Blaze

by Andrew Thorp King

  Maksim’s mind was jogging backwards as he slammed steaming black coffee down his throat to chase his last bite of toast. It’s furiously wonderful how events have transpired. How circumstances have given way. The sounds of John Coltraine prominently filled the air. Damn, I do love good jazz. This thought was a trite interruption of his glorious recollection of his rise to power. But, yes, Maksim did love jazz. It was the only thing he found redeemable of American art and culture. The Americans. What a sad story they’ve become. He dabbed a tickling bead of water from his hairline with the sleeve of his robe. His mind then again became transfixed on the sequence of events that led him to the Kremlin, where he so happily enjoyed eggs over easy at the moment.

  He had become a reluctant fan of Vladimir Putin for a time. Putin had set in motion many actions that Koslov later aspired to perfect and intensify. He had watched with glee as Putin systematically dismantled all traces of Boris Yeltsin’s progress toward democracy, free elections, freedom of religion, and free market enterprise. It had eventually become difficult to believe that Yeltsin had any role in encouraging or grooming Putin, particularly as Putin maneuvered to erase the election of governors and instead appointed all eighty-nine of them himself. Koslov felt a tickle of jealousy of that move as it served to mark the evolving narrative of Russia’s history. A narrative Koslov wanted to earn credit for. A persistent narrative that embodied the nation’s character once described as a “riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma” by Winston Churchill. The narrative was not entirely disagreeable under Putin’s rule as Maksim would assess. Just too tame and slow in its approach. Maksim had in mind a timeline for Russia’s re-emergence on the global stage that was more broadband and less dial-up. It was that crucial difference that led to Putin’s necessary demise.

  He likely couldn’t have pulled off the coup without the help of his lovely, disgruntled friends of the Solntsevskaya brotherhood. He couldn’t thank Putin enough for cracking down on these thugs and jailing many key members. Those hard-line, law enforcement actions, although done more to protect political power than to smoke out lawlessness and corruption, helped Maksim solidify an enemy of his enemy. And they became Maksim’s friends real quickly as Putin declared himself the enemy of the Solntsevskaya brotherhood strain of the Russian mafia. It was a great boasting right for Putin. But little did he know that the enemy he made would help initiate the coup that would leave him taking a dirt nap.

  It was only 6:15 am as Maksim completed his breakfast. He savored the last few notes of the Miles Davis track that had been playing as he made his way into his art studio. He would spend the remaining forty-five minutes of his pre-workday routine there until 7:30 am rolled around and the day would begin to more thoroughly engage him.

  Maksim was unusually gifted at many things. Whether it was business, communication and the art of persuasion, individual sports of a high-octane physical nature, writing, or political prowess, Maksim was no stranger to various states of excellence. Painting was no different. He had dabbled in painting as a teenager, but didn’t excel at it until his political career began to blossom. He had found that the busier and more complex his political career became, the more therapeutic and necessary his painting became. Along with morning swims and evening kickboxing sessions, the painting was a tremendous release valve for Maksim.

  Maksim’s mind was often a pile of raw thoughts and ideas during the onset of each painting session. He often likened his mind to a sausage factory as he would paint, swim, or kick box. Every event, thought, pending decision, and handful of variables floated around his head in an ugly, messy sea of simultaneity and disarray. But like the ugliness of making sausage, when the process was over, he emerged from the other side with a proverbial eatable product—however unhealthy in its eventual effects—in the form of a clear, decisive mind. This morning was no different. His morning swim began the process, and the painting he was now applying effort to would likely complete the circle of his thoughts. When his aides would ask him how swimming, painting, or kickboxing was on any given day, he often replied, “The sausage is complete.” He never explained. He just let them stand there perplexed and smiling awkwardly.

  This morning would constitute his second session on this particular painting, and he reckoned he would need at least three more sessions before it was due for a frame. It would be, as was his custom, an extremely ornamental gold frame. This was precisely the way he envisioned his Scythian ancestors to have packaged their art. The fascination and excessive use of gold was a key emphasis in Scythian culture. Maksim honored this tradition.

  In regard to central and definitive motifs of Scythian culture, the horse was undoubtedly one of the most prominent. It is widely attributed that the Scythians were one of the first, if not the first, groups to tame and ride horses in Central Asia. It was the development of their equestrian skills that enabled the Scythians to become monstrous warriors and conquerors of an unquenchable nature. The horse thus became a strong and clear symbol of a voracious appetite to conquer. This was his inspiration and purpose for conveying the glory of the horse through his painting. If he did not think it such a lowly and detestable art form, he might just consider getting the symbol of a horse tattooed on him.

  Maksim sipped from his coffee mug as he allowed a momentary pause from his painting efforts. His mind became focused on the details of how he conquered the Kremlin and swiftly eliminated Putin.

  The impetus for his coup had been a statistic that had been released at the time. It was Putin’s second reign of power, to which he re-emerged after Medvedev’s term was up. Years prior, in Putin’s first reign of power, a poll was taken of the Russian people that indicated one in four citizens would actually vote for Stalin if he was alive and running for president of Russia. At the time, the world was shocked by the implications.

  By the time Putin re-emerged for his second reign, the Chechen problem had grown and persisted beyond a controllable grip. This thwarted the hope that Russia’s increased coziness with Iran would somehow serve to help diffuse the Chechen problem. This reality drove the Russian people to desire safety and strength above all else, regardless of how iron the fist that ultimately ruled them might be. When the same poll was taken again during Putin’s second reign, it revealed the results that three in four Russians would vote for Stalin if he had been alive and running for president. This prompted increasing suspicions in the international community about the state of the collective Russian mindset.

  For Maksim, the survey results were a glowing green light and an electrically charged trigger for his long-schemed revolutionary coup. He knew that at least three in four Russians were eager for his rule; his iron clenched fist. It was his time to strike.

  The brush gently stroked the canvas as fine hues of brown began emerging. These hues formed free-flowing hair on the horse image. As his mind continued to linger, with an enormous sense of inner satisfaction, on the sequence of events that brought him to power, Maksim saw the strong image of the skull-shaped mug crystallize in his mind.

  Although the mug physically remained in his office safely on a shelf, its significance was always held deeply within Maksim’s heart; its image lodged securely in his mind’s eye. It did, however, leave the shelf, and serve utilitarian purposes from time to time. These purposes were of a nature that embodied the full value and meaning of the mug. The last time the mug was put to use was the day Putin died.

  Maksim had finally achieved his goal of legitimizing the LDPR (Liberal Democratic Party of Russia) in the months and weeks prior to the coup. Since its founding, the grossly misnamed Russian political party had been steadily gaining traction. Its founder, Volfovich Zhirinovsky had been a visceral focal point for the party. Zhirinovsky spearheaded the development of the party’s ideas, vision, and its gradual coalescing with the Russian man on the street.

  But the founder was also easily dismissed and ridiculed for a bold flamboyance that was at once comical and danger
ous, but moreover, an easy discredit to the legitimacy of the ideas he attempted to give trajectory to. As Zhirinovsky’s influence faded, due to inner-party struggles and his increasing weakness for Vodka, Maksim slowly, and slyly filled the void. But unlike Zhirinovsky, Maksim’s charisma, scintillating oratory skills, brazen leadership and overall magnetism gave instant and heavy credence to the vision of the LDPR. The wind was at his back, and momentum was building in such a way that strength repeatedly gave birth to renewed and increased strength. As each press release and subsequent media report captured the interest of the Russian citizens, the popularity of the LDPR continued to skyrocket. His only roadblock was Putin.

  It was a crisp autumn morning when he settled the Putin problem. Maksim’s tentacles ran deep in the Kremlin and he had secretly built alliances and paid off the majority of Putin’s administration. Those who were not on board were simply poisoned like cheap journalists. Maksim recalled the glory he felt in the marrow of his bones as he walked nonchalantly into the Kremlin that day accompanied by the loyal thugs of the Solntsevskaya brotherhood. Everyone in the building knew who they were and why they were there. And everyone promptly looked the other way.

  Maksim walked into Putin’s office with a sense of destiny. He was not ushered in and he did not knock. Putin’s face instantly revealed his understanding of the situation the minute he saw the mafia thugs he had been politically crucifying walk into his office as if they were invited. He had heard that Maksim was building an alliance with them, but he had not had confirmation until the moment he saw it less than ten feet in front of him. In his own office no less.

  The execution did not take long and was not difficult. Putin demanded an explanation for the presence of the brotherhood thugs. Maksim closed the door, smiled, and thanked Putin for his service to Mother Russia. He then politely informed him that his services, and his life for that matter, were no longer needed. Then, in the ultimate gesture of insult, as his thugs held Putin still, he lifted Putin’s personal marshal arts swords off the wall. With a sword in each hand, Maksim lunged forward to pierce upward and diagonally through Putin’s abdomen, to form the shape of an ‘X’ with the swords, as he hoisted Putin off the ground. Putin’s weight slowly fell into the swords as he succumbed to his death. He uttered only the word “bastard” as he transitioned into an unknown eternity.

  Then, to the shock and repulse of even the onlooking mafia thugs, Maksim stepped forward toward Putin and kneeled in front him. He drew from his coat pocket the glistening, golden skull-shaped mug. He had been waiting for this moment of consummation. He almost giggled at the arrival of the moment. The excitement was not containable. His Scythian ancestors had used the actual skulls of their enemies. Maksim had conceded to the sufficiency of the symbolism of the skull-shaped golden mug. The blood was pouring steadily and with thickness and rapidity. As chaotic as the bloodletting was, channeling a good sufficient stream into the mug was effortless and completed within seconds. Also completed within seconds, was Maksim’s taking of the blood-filled mug and gulping it down like a shot of vodka.

  He felt the warmth of Putin’s blood slide down his throat and he imagined the power his Scythian ancestors must have felt when they drank their enemies blood out of their actual skulls. Maksim had then felt power and dominance like he had dreamed of since he was a young child. His day had come. The Byzantine Empire was on the precipice of re-emergence.

  The next day, the Russian media reported Putin’s suicide. They had also informed the public of the emergency appointment of Koslov as president by Putin’s cabinet. Maksim Koslov wasted no time cleaning up the blood, occupying Putin’s office, and placing the golden skull-shaped mug on the shelf. All eighty-nine of the governors Putin appointed throughout Russia had ‘disappeared’ over the course of the next three months. The disappearances were not reported in the Russian media, and they barely made the bottom text scrolls on the cable news channels in the west. The majority of the newly appointed governors had long expected their new positions. The fact that many were prominent members of the Russian mafia was barely reported and elicited complacent shrugs from those who did become aware. The new dawn had come, and Russia was indeed hailing it.

  The intercom alerted Maksim that it was now 7:00 am and that he’d better proceed to the steam room and the shower to prepare for his 7:30 am meeting. He cursed the interruption of his recollections. He quickly assessed the progress of his painting before he hurried off to the steam room. It was coming along quite nicely. Hell, Hitler’s paintings never looked this good. He thought to himself that if he was a better painter than Hitler, it stood to reason that he would indeed also be a better conqueror than Hitler. He washed the paintbrush, took off his robe, and hurried with purpose to the steam room to renew his pores, his mind, and his focus. The day was new, and like Russia’s future, full of promise.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  O’CONNER’S IRISH BOXING CLUB, DETROIT, MICHIGAN

  From the viewpoint of any unsuspecting outsider who might happen to walk into the back office of O’Conner’s Irish Boxing Club at 6:30 am on one fine Thursday morning, it would be instantly thought that Chuck Gallagher was bizarrely intense and intensely bizarre. Chuck was preparing both for his sparring match and subsequent CIA meeting with Blaze McIntyre.

  Chuck Gallagher stood behind his stand-up desk in the back office space O’Conner’s had made available for both Blaze and Chuck to hammer out their business. To the eye, the damp, cold aesthetic of the gunmetal grey office seemed to visually swallow up his presence in the room. He was wearing athletic shorts that bordered on offensive. They were of the variety that one with a better sense of fashion would avoid. Anyone who harbored a sense of juvenile jocularity would certainly describe them as hoagie huggers.

  Chuck Gallagher did not give an aeronautical fornication about fashion, and the notion of sitting down to work was anathema to him. Classical music filled the air as Chuck furiously scribbled notes in preparation to lay out his plan for Blaze’s first mission back in the game. His forearms twitched and flexed as he manhandled a number 2 pencil with a hard-nosed, old school tenacity. The sight of Chuck displaying singular focus on the scribing of his notes, while standing with perfect posture in front of his stand-up desk, resembled a distorted, hybrid image of Clint Eastwood, Donald Rumsfeld, Henry Rollins, and the animated character of Mr. Buzz Cut.

  Blaze was finishing what was to be the final few minutes of his early morning calm commute. His Cadillac found its way into a prime parking spot at O’Conner’s and he sat with the car running for just a minute or so to finish listening to the end of the song “South Australia” by The Pogues. The melodies and words were festive. The tune always helped relax him and take him to his happy place. But now it was time to turn off the good feeling driving music and boot up the good bruising fighting music.

  Blaze stretched his legs on the steps that sprawled forth from the side door of O’Conner’s. For the most part, Blaze had shaken off the remnants of pain from his injuries. His stubborn commitment to working out against his doctor’s directives proved to be a good decision and his strength and endurance were hovering around ninety percent. His hamstrings were a bit tight, but the rest of him felt good and limber and ready to engage. He bent over to tie tight the laces on his Lonsdale sneakers and then headed in to find his old pal Chuck.

  Chuck emerged from his office just as Blaze set foot inside the gym. Blaze could hear the classical music from Chuck’s office fill the air.

  “You old Spartan bastard. Up early this morning to greet the sun and spit in its eye?” Blaze was shadow boxing as he greeted his mentor and friend.

  Chuck laughed. “Damn right you pansy bastard. I don’t even need an alarm clock to rise and shine like your weak generation. Did you get turned down by your old lady last night, cuz you sure don’t look ready to fight to me?” Gallagher was prepared, at least in the caverns of his own mind, with a firm capital P.

 
“Oh, I’m ready. I’ll tell you what I’m not ready for though, and no human in their right mind should be ready for, and that’s the ungodly sight of that banana hammock you call gym shorts wrapped around your sorry loins. No one needs to see form-fitting junk garments on an artifact like you.”

  Chuck had no idea as to what was the issue with his shorts. He had been wearing these shorts for over thirty years and was not about to stop now. How does Blaze even move in those baggy shorts? Damn things hang down past his knees. “Go warm up for a few minutes you Irish swindler and I’ll be out before you know it to knock the potatoes out of that thick head of yours.”

  A quick two to three minute warm up was all that Blaze reckoned Gallagher would afford him. With his iPod ear buds securely in his ears, Blaze pressed shuffle on his collection of albums by the New York Hardcore band known as Madball. The music was heavy and hard. The persistent underlying grooves coupled perfectly with boxing rhythms. The lyrics to the songs injected an urgency and strength within Blaze. The track Adapt and Overcome filled his ears. The song spoke of fighting all odds and improvising in tricky life situations. It typified Blaze’s mentality. Blaze felt strong today and his feet were obeying his mind’s wishes. He was ready for a damn good sparring match.

  The two men wasted no time. Both were already gloved up. They walked to the ring as they continued to verbally abuse each other. Chuck was first to wiggle his body through the ropes and into the ring. He bounced on his toes and jabbed at the air as he continued spouting threats.

  “You better get used to getting beaten, pushed around, and sent home dizzy. This here sparring match will be only the beginning. I got a hell of a mission for you this time, pally. Of course, no pressure—the cornerstone of western civilization is the only thing that hangs in the balance.”

  Blaze lifted the rope and swung his body underneath. Once in the ring, he immediately began shadow boxing with a feisty bravado.