenance available. You could clean barnacles there, or scrape and paint parts of the steel on the ships. Lots of poor villagers, who thought the cheap goods or very little hourly pay? Was a huge bonanza to them. A pair of used but working hand held two way radios? A huge prize to these people. They would give you all the fresh fruit and vegetables you wanted for it.

   Classic relationship. You trade what you have plenty of, be it time and labor, or whatever you have an excess of that means little to you on hand. The other side? Is doing the same thing. You each trade what's easy to give, and you get what's invaluable to you, and you highly prize it.

   And a few enterprising villagers, had figured out they could they could do more than just work. I could see a cargo longshoreman, on board a ship for long periods of time. If he was the one to trade something for a big load of, say, mangoes and pineapples. I bet he was very popular, and got things in return for sharing. And a custom knife in a hand tooled leather sheath? Yeah, he might trade for that.

   But, Vladimir was seeing more. Those big boxes of Chinese knockoff Brazilian Olympic soccer track suits. That, was no simple... me give used CB. I get, many pineapples for CB. No way. That? Was slightly more organized. Vlad was surmising how this worked.

   Chinese open sea barges, wanted things like huge loads of coal and iron ore, for instance. Vlad said it. Imagine, you're working on a Chinese sea barge. You stop here. Go ashore, someone put a little bar and restaurant in. Naturally a few port hookers. Fresh water, fresh fruit and vegetables. Very attractive little stop.

   You're coming in empty, with this gigantic ship. Taking back loads of commodity. But? Your trip originates, in China. And there? There are whole cities, where there's nothing but manufacturing. The focusing flashlight, that sells for say 40 dollars in an American department store? Is available online, direct from China... for under five bucks. That's after shipping, from China to America.

   He said, imagine how cheap it is per unit? With no shipping. No tax. Right from the flashlight factory. Its, unbelievably cheap per unit. But? Only, if you are there. Its even cheaper, to buy a whole pallet of those focusing flashlights. No money spent on packaging or shipping or branding. Now, you got the same 40 dollar flashlight? For a buck or two each.

   Cut out import and export taxes and fees, right off the top. No branding, packaging and shipping costs. Dirt cheap. Same new product. These people? Think a focusing flashlight, that's rechargeable? Is a modern marvel, and its a status symbol. Why, you're modern. You now, have what previously was only something you saw on the internet. And, your neighbors all want one after you show yours off.

   The Brazilian government? This place is out of the way. There's no taxes, fees, nothing. No middle man. Some Brazilian cocaine is surely finding its way around as well. Its like the wild west of entrepreneurship. The guy with the CB on the little motorcycle? Figured it out. He can carry a lot of small light items. Hand held radios and little flashlights, for instance. These, are highly prized items here. He can drive them around to nearby villages, and... local trade is going on.

   To Vlad? This place, is a potential fucking gold mine. All he needs, is to add one little ingredient. Contact with the captain, or whoever handles this. To ask for a few pallets of things. No tax, shipping, customs... nothing. On either end.

   Yuri has big international connections. Francois? Has a son that does cargo boats. These big open sea barges? Are empty anyways coming over. Why not get a few things. The captain can no doubt be paid off, he'll be happy. What Vlad wants most of all? To put together his own bigger business deal, to impress Yuri with what he accomplished, while Yuri was away.

   After another mug of banana beer? Vlad asked Panic.

   "Friend. Did you not say, you have gun shop. You sell gun."

   "Yeah. Little town. I just enjoy it. My gun collection, is... well, you can imagine what kind of... knife collection you would have. If you had a knife store."

   "Yes. And? If you sell guns, that means you must first... buy guns."

   "Sure."

   "Drugs, gun, and prostitute? Are the three main exports from these place. Perhaps, you do not want drugs and prostitute. But gun? Very cheap here."

   "Guns for hunting, Vlad. Not... bazookas and machine guns."

   Vlad went on.

   "Do you sell, Kalashnikov. AK."

   "Yes. But? It has to have an American made receiver."

   "Kalashnikov? Is most famous Russian rifle. Work very well, is very cheap to make. Was designed, for these. Look. I show you."

   He showed Panic an internet picture, of the blueprints for an AK-47.

   "Is, flat piece of steel. With, holes and pattern cut. Flat piece of steel? Is pressed, into rectangle. Is designed, to be very cheap to make, and yet very effective. You say, you must use, American receiver."

   "Yes."

   "You, are American. You? Make flat piece of steel. Then? Buy AK here. Take all parts off. Put them into 55 gallon drums, each part. Take 55 gallon drums home? Where you have flat pieces of steel, waiting. How much, is Kalashnikov that you sell. How much, to buy. At store."

   "Around 750 dollars, for a decent one."

   Vladimir laughed his ass off, and had trouble getting down to chuckles to talk again.

   "Friend. Do you know, what Kalashnikov sells for?"

   "You mean here."

   "Here, South America. In Africa, is same. Forty dollars. Maybe fifty, but brand new. Not used much? Twenty, thirty."

   "Are you sure?"

   "Very sure. Is standard price, for international sale. Yuri does. All the time. Is profitable. Is easy. Many government? Go to new, more expensive guns. For soldiers. Many Kalashnikov? Were never used once. Are still in... wax. In crate."

   "Holy shit. It costs 50 dollars, just for the magazine."

   "Ah. For price of magazine? Why not get, whole new gun."

   "I have a class III license. I have a manufacturing license. I just use it, to make ammunition, for target guns. But? I'm allowed to manufacture any gun part I want."

   "Putting gun together? Is difficult. But, taking thing apart? Much easier. Look around you. You have, labor force. You already see, how much you get for one American dollar, in these place. Say, fifty dollar. For new gun, in wax in crate. Say, fifty dollar? To villager. To take gun apart, and put each part, into own barrel. Give one of these men, fifty dollar bill. They will die, of heart attack. They will work, all week, for fifty dollar. Think. How many gun, they can take apart? In a week."

   "I still need to manufacture receivers."

   "Ah. Will take time, and money. To, make first one. You need..."

   Vlad made a motion, with one hand coming down, his fingers down, about to pierce his flat palm under it. I saw Panic's face light up.

   "Oh! You mean, a big hydraulic press. With... a die, that stamps the receiver plate out."

   "Yes. You need, machinist. To make, these thing. Would take time. You must pay machinist, for one year. To make. But? After that..."

   He stabbed is palm with his fingers pointing down, several times in quick and rapid succession.

   "Piece of flat steel. Press. Then? Another... press. To bend into rectangle. Then? Put your parts on. Is more difficult, than I make it sound, but..."

   "You can arrange, cargo boat?"

   Vlad laughed.

   "Friend. What, do you think, Yuri and Francois, they do? These thing. You? Just need... good machinist. Machinist? With... dedication, and focus."

   "Actually... I'm best friends with a machinist. He used to be a machinist. Now? He does something else. But, he was a good one."

   "Does machinist friend, have dedication and focus?"

   "If you knew him? Very much. Dedication and focus, out the ass, actually."

   "There you go. Whatever he make now? In one year. Pay him, what. Twice that. You will see... much more dedication, and focus."

   "Vlad? I'm not sure I have that kind of money. I mean, I could do most of that, but... shipping, big cargo ships? I don't have that."

   "What. All of these, all together. Is only, what. Couple million."

   "Vlad. I think, you've been around... Francois and Yuri too long. I'm... not a billionaire, like they are."

   "What is billion. I say, a couple million. Much less."

   "But---"

   "I communicate with Francois. You had, paper talk. Discount paper? I know these talk. Before Brooklyn shit hole? I was in meeting. Many meeting. Where, these thing was... put together. Yuri, Francois... other investor. Come up with plan."

   Then, Vladimir nodded.

   "Oh. I see now."

   "What?"

   "I forget. How you meet, Francois. You do not have one million. To discount first paper. Was... excuse. To meet him. Is okay. I understand."

   "Oh, that. Actually? I do have it."

   "Ah. What is problem. Come. We have idea. Already. No more talk. We talk about these? Later. After... Bermuda. After I have, vacation. From Brooklyn shit hole. But? I must go back, to United States. Believe me? I will not go back, to Brooklyn shit hole. Can I rent, quiet house?"

   "Why couldn't you rent a quiet house, if---"

   "No. I wait. Eighteen month, on Yuri. I will rent, cheap house. Where you come from. Has to be better place, than Brooklyn. I must do something. I will do these thing. You will see."

   "Why would you---"

   "What. I think of deal. I put deal? Together. I am used to business meeting, to discount paper. You? Provide machinist. In eighteen month? Yuri, will be so proud of me!"

   Vlad tapped his chest with his fist. Ironically, right on the tattoos of the birds. The birds, that I'm pretty sure now signify the souls of his wife and two children.

   "Legitimate, American, manufacturing business."

   "What would I be giving you. What would I owe you."

   "As I say. This, is... food for thinking. But. I believe the idea, is good. Idea, is good to have. But? Enough for now. This, is other job. Not job, we do now."

   Panic grinned, and related his own thing back to him.

   "Focus, dedication. Job at hand."

   Vlad nodded yes to that.

   "And? At moment, we relax."

   Its not hard to fathom that everyone liked the idea of a party, and naturally the free food and drinks. Its not a concept limited to my own society, that drunk people will spill the beans on random things. But when Panic is gabbing in Spanish with the locals, I have to wait until he clues me in.

   Late in the night, it began to resemble any big party. A few locals argued among themselves, the rest either took sides or broke it up. Most of Panic's conversations seemed to be lengthier and deeper when he was talking with Burrito, Knife or Wicker. But Burrito had edged out and pulled ahead. Burrito seemed to be his... what. Best contact.

   When Panic and Vlad and Burrito went for a late night drunken stroll, I was thinking about going with. Panic gave me a little wave off, like a wink on the sly. I motored on past and left them alone. Inebriated as he was, Burrito seemed to be a fun drunk. Some guys get loud or mean, others get melancholy. He was just a happy drunk for the most part, it seemed.

   The three came back and had gotten Burrito to slip a track suit over his clothes he had worn to the party. I don't know if it was Panic or Burrito that suggested it, but it was on Vlad to have gone with it. His relative and female work helper stayed a good while, but eventually took the kids home. As everyone slowly drifted off, Burrito ended up having one of those late after the party patented boy talks.

   Panic wasn't as drunk as he played at being. He shot me a few facial expressions that told me he didn't like what he was hearing. I'd find out later. What I lack in translating Spanish, I make up for. By being forced to study facial expressions, body language, social distances and other subtle cues.

   When I see two people walking, and one is a half a step ahead? That's the leader. It only applies to those two people. When more people are together, again who seems to naturally lead. Point and decide. Everyone else generally agrees or nods. My psychology degrees are far from useless to me in my life. My Uncle Mikey as I call him. My handler at the FBI, that knew me and recruited me to be an undercover pool agent? Always did like this about me. Panic considers it a resource as well. Sociology is a different discipline, but it has overlap with psychology. Without language, I'm in some ways having an easier time gaining understanding of the social structure here.

   Its not terribly complicated. The general rules? Its a natural patriarchy here. By natural, I mean there's no rule or law or even custom that seems to enforce it. It just happens naturally. None of the females really complain about it. They're not scared, either. I've seen female companions to the men? Suddenly point, raise their voice, argue. The man will stop, point, argue back. They have a little discussion, and gesticulate a lot. They eventually arrive at a decision, and I've never seen a guy drag the woman off by her hair screaming. Simple willpower and deciding who's more correct? Seems to be the only deciding factor which direction they eventually go, after arguing and pointing in two different directions.

   I'm seeing a gentle, or what I call a natural patriarch structure. After an extended male female argument? I was curious to see them again as soon as possible. I posted up nearby to see how it was when they reappeared. If the woman was being yelled at, let alone smacked or threatened in some way? I'd see sheepish behavior temporarily. I don't see it. You argue, you decide. Then? Its over.

   The men tease their women, but the women tease the men back. It seems to be a local jibe to toss a tiny bit of food at someone, smiling. They pretend to be mad, and its a joke. Or, they toss a bit back. Nothing messy, nothing expensive. Always something cheap and dry. A peanut, a pit of a fruit, a chip of dried banana. I started doing it to Panic. Local women smiled at me.

   By and large, age is hierarchy. The older you are, tends to produce more attention when you speak or argue. That's as natural as a gentle patriarchy, to me. Few cultures don't hold the adage that with age comes wisdom. Its a very ultra modern concept in my own United States and in Western European society? To call all aged people... boomers, and make fun of them just for being older. That hasn't hit here. Yet.

   Give them enough television and internet and western European influence from first world countries? I'd expect to see either a backlash against the influence, or an adoption and incorporation of it. I asked Panic, as the translator. Any... complaining about feminism. He said none. I had him then ask and discuss. He said they think that stuff is hilarious and funny. Yes, they see it on the internet. They think its silly.

   I've seen two obviously gay men, and they run a little clothing stall and are always walking together. There doesn't seem to be any law or enforced custom over it. A few jibes, was all Panic got when he asked Burrito about those two. Panic has a comedian's gene, and has a tendency to entertain people at parties and gatherings. He went through some of his repertoire of swishing arms and prancing and patented female affectations. The men laughed, the women laughed. The two gay men, from what I call the garment district? One even laughed while pointing, and shoved his partner's shoulder.

   It was the two openly gay men from the garment district at the pig party. One laughed more than the other. The same one that shoved the other's shoulder. Who rolled his eyes and looked away dramatically... before finally beginning to get the giggles at Panic's little show. Okay, I know which one's the pitcher and which one's the catcher. As if I needed to even know. Still. If I needed to make a logical argument to persuade them? Say, money. I'd tell Panic to accidentally approach the pitcher. But. If I needed to make an emotional appeal? Say, what feels better. I'd have Panic approach the catcher. I'd instruct Panic to persuade the pitcher, with logical statements. This will make more money. This would be easier. But, an emotional appeal? Use emotional persuasion approaching the catcher.

   I know it might cost a little more, but this would make you happier. Isn't this just the right thing to do, or doesn't this just look better this way? Emotional appeals can be powerful, when the right person gets it directed at them. Then, the catcher can approach and convince the pitcher.

   American advertising already knows emotional persuasion is powerful. Its why advertising for things like food and clothing and cars and houses? Is aimed at women. The fact that the ad campaigns work, is its own proof. The economy car advertisement? Will show women getting groceries, in the large cargo space in the hatchback station wagon styled rear of the vehicle. The many kids having extra seats, when the cargo area suddenly flips up not only a back seat but extra jump seats for littler passengers. Little safety features figure prominently. Convince the little lady her child is somehow safer in this vehicle, as well as useful for both groceries and loading up the pee wee soccer team? It will sell. Soft music. All children and babies as passengers. Dogs will be cute little ankle biters that look like they just took first place in a dog show.

   Big work truck advertisements? Its all about how powerful the engine is. How heavy of an object you can haul or tow. How your mud covered work boots or hunting boots will be fine because of the large rubber pan shaped floor mats, and easily cleaned. You'll see other big men going to work, or on a work site. Loyal dogs like retrievers or bulldogs. The music? Will always be a little louder, a little faster. A little more aggressive.

   These things sound silly, but they work. Millions of dollars on ad campaigns, would be different if it didn't get results. Convince the wife? You've already convinced the husband. He just doesn't know it yet. All toy and candy ads? Are aimed at children. Convince the kids? You've already convinced the parents. Mom and dad just don't know it yet. Adults understand expensive and more desirable. Leather seats, or famous name stereo being standard. Little kids? Offer a three year old a hundred dollar bill, and a candy bar. See which hand they claw after.

   The party, like all parties? Eventually wound down. Couples and singles, slowly drifted away. Burrito was inebriated, and gabbed quite liberally with Panic. Sitting there, as Panic and Vladimir cut the huge strips of meat from what remained of the party pig. They dropped it into the wicker baskets that Burrito had stacked nearby. He gave them a smaller wicker basket, so they could take a basket of meat to the pilots, who we figured might enjoy such a thing.

   I was dying to hear his report, but I knew he had a little digital recorder on his person. He would be able to fast forward and reverse through the conversations he recorded, on his smaller laptop he had with him. When he had the relevant parts of conversations edited roughly down, he would sit with the same headphones on, and type up a rough little set of notes and quotes. A little report.

   Then, Panic being of course Panic... I already knew he would edit what he had typed rough, and make it into something he thought was the distilled essence of what was important. Then? I'd get what he called a doctoral dissertation on it. Vladimir as well, no doubt.

   The thing was though. Those looks he gave me, to let me know he was hearing things he didn't like to hear? They never really went away. On the final walk back to the jet, with me and Vladimir. I softly asked.

   "Well?"

   He sighed.

   "Same shit. Different country, different assholes."