For what would be recalled as the longest span of monotonous time in recent memory, was the irksome bludgeoning of keyboards who had each found themselves a preoccupied techie to clomp and clump perpetually mobile fingers over their multi-lingual faces. One memorandum to Sjadnbrdo, another to Sevinmek, and some five movement orders to hotfooted infantry marching across Preria for pure sport. Coalition Technical Operators molded their dispatches like imperial artisans would a sculpture for his highness, ramming the voice of exceptionalism through the barriers of space and time. Radio Waves rise in Sarmatia, so a motley of bombs might drop where the kings and snobs of Europe take their morning tea.
Inlaid items for the habits of excess: liquor and tobacco. However, it was neither the luxurious nor reputable labels that enriched the command room; but ordinary vodka, whiskey, and cigars from substandard dealers, or spirits of the common man. They were the caliber of swag the middle-class would use to inebriate nightly, or the swill a rich mans maid might use to wash out stains. God was said to frown on all manners of excess, cheap or costly, and the Zivotun could be counted upon to sin on a budget. Whether the draw to novelty had been lost to their race or culture is always vulnerable to a war of words, but the sheer economic cavity left by martial expeditions of pride could no longer enjoy the decay left by sophisticated refreshments.
Winds that slice through a cold winters night would never reach this mischievous den, for some plucky engineer had gone out of his way to burrow in to the earth, erect a framework of iron, and slather it all with concrete, while still showing kindness to its future occupants by leaving ample area for spacious rooms and corridors that they now toiled through on each and every ungodly day of the year. Like an elegant, if not dysfunctional, family of moles they worked around the clock twenty-four hours a day, and were notorious for spending more of those days beneath Životinje then they were willing to share aloud with each other, some hundreds of feet beneath the Mountains of the Savage Republic.
"Attention . . Attention . ." an innocent voice from a female lieutenant called out over the intercom, "Security Level raised to Blue . . Blue . ."
General Kholov undressed the budding officer in his mind with every sultry word until not an article was left, some SMC relationships were bound to flower (or deflower) into risque escapades of coition between visits from dignitaries who might object on or under these immoral grounds. A shot of the peasants vodka sedated the primal call before it could be aroused, though that was not to say Kholov of Karpatica had regained his composure enough to focus on the task at hand. His head was where his head was where his head was, lost in the translation of lust and national security -- where many sexually repressed men would find themselves if the Midlands were to be galvanized by the seductions of war.
Boot heels thumped round and round in a slow but steady ditty of ill-intent as his reinforcements patrolled open spaces boorishly, stealing oxygen, and reciting tedious incantations of statistics and data that only a spook might be interested in at this juncture. If he could not bear the burden of conversation from a camp of austere Sarmatians, these little birds would be there to swoop in with a chirp and an obligatory stool-dropping. "We're one-hundred and ten percent behind you, sir!" the most junior announced unnecessarily.
So grotesquely lacking the correct accouterments of genitalia, General Kholov dawdled with his cigarette for a few moments before showing that disappointment of a man his middle finger, "Stay where I can keep my eyes on you, lilac. You'll be under my watch in case you faint when this room is filled to the brim with testosterone and smoke".
"Thank-Thank you, sir"
"Don't get it misconstrued, tiger lily, I want to be the first to laugh my ass off when you crack your head on the floor!" Kholov chuckled enough to send himself in to a gruff coughing fit. It was in fact this category of humor gained at the expense of others that sustained him through days that he only suspected to begin or end, and drew him back within its confines after spending a breaths time topside.
With Security Level Blue, one fairly could surmise that at any moment Kholov's circus would procure several roaring lions from the Empire of Greater Sarmatia, or at least a few men he would not want to cross (so obviosuly), so he stood and ordered his entourage to "stand easy" for their timely arrival.
He glared through eyes of a grayish shade at the nearest blast door, which had taken to howling like his damsel of the intercom; brooding with dissatisfaction over what womanly wiles were not to be anticipated from an Empire of Men, for Men, and most consequentially ruled by menfolk: his nations erstwhile arch-nemesis, and incessantly callous and abusive kinfolk of Sarmatia.
Inlaid items for the habits of excess: liquor and tobacco. However, it was neither the luxurious nor reputable labels that enriched the command room; but ordinary vodka, whiskey, and cigars from substandard dealers, or spirits of the common man. They were the caliber of swag the middle-class would use to inebriate nightly, or the swill a rich mans maid might use to wash out stains. God was said to frown on all manners of excess, cheap or costly, and the Zivotun could be counted upon to sin on a budget. Whether the draw to novelty had been lost to their race or culture is always vulnerable to a war of words, but the sheer economic cavity left by martial expeditions of pride could no longer enjoy the decay left by sophisticated refreshments.
Winds that slice through a cold winters night would never reach this mischievous den, for some plucky engineer had gone out of his way to burrow in to the earth, erect a framework of iron, and slather it all with concrete, while still showing kindness to its future occupants by leaving ample area for spacious rooms and corridors that they now toiled through on each and every ungodly day of the year. Like an elegant, if not dysfunctional, family of moles they worked around the clock twenty-four hours a day, and were notorious for spending more of those days beneath Životinje then they were willing to share aloud with each other, some hundreds of feet beneath the Mountains of the Savage Republic.
"Attention . . Attention . ." an innocent voice from a female lieutenant called out over the intercom, "Security Level raised to Blue . . Blue . ."
General Kholov undressed the budding officer in his mind with every sultry word until not an article was left, some SMC relationships were bound to flower (or deflower) into risque escapades of coition between visits from dignitaries who might object on or under these immoral grounds. A shot of the peasants vodka sedated the primal call before it could be aroused, though that was not to say Kholov of Karpatica had regained his composure enough to focus on the task at hand. His head was where his head was where his head was, lost in the translation of lust and national security -- where many sexually repressed men would find themselves if the Midlands were to be galvanized by the seductions of war.
Boot heels thumped round and round in a slow but steady ditty of ill-intent as his reinforcements patrolled open spaces boorishly, stealing oxygen, and reciting tedious incantations of statistics and data that only a spook might be interested in at this juncture. If he could not bear the burden of conversation from a camp of austere Sarmatians, these little birds would be there to swoop in with a chirp and an obligatory stool-dropping. "We're one-hundred and ten percent behind you, sir!" the most junior announced unnecessarily.
So grotesquely lacking the correct accouterments of genitalia, General Kholov dawdled with his cigarette for a few moments before showing that disappointment of a man his middle finger, "Stay where I can keep my eyes on you, lilac. You'll be under my watch in case you faint when this room is filled to the brim with testosterone and smoke".
"Thank-Thank you, sir"
"Don't get it misconstrued, tiger lily, I want to be the first to laugh my ass off when you crack your head on the floor!" Kholov chuckled enough to send himself in to a gruff coughing fit. It was in fact this category of humor gained at the expense of others that sustained him through days that he only suspected to begin or end, and drew him back within its confines after spending a breaths time topside.
With Security Level Blue, one fairly could surmise that at any moment Kholov's circus would procure several roaring lions from the Empire of Greater Sarmatia, or at least a few men he would not want to cross (so obviosuly), so he stood and ordered his entourage to "stand easy" for their timely arrival.
He glared through eyes of a grayish shade at the nearest blast door, which had taken to howling like his damsel of the intercom; brooding with dissatisfaction over what womanly wiles were not to be anticipated from an Empire of Men, for Men, and most consequentially ruled by menfolk: his nations erstwhile arch-nemesis, and incessantly callous and abusive kinfolk of Sarmatia.