As the large man walks down the hallways of the Kremlin others quickly jump out of his way. He wears the uniform of a Colonel of the Vozdushno-Desantnye Vojska, the Soviet airborne troops, but those who know Boris Badenov know that he is actually in Spetsgruppa Alfa, an elite and secret anti-terrorist unit. Colonel Badenov strides through the center of Soviet power with an air of thinly veiled disdain for the lesser men around him and a supreme confidence in his abilities and place in the world. And this place is the heart of a Red Empire that still stretches from Central Europe to the Pacific Coast, unbowed by the defeat and upheaval of later years. The Colonel is headed to see the man at the very center of that heart, Leonid Brezhnev, Secretary of the Communist Party of the U.S.S.R. and Chairman of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet.

The Soviet invasion of Afghanistan is still in its infancy, a move by Russia to score the winning goal in the Great Game. The opening phase of the invasion has gone well enough but now dark clouds threaten its success and Chairman Brezhnev is growing increasingly concerned. And so he has called Colonel Badenov to his situation room for a briefing on certain aspects of the campaign.

Colonel Badenov: “Colonel Boris Biyotchevich Badenov reporting as ordered Your Excellency!”

Chairman Brezhnev: “You may be seated Colonel. Now tell me why the world’s largest army cannot defeat a group of ragtag mountain savages and religious fanatics in the asshole of the world!”

Colonel Badenov: “I can assure you Your Excellency the Red Army will…”

Chairman Brezhnev: “Enough! I did not summon you here for propaganda! Tell me what’s really happening there.”

Colonel Badenov: “We are losing many more Hind-D attack helicopters and their crews then we anticipated Excellency.”

Chairman Brezhnev: “It’s those damned Stinger Missiles the Yankee imperialists are supplying to the Mujahids isn’t it?”

Colonel Badenov: “Actually the Stingers are somewhat over-rated Excellency. Uh, I think it would be easier to show you the problem.”

Badenov snaps his fingers and an enlisted attendant dims the lights and turns on a movie projector that has been set up for the meeting. Both men turn to watch the flickering images on the screen before them.

The film shows a field in a mountain valley with an Afghan village nearby. A group of mounted men play buzkashi, the national sport of Afghanistan, which entails fighting over the dead body of a goat while on horseback. In the foreground a couple of women stumble around in burkhas, the full-length veils worn by Pashtun tribeswomen in that part of the world.

Colonel Badenov: “We were supplied this newsreel by our operative in the war-zone, Geraldo Rivera.”

Suddenly a large Soviet Hind-D attack helicopter materializes from behind a hillock and advances toward the Afghans. The tribesmen begin fumbling for their weapons while the women run toward the village. The Hind-D moves steadily forward, but then begins to rock violently. Its side door opens and the helo’s crewmen are hurled out of it to plunge twenty meters down onto the rocky ground below. Those that survive the fall are quickly dispatched by the Pashtun militants. Several moments later a German Shepherd flies out the door and falls to its death. Some of the horsemen start up their game of buzkashi using the dog’s body.

Colonel Badenov, choking back tears: “Schmutzie! My beloved Schmutzie! She was the best damned attach bitch to ever serve in the Red Army.”

Chairman Brezhnev: “What the hell just happened?”

Colonel Badenov: “It appears a great warrior has infiltrated our ranks Excellency. He poses as a Hind crewman and then assassinates the rest of the crew by throwing them out of the ‘copter once it is at a certain altitude. He is quickly depleting the ranks of our heliborne troops. As yet we have been unable to determine what he does with the helicopters themselves.”

Chairman Brezhnev: “Who is this man?”

Colonel Badenov: “We don’t know. He is a phantom. We only know his nom de guerre, ‘Mikhail.’”

Chairman Brezhnev: “Nothing else?”

Colonel Badenov: “Some say he is an anarchist trained by Carlos the Jackal and works for the Bureau Of Terrorism and Fear, a radical organization bent on undermining civilization itself. Others say he learned his skills on C.I.A. black helicopters where he threw American farmers to their deaths in order to undermine popular resistance to the Endangered Species Act. And some say he is not even a man at all but is an incarnation of the Angel of Death himself fluttering over the Army of the Motherland on his rotary wings spreading death as a divine punishment for our hubris.”

Chairman Brezhnev’s thick mono-brow knits in disapproval at the religious references.

Chairman Brezhnev: “We must stop this madman! He could turn the entire tide of battle against us!”

The two men stare intently at the newsreel. The camera moves in for a close-up of the shadowy figure now piloting the helicopter.

Chairman Brezhnev: “What is that shining on his forehead, a radio headset?”

Colonel Badenov: “Uh, actually Excellency it looks sort of like a tiara!”

The arthritic assemblage squints at each other in semi-recognition through Coke-Bottle glasses in the hot Arizona sun. And the sun is definitely hot these days. In the year 2050 global warming has been proceeding apace for almost half a century since Al Gore pointed out that inconvenient truth to the unwashed masses.

A small crowd of octogenarians, nonagenarians and centenarians waits on the edge of the helipad as the pilot of the craft that will take them to the Fraymeet pushes his walker toward them with glacial speed. As they wait they talk of times past as the aged often do.

An old fellow wearing a monocle and Batman pajamas with a black Lycra Speedo swimming suit on top of them waives at an ancient member of the bench in his judge’s robe.

Urquhart: “I was happy to hear that all eight Presidents Gosselin unanimously nominated you for the vacant seat on the Supreme Court. Congratulations Fritz.”

Fritz Gerlich: “Yes, well, now that a Hispanic-American, a Native American, an East-Asian American, a South-Asian American, an openly gay judge, conjoined twins, and John Walker Lindh the American Taliban have served on SCOTUS, the Presidents figured it was time to nominate the first Frayster Justice to the Court. I’ve been assured that I’ll be confirmed once the Senate finishes reading all my opinions from the bench and on BotF.”

Urquhart, turning to an old geezer wearing a WWI gas mask and seated in a motorized wheelchair: “I thought the Cubbies might finally pull it out last year. I was sorry to see that they believe in maintaining tradition.”

Muffled sobs emanate from within the mask and the old fellow slumps down into his chair, his fragile shoulders shaking slightly. A gnarled old leprechaun is trying to follow the conversation by holding a cone up to one of his wrinkled, hairy ears.

“Eh?”

Urquhart: “I was just saying to Schmutzie that the Cubs still suck, Zeus-Boy.”

Schmutzie: “You have to speak into the horn; otherwise he won’t know what you’re saying.”

Urquhart: “The poor deaf bastard. We’re all fallin’ apart aren’t we Schmutz old boy.”

Schmutzie: “He’s not deaf, stupid, he’s Irish. Once Douglas Hyde breathed life back into the Irish language English died a quick and unlamented death on that magical isle. Z-B has always used software to convert his Gaelic into the English we read on BotF. Jesus haven’t you ever been to Ireland? You could go for months without hearing an English syllable spoken and even then it’d be coming out of a tourist’s mouth.”

Zeus-Boy holds up the listening horn to his ear again. On its side is printed “Babelfish Translat-O-Phone.” He speaks several paragraphs of what sounds like a Celtic language into another, smaller horn-shaped devise at his mouth and a box on his chest spits out, “Yeah ya fookin’ eedjit. No one’s spoken English as a vernacular on my island for nigh on a century and a half.”

Fritz Gerlich: “Why isn’t Ellen and Ollie here? She always enjoyed the Fraymeets.”

Urquhart: “She fell and broke a hip. The police said she’d have made it to the phone if she’d had a couple of more days but her pets ate her before that.”

The group ponders this in silence as the ancient helicopter pilot finally reaches them.

“Saddle up boys and let’s get this show on the road.”

The ancients slowly, gingerly scramble into the helo, their joints creaking audibly. The pilot takes off and the vintage UH-1N Twin Huey ascends over the Grand Canyon, climbing higher and higher into the sky.

Zeus-Boy: “I wonder who’ll be voted ‘Best of the Fraysters’ this time around.”

The old pilot has maintained a neutral expression until now. But upon hearing the ancient clurichaun the old man’s eyes harden and narrow. He reaches under the Huey’s dashboard and pushes a red button. A trap door under the passenger section opens dumping the Fraysters into the void below. They spin in the wind currents above the Canyon, yelling deprecations at the pilot and shaking their bony fists at the helo as they drop toward the end of their long lives.

One old chap in an antique iron tub waives his loofah at the sky and screams in a slightly effeminate British accent, “I always suspected you were an ICP’er Ryerson you old sod!” He hurtles into the side of the canyon’s walls exploding into a cloud of reddish dust and grayish water.

A serene look settles on the pilot’s face. He reaches into the Huey’s glove compartment and pulls out a plastic crown covered with sequins; it reads “Senior Prom 1964.” “Still the King,” he whispers to himself and flies into the sunset.

Losing that debate.

One small clarification: In Ireland, we call the native language Irish, not Gaelic. Gaelic is what the Scots speak. It's been that way for .. O ... almost a century now.

I suppose Gaelic is what the Gaels called it, the folks who lived in it, who spoke it as a mother tongue.

I went all round your island and never heard anything but English and Mandarin and perhaps a little Polish. That means something to you. I know how much stock you put in seeing/hearing things on the ground and not reading them in books.

Helicopters, tubs, underwear as outerwear, Gaelic and gas masks--just cartoon images for fun on the Fray.

What were you doing on the ground on my island besides listening to your Mandarin missus, fantasizing about Polish girlies, wearing your underwear as outerwear, farting up the whole place and dreaming about the Fray? Were you blindfolded the entire time? Did you ever unplug the iPod ear-phones? Better yet, who let you onto my island? Next time, forego the package holiday, give me a buzz and I'll show you places your cartoonish imagination never dreamt of ...

On second thoughts, maybe, strike that, your homoeroticism and your doggy-pissing on my posts as well as your S-M infatuation with the reluctant man-hugger JD are way creepy, dude.

Let's keep our 'relationship' purely frayfessional.

Now, fuck off! You're really beginning annoy me again.

[Just kiddin', sweetie.]

There is no purely frayfessional relationship. One day we'll man-hug for sure. Maybe a threesome with Dallas.

Who the fuck is Clayton Townley and why does he like 'Transformers'? Sure Spielberg was an executive producer. So why not just watch Spielberg?