“Name?”
“Anton Voroshenko.”
“Origin?”
“Novgorod.”
“And where is that?”
He gave the lady behind the desk an annoyed look. Idiot. “Greater Russia.”
“The category in which you are competing?”
“Long jump.”
There was a snickering in line behind him. He looked back, then up: two rail-thin, ten-feet tall men with snow-white hair loomed over him. Loonies? Martians? “Can I help you?”
“I just remembered a joke.”
“I’m sure.” He turned back to the registration desk.
The lady, now wearing a smirk, held out his welcome packet and an ID lanyard. As he took it, she said, “Good luck, ‘greater’ Russia.”
No comments:
Post a Comment