secret lair completed

Tamping the building's last brick gently into place with a brand-new trowel, Fiyodor Kironislav Tscherovnikov turned with apparent glee to bask in the smattering of applause running through the assembled crowds. Gazing down upon the festive scene below him, Mr. Tschernovnikov noted with joy that someone had fixed the leaks in the bouncy castle, and that the snow-cone vendor had finally arrived. His symbolic task completed, he descended the extending aluminum ladder, and, on terra firma once more, hugged and kissed his mother, brothers, lieutenants, sub-lieutenants, henchmen, lesser henchmen, assembled members of the press, and the town mayor.

“Thank you all so much for coming out today to witness the last major steps in the construction of our branch of the New Slavic Mafia's newest secret lair, right here in semi-rural West Ganderssonville, New Jersey,” said Fiyodor, his remarks broadcast not only from the town's newly-refurbished public-address-system but also via shortwave radio and Morse code by operators stationed in a squat, drab-colored canvas tent nearby. “This new location will allow me to protect my family and closest friends should war break out among the Families, and it will serve as a safe-house in which we can hide alike from nosy federal police and from enemy gang members seeking revenge. Furthermore, it shall serve as a processing and distribution center for most of the crack-cocaine and crystallized meth-amphetamine we produce before those dangerous and toxic drugs are transported in nondescript and inconspicuous soccer-mom-vans to major regional markets, among them New York City, Reading, Philadelphia, Providence, and Boston.” Blinking awake as if coming out of an addled stupor, a group of local police officers rushed as one over to the food tables to marvel at the unveiling of an enormous plate of the area's finest donuts.

The crime-boss concluded his speech by tossing handfuls of freshly-minted dollar coins onto a rutted and dusty patch of earth nearby, watching with tearful amusement as otherwise upstanding, employed adults gouged and shoved and kicked as they fought each other and a troop of Wilds, Wind & Water girls for the cash, the small metal discs winking and flashing in the thickening, bloody mud. Distributing envelopes stuffed with cash from a calfskin leather briefcase held by his tallest and slimmest henchman, Fiyodor paused next to the mayor, stuffing one envelope after the next into the fat man's silken pockets, clutching him as one would clutch a brother, both men smiling broadly for the cameras. When asked if he were concerned about the complete lack of secrecy surrounding his supposedly secret lair, Mr. Tschernovnikov said, “You fool! People remember cash, not details. In six months, these sorry fucks will be so stupid from having wasted their lives watching television that they'll forget to buy food. I watch it happen, all the days long. Thank the gods for TV, the most effective and addictive drug in the world.”

場黑麥 mentiri factorem fecit