A Queen, A Bear, and Some Steak

It was pensive in Ivan Stanislav’s Kaliningrad office, but not because of Ivan Stanislav’s upcoming match with Cancer Jiles. Stanislav sat in his oversized chair, with one massive boot up on the corner of his heavy, wooden desk. He was dressed casually, in a green t-shirt, black pants, and red suspenders, while Alexei Ruslan sat in a chair across from the desk. The smaller Russian had removed his brown overcoat, but wore a white dress shirt with black tie, suspenders, and brown pants, per the norm. They were staring, but not at each other.

Ivan stared at his telephone.

Alexei stared at Ivan.

“She would not dare do such a thing, would she?” Ruslan said as he rubbed the back of his neck.

Ivan shook his head, “I think, Alexei Gregorovich, she would….”

After some time, the telephone rang. Stanislav lurched forward and lowered his boot whilst snatching up the phone. He brought it to his ear and barked, “Well?!”

It was one of his assistants, Arina, who was literally on the other side of the wall. Whatever she told him was hardly good news. The Russian Bear slammed the corded phone down on the receiver. “Damn..”

Ruslan inhaled slowly and crossed his arms over his chest, but said nothing. He gave Ivan the space to tell him the news.

“Nothing. There should have been some activity by now…”

Ruslan nodded. Unfortunately, neither seemed particularly surprised. He cleared his throat, “I will take care of it, Ivan, hm? This is what I am here for, okay? I will get our people and we will deal with it.”

But Stanislav shook his head. He even looked a little proud of himself, “No, I can do this. Through Jabber. I am master of technology, after all, Alex. I will just tell Lady Troy we need to meet… and that will be that.”

Stanislav took his time and typed on his Cyrillic keyboard, while Ruslan rose and moved around to look over his shoulder, “Hmm, a dinner?” He said curiously and sucked on his teeth.

Stanislav grinned, “Might as well make her pay through the nose, eh? Get whatever we can out of these capitalists.” Stanislav did some searching, and finally settled on Morton’s The Steakhouse.

“Steak… that is good, Ivan Sergeiovich.”

Ivan clapped his hands together and chuckled to himself. “Then it is done. I will fix this problem once and for all, Alexei. She said she will return tomorrow. No use dawdling.”

“How about I just go, Ivan? I take care of it for you, okay?”

“And have you eat steak for yourself? I think not, Alexei Gregorovich.”

Stanislav moved to his coat closet and produced his red greatcoat, while Ruslan gathered up his own coat and put it on.

“We will deal with this, Alexei,” Ivan growled as he pushed his arms through the cavernous sleeves, “We go to America.”

Ruslan, crestfallen and dejected, whined. “America again…”

—

A huge, black nondescript van, which also made itself quite distinctive while surrounded by the eclectic, desert climate of Las Vegas, pulled into the parking lot of the steakhouse. Ruslan was driving while Ivan sat in the back of the van.

Ruslan looked over his shoulder at Ivan. “Here we are.”

The two Russians were grumpy. Ivan had since defeated Cancer Jiles and had secured a shot at the Universal Title, but the lingering frustration due to Lindsay Troy’s machinations still bore a cloud. The sun had dipped below the horizon and blanketed the parking lot in darkness, save for the “Morton’s The Steakhouse” sign and the lights of nearby businesses. Stanislav pulled the large door open and climbed out. He was dressed nicely for the occasion, with his military uniform, complete with a tie, and medals on his jacket. Ruslan, however, was still dressed for work as he exited the front seat and made his way over to his comrade.

Stanislav reached into the van and produced what looked like an oversized thermos and glanced at the Steakhouse. Ruslan looked at Ivan and grinned as he fixed his uniform and patted his huge arms. “You look good, Ivan. You should wear your uniform more often. So I see you later!”

He shut the side door of the van and rushed around towards the driver’s side again, but Ivan growled, “You are just staying here, right Alexei?”

Ruslan stared at him from the other side of the van, from beyond the hood. “Oh no. I am going to just… drive around.”

“Drive around?”

“Uh huh.”

Ivan shook his head. “Do not do it, Alexei.”

“Do what?”

“You know what.”

Ruslan couldn’t help himself and he smiled. “You are Army. I am Intelligence. I am just… going to snoop a bit.”

“We are both retired from our posts, Alexei.”

Ruslan could not stop smirking. “We swear lifelong service to the Motherland, Ivan Sergeiovich.” Then, unable to help himself, “Ivan Sergeiovich, on a date!”

Ivan grumbled, “Пошел на хуй, Alexei.”

He winked. “Bring me some leftovers, eh?” With that, Ruslan climbed into the van as Ivan turned and stared at the double doors of the Steakhouse. He sighed and thundered his way inside, with thermos in hand…

—

“Tam, I’ve known you both for a long time, and I’m saying this as a friend and not as Tom’s boss…if he keeps going down this path, he may not come back from it. Nobody wants to see that happen.”

Lindsay’s fingers drummed against her bicep while Tamara Battaglia sighed through the phone and continued the conversation. Tom was on his way home from Mexico after he unexpectedly showed up to a show looking for a fight despite not being cleared by PRIME Medical, then blew off the calls and texts of his concerned friends once they found out.

Of course, all this went down just as Lindsay was getting in the car to show up to this dog and pony show of a “business dinner” with Ivan Stanislav.

What impeccable timing.

“OK,” Lindsay said after Tam finished talking. “You and the boys try to get some sleep and call me if you need anything. … Yup, you too. … Bye.”

She ended the call and checked the screen for the time. 7:05. The dinner reservation was for 7:15, but she’d gotten there early in hopes of beating Stanislav to the venue. Given the Russian Bear’s rigidity and admiration for order and propriety, there was no way he would be late, and the Queen’s intention was to be there, settled, and poised for when he arrived.

The Anglo Luchador’s latest stunt on this road of self-destruction sought to foil this plan. It set her teeth on edge.

Foster Nackedy being a twat on Jabber caused them to grind.

Lindsay fired off a message to her newfound business partner at Gray’s Academy, put her phone on silent while throwing it into her purse, and flopped back against her chair.

“Why is my company filled with fucking children,” she growled quietly to no one before taking a sip of bourbon.

Just as the words left her mouth, the doors to the back room opened and the hulk that was Ivan Stanislav strode in, his medals glinting on his military uniform. He spread his arms wide as the waitress led him to the table where Troy was seated, and his voice boomed in an uncharacteristically jovial bass. “Lindsay Troy, in the flesh! How good it is to see you here in this opulent steakhouse, eh?”

He let out a chuckling rumble from his chest as he looked down at her. “I am glad to have opportunity to talk to you, one on one, without all of PRIME watching. I find that interactions, when done unilaterally, are generally much more favorable!”

“Ivan,” Lindsay stood in greeting and tried not to force the pleasantries. “Nice to see you. You chose the restaurant well.”

Stanislav chuckled, “I prefer a well cooked steak with large portion. And besides, this was quite expensive. Best to give you capitalists something to pay for, right? DYAAHAAHAA!!” His laugh echoed through the room and reverberated across the table as he stood there. The waitress looked momentarily uncomfortable as her eyes flicked between Ivan and Lindsay, but the Queen reassured her with a raised hand and a subtle shake of her head. Once she filled their water glasses, she took her leave.

Ivan spread his arms, still holding the thermos, “But look at you, all grown up.” He clicked his tongue, “How long since we were tussling in wrestling ring. How time does fly, eh?”

“Yes, it does. Shall we sit?” Lindsay reclaimed her seat and made a mental note of Ivan’s condescension. She motioned toward the thermos. “What’s in there?”

Stanislav lifted it and boomed, “You bring the food, I bring the drink, eh?” He unscrewed the cap and pulled out a large, nondescript bottle of clear fluid. “Vodka I make myself, chilled in the ice of my hometown, Arkhangelsk. Vodka is best when chilled in Russian ice!” Indeed, as he pulled out the bottle from the thermos, flecks of ice fell onto the tablecloth. Then, Ivan pulled two double sized shot glasses. “Now you be careful, these glasses are using Russian sizes, a little bigger than American,” he said and poured some drink for the two of them, then settled in a larger chair. His legs were too big to fit beneath the table, so he sat at a distance and raised his glass, “So then, what do we drink to?”

Lindsay raised the glass and tilted it to the right, thinking while the liquid moved languidly back and forth. After a time, she smiled. “To a pleasant evening.”

The two clinked their drinks together, but Stanislav did not drink his right away, “To pleasant evening, yes, let us hope… so…”

His words trailed off as he watched Troy take the larger shot glass, with the stronger vodka, and down it quickly like a champ. Try as much as the Russian might, even his own frigid stoicism could not hide the surprise that showed in his eyes. He recovered by downing his own vodka just as quickly and he sighed loudly and breathed heat through his maw. “Ah!”

Stanislav grinned up as the waitress returned and asked what they wished to order. He patted his vodka, “I have drink, my dear, but I take uh…” Ivan stared down at the menu and frowned as he pulled it away from his face and then toward himself. With a grumble, he fished into his breast pocket and put his bifocals on his face. He lifted his chin and stared through them. “Tomahawk Ribeye, thirty-two ounces. And uh… potatoes or whatever for the sides, my dear. And make it rare,” he said politely. Ivan folded the menu and handed it to her as he gazed across the table at Troy through his glasses, “One hundred twenty-nine dollars per cut of meat, not too much for you, is it?” He grinned.

“I’m looking forward to the $129 steak jokes being thrown your way,” Troy replied, then looked over her menu at Ivan. He seemed puzzled. “That’s an inside joke, don’t worry about it. I’ll have the 8oz filet with a chopped salad and cauliflower, please.”

The Russian Bear chuckled to himself, “I try to avoid too much greenery if I can help it. It is not good for my diet.” His joviality was overwhelming, but it was hard to tell if it was sincere or a purposeful attempt to be annoying. Still, he gazed across the table at his employer, with slightly magnified eyes thanks to his glasses, and he shook his head, “While I know our meeting has much to do about business, it is nice to just spend this time together, eh? Two old warriors, if you will.” He poured more vodka into the glasses, but did not press her to drink. Still, he downed his glass and then realized he still had his glasses on, removed them, and sat them on the corner of the table.

“You’re the old one here, not me,” Lindsay quipped. “But what shall we talk about then? Do you want to trade war stories? Share what we did over winter break? Is Alexei in the next room listening in?”

Ivan shook his head. “No, he is not in the next room, you need not be concerned.” An uncomfortable silence grew between them, nonetheless. Ivan ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth and tilted his head to the side, “Well, I suppose it is worthwhile to get to business at hand, of course. As much as I would like to think it, I doubt you come here for my fine company.” He chuckled a bit at his joke and then leaned forward, his eyes never leaving Troy’s own. “There appears to be clerical error in my payment, Lindsay. You see, I was not paid for ReVival 20. Nor was I paid for PWA-1. And I suspect I will not be getting paid for ReVival 21, where I vanquished Jiles. It is important that you fix this clerical error immediately so that I can receive my back pay.”

“Oh, there was no error.”

Ivan blinked once, twice, as Lindsay took a sip of bourbon.

“I asked you to apologize to our union partners for your behavior on ReVival 19,” she continued. “You chose not to do that so, in turn, I decided to donate your pay to others who may need it more. Like the folks helping out on the ground in Ukraine.”

Stanislav shifted in his chair and he blinked a third time. He cleared his throat and crossed his arms over his barrel chest, and then pulled them down to his side. He cleared his throat once more and rallied, “Ahem… be that as it may, Lindsay, I did apologize. And whether that was considered satisfactory or not… that was ReVival 19… we are in a new year. I am on the cusp of the Universal Title. It is no doubt best we ‘move on’ as it were, eh? No reason to hold onto such pettiness.”

“That’s really not up to me.” Her voice was saccharine but her smile was wicked. “Well, I mean, it could be up to me, but I don’t want to upset the labor leaders any more than they already are, Ivan. They’re the ones who want the apology. I didn’t ask you to give me one, I asked you to give them one. And for someone who claims to be ‘for the people’ and who places such a premium on the plight of the worker and worker’s rights, surely you understand how important this is to them. As it stands, they’re refusing to give you your requested lighting and pyro for matches, and they’re also refusing to play the Soviet National Anthem for you and Alexei until you do.”

Ivan’s breathing grew stronger as the air whistled through the bristles of his mustache. His eyes grew stormy as his frustration mounted and her damned smile clearly had him fuming. He pressed his hand on the table and leaned forward, growling, “A sizeable amount of my money goes to the poor in Russia. Every country has their problems. You not paying me hurts them.” He shook his head, “I only get a small percentage for myself. This is not about greed. What if you were a mother who had mouths to feed and help came from money that I made and yet was taken from me, hm? You have children, yes?”

—

Outside of Morton’s The Steakhouse

Alexei Ruslan stood atop a ladder which was laid precariously against the gutters of the Steakhouse. It was hard to find a level place for the ladder, so he balanced one leg on a rock, which caused the ladder to shudder as he moved.

Under one arm he clumsily carried a satchel, which had several wires dangling outward from beneath the buckled flap. He stepped up one more rung of the ladder as he neared the roof. If he could just get to the top, he could climb to the center skylight and install a few pieces of “equipment.” Who knows, maybe this was a frequent haunt of Lindsay Troy’s? Oh what dirt he could drudge up!

He climbed to the last rung and straightened himself more with one hand when disaster struck.

“You’re supposed to have three points of contact when you’re on a ladder!” someone called out from below.

Ruslan jumped at the voice, “Shit!” The ladder went one way and he went the other. Alexei fell headfirst into a bush as his brown clad legs kicked and squirmed. Several Russian curses emanated from the bush as he righted himself and pulled himself up. His hat rested in the mulch next to him. “Who the hell are you?!” He barked as he stared at a young woman in a beanie, a thermal vest atop a long-sleeve shirt, black pants and Doc Martens. A fringe of purple hair fell over her right eye and her lip, nose, eyebrow and ears were pierced.

“I’m surprised you don’t know me, Mr. Ruslan. I know all about you,” she grinned, cheekily, and extended a gloved hand. Alexei noted it was fingerless and the girl’s nails, though chipped, were painted a sparkly orange. “I’m Ami.”

—

Inside

Stanislav blinked as he heard something outside. Perhaps it came from the roof? He thought he heard a yelp. He shook his head, no time for distractions, and got back to business, “And under no circumstances will I apologize to these ‘labor’ leaders. The fact is I can’t.” He grumped and sat sullenly.

“You can’t, or you won’t?”

He huffed once more, “I can’t.”

Lindsay tilted her head. “Why?”

Ivan gesticulated with his arms, but his annoyance was heavy in his voice, “I have many perks, beyond being so strong, to being who I am. My superiors and my country pay for a great many things. My flights. My food. Expenses. And so on. However…” He exhaled slowly, “…there are certain things in which they have say.” He spoke through gritted teeth, “And one, might be, that I cannot do, or say, certain things to placate certain people. Even if I would rather just get it over with. Even if I felt it was small price to pay in order to do what I think would be beneficial to my people.”

“Hm. I see.” Surprisingly, Lindsay pushed her chair in closer to the table, leaned forward, and folded her hands on top of the crisp white tablecloth. “Perhaps your superiors aren’t aware of why this is so important. Maybe you aren’t either. And that’s OK if you aren’t. You see, when we decided to bring PRIME to Las Vegas, I had offers by private companies who wanted to work on our shows. That wasn’t the vision I had, though. If we were going to make our home here and contribute to the local economy, then I wanted the local tradespeople to be the ones to bring PRIME back to life. Give them work and pay them well to ply their trade. That was important to me and my staff. That’s why this is a sticking point that I won’t waver from. There’s a partnership here, and in the course of that partnership some people were intentionally hurt while doing their jobs. They aren’t asking for much, just a genuine ‘I’m sorry.’. Things happen and how we move forward from them is just as important as when we move forward from them.”

She leaned back in her chair again. “You asked me what I would do as a mother if my kids were in need. I’d do whatever I could to provide for them. Even if it meant saying I’m sorry. Even if, deep down, I didn’t really mean it, and I didn’t want to do it, but I needed to for them. I’d be sincere and contrite and say the words because there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for my kids. And in the few short months I’ve been around you, Ivan, I know there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for your country.”

Ivan’s jaw shifted in his head about twelve times as he listened to her. When she finished, he growled to himself, “…sincere and contrite…” The Bear looked up as the waitress brought the monster of a steak for him and the filet and salad for The Queen. He shook his head a few times. “First of all, those people should have known better than to get in my way. That was poor training, eh? What idiot gets in the way of Ivan Stanislav?” Perhaps one answer crossed his brown eyes as he stared at Troy before dispelling the thought. “You’re not in Vegas anymore. So… those relationships are gone. And my pay goes through you.”

“You’re right, we aren’t.” Lindsay placed her napkin in her lap and reached for her knife and fork. “But trade unions exist in every state in this country. The local leaders in Nevada call the local leaders in New York, in Florida, in Louisiana, and tell them what happened. Word gets around. They don’t get what they want and you don’t get what you want.”

The grumbling from the Russian side of the table was evident as Stanislav picked up the comically small steak knife (compared to him) and started sawing at the meat with annoyance, “This is why a centralized system is much better. You can exert more strength from single source, Troy. None of this dancing about for all these other entities.” He popped the steak into his mouth and chomped several times whilst internally chewing on what she had to say.

“I am not blind to my country, Lindsay. It is run by the rich. They stomp on the poor. I do not like them. They do not like me.” He whispered this, as if the walls could listen, “They do not like what I say. But they like the hope I give my people.” He closed his eyes for a long time as he wrestled internally, before opening them, “And when I win Universal Title? Because you know I will win it. You cannot do this to your Universal Champion.”

“I’m not doing anything that you’re not doing to yourself, Ivan.” The Queen said, matter-of-factly. “The roadblock is there because you won’t clear it. I’m willing to help you do that, but you need to meet me at least partway.”

He chewed on another portion of steak and leaned back in his chair. It creaked beneath his bulk as he tilted his head to the side. “Meet you partway…” he mused to himself. Something about that phrase made him frown more than normal. He chewed on the steak some more and he sighed hard enough to cause the small candle on the table to flicker. Whatever joviality he possessed when he barreled into the room had since tempered. He had long swallowed his piece of steak, but continued to grind his teeth, “Very well. I see what I can do in most… diplomatic… way possible.”

Then, just as suddenly, his mouth twisted into a wide smile, “See. It is not very difficult to deal with The Russian Bear, is it?”

Lindsay was about to respond when two people walked into the room. Well, one walked in while the other was dragged by his arm.

“Look who I found trying to fix a light on the roof!” Ami Troy chirped with a smile. “Say, isn’t that a joke? ‘How many communists does it take to change a lightbulb?’”

Ivan turned around in his chair while Alexei looked like he hoped the floor would swallow him whole.

“Ami?” Lindsay stood up, confused, with anger creeping in at the edge of her voice. “What are you doing here?”

“Hi Mom!” The Queen’s daughter released Alexei from her grasp, flicked his hat so it shifted askew, and then flounced around the table. “I took a long weekend, didn’t you get my text?”

A frown in response. “No, I did not.”

“Bummer.” Ami stopped next to Lindsay, threw her arms around her waist and stood on tip-toes to give her mother a kiss. “Well, surprise! I knew you’d be here so I wanted to come say hi.”

Lindsay sighed and gave her pint-sized daughter a withering look. “You need to stay off my company’s social media. I don’t care if you can worm your way back in.”

Ami scoffed. “But then I’d miss out on all the fun!”

Ivan’s eyes might have been Soviet ROKS flamethrowers as he stared holes through Ruslan. Alexei was sheepish, a bit of foliage stuck in the corner of his hat as he shifted from side to side. Finally, the Russian Bear tore his gaze from his comrade, looked to Ami and stood. Towering over all, he offered his enormous hand, “Praporshchik Stanislav. Your mother and I were in the process of having a… private…”

He trailed off as Ami flopped in a chair, took off her gloves and hat, and helped herself to a tomato off Lindsay’s salad. The searing look from Ivan returned as he ocularly assailed Alexei, then turned slowly to look down at both Troys. “Er… yes well… in any event I would not wish to… interrupt this family… er…” He waved his hand haphazardly. “…whatever this is…”

“It’s me crashing an attempt to crash your dinner,” Ami said triumphantly while looking at Alexei with smug satisfaction. Lindsay shook her head, then cast her stony gaze to Alexei. The smaller man gulped.

“Why don’t you sit, Alexei,” she suggested. “I’m sure you’re hungry after trying to play electrician.”

“Yes. Why do you not sit, Alexei?” Ivan’s words were like far off thunder as he motioned to the other free chair. “Tell us about this lightbulb you were trying to fix, hm? You always were quite the electrician…”

“Er… of course, Praporshchik…”

—

It wasn’t the complete diplomatic breakthrough that the Russians wanted, but the ensuing dinner with the Troys was as palatable and pleasant as one could ever hope for. There was the moment when Stanislav insisted that he and Ruslan sing. They were quite good, but so loud the rest of the restaurant complained. Troy’s stubborn insistence on revising several of Ivan’s old “memories” of past matches was also a point of contention. But in the end, Ivan Stanislav and Alexei Ruslan found themselves back where they started, in Ivan’s office in Kaliningrad with the rain pattering against the window.

The Russian Bear had left his office full of fire and rage prior to the meeting, but now he was subdued and thoughtful. Alexei had noted that he had been this way since they left the Steakhouse. He suspected, at first, that it was indigestion (which could be a terrible thing when one is Ivan’s dimensions), but he instead deduced that the conversation with Troy had left Ivan something to consider. Could something have actually come from it?

Ruslan spoke curiously as he stood across from the desk where Ivan sat. “So, you have not said much about your meeting with her, Ivan. Did you get what you wanted?”

Ivan leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “More than I expected, Alexei. Even if not quite what I wanted.” It was quiet in his office as Stanislav sighed, “She gave me something to think about, at least. It is almost annoying how relatively civil our conversation was. A shame she isn’t quite as open minded as we are. Could you imagine someone like her in The Red Army? Eh?” He shook his head, “The Red…” he thought for a moment, “Rabotnitsa (female worker).” He chuckled at his insane musing.

“I thought her daughter was some sort of gang banger. Did you see how she was dressed?!” Ruslan replied.

Stanislav shook his head, “Oh? If you ask me, I think you made a friend, Alyosha? Still, it is another argument for compulsory military service. Who would go in public dressed as such? But let us not try to forget your attempted, ahem, electrical assistance, hm?”

Alexei adjusted his tie and blanched. He tried to change the subject. “So then, what is next for us?”

Ivan leaned forward and pulled on his glasses. He peered at his computer and checked the upcoming schedule for ReVival 22, “Well, Rezin has to battle that good-for-nothing Hayes Hanlon for Universal Title. It is such a shame that I am not booked for that show. After all, I will have so much free time to do what I please…” Ivan grinned crookedly.

Ruslan grinned back, “Just like old times?”

Stanislav let out a grumbling chuckle that didn’t have nearly as many decibels behind it, but still had his characteristic power “Dyaahaahaa. Oh yes, Alexei, just like old times.”