A Communist's Prayer

When I said that I would help you regain your life with as many decades as I could squeeze into each week, I never thought it would be from the outside. But as your office door closed behind me, your words still echoed in my mind then, as they do now.

“Get out of my sight! I cannot trust you. I will not trust you!!!”

How did we come to this, Vanya?

My gaze lingered on that door, fighting against my desire to jump back into the heated argument. Words had spilled from my mouth in a fit of anger and frustration, but deep down I knew I regretted them. Yes, my superiors had coerced me into bugging your office, but ultimately it was my decision to betray your trust. I thought it was for the greater good, Ivan. But then, as I stood there, I knew the truth.

My heart ached with regret as I realized how wrong I had been. All I ever wanted was a brother, a family, and someone to share my life with. But in my anger and frustration I pushed you away until there was nothing left but an empty space where our relationship used to be.

You were innocent, Ivan Stanislav.

And so, I stood outside your closed door and chose fear over courage.

I turned my back on you…

…and walked away.

—

It was 1981, only six years after Fanya Stanislav’s breathtaking performance as a peasant woman turned revolutionary leader in Echoes of the Motherland. She earned the esteemed title of “People’s Artist of the USSR.” The memory of her captivating storytelling and stunning beauty lingered in the minds of the three soldiers who now stood at her door.

But they were not fans seeking autographs.

When the door swung open to reveal the radiant Mrs. Stanislav, her expression shifted to one of dread. She listened to their news, trying to comprehend while calling out to her husband, Sergei. He barely caught her while she collapsed to the floor.

No one, not Sergei, nor the soldiers, could hear the prayer that escaped the fearful mother’s lips. A prayer that no loyal communist should ever utter. But a mother’s faith is unlike any other.

—

Whoever may be listening.

I am not a woman of faith, but tonight, I reach out to something greater than myself.

Not because I want to, but because I have to.

My son, my brave boy, lies wounded far from home.

I don’t know the prayers or the rituals, so my words and deeds need to be good enough for You.

My hard work has never required anything from You. I have never asked You for any assistance.

Until now.

If I must, I will learn the right words. I will memorize necessary rituals. Just please, help my boy.

If there is justice, let it be known to those who placed him in this position.

Let the monsters who harmed him feel the weight of an angry, desperate mother’s tears.

But short of justice, please protect my Ivashechka.

Send a guardian to watch over him where I cannot.

Thank you.

—

The prayer took flight from her trembling lips, soaring over the icy expanse of Arkhangelsk. It danced with the northern lights, weaving through the shimmering auroras, before gliding over the vast forests of Siberia. The prayer rode the winds across the steppes of Central Asia, whispering through the ancient Silk Road cities and skimming the peaks of the towering Himalayas.

It swept through the war-torn sands of Afghanistan and there, amidst the chaos and strife, Fanya’s prayer might have found an unexpected guardian.

—

The air was thick with antiseptic and sweat. Young Ivan lay on two cots lashed together, his massive form taking up most of the space. The metal frames squeaked with every slight movement of his body, and the thin mattress beneath him offered little comfort as he opened his eyes.

The overhead lightbulb flickered intermittently, casting erratic shadows across the ceiling and adding to the disorienting atmosphere. Oppressive fog clouded Ivan’s mind and jumbled the events of the last forty-eight hours.

A voice broke through the haze. His confused mind was too cloudy to process the words, but he turned his head and stared at the speaker, who spoke his native tongue. He was a young man, no older than Ivan, with a gaunt face and sunken features. Dark circles beneath his eyes showed a life of hard work and dedication. But what stood out were his vibrant blue irises, a sharp contrast to the pallor of his skin.

He wore a crisp white shirt and red tie, paired with brown pants and black suspenders. Despite the circumstances, Ivan had to smile at the stranger’s fashion sense.

“How did I…” Ivan croaked, but the stranger cut him off.

“Three rounds to the chest,” he said, standing up from his chair. “Ambushed by mujahideen cowards.”

Ivan tried to sit up but lacked the strength. “My comrades…?”

“They perished,” the stranger said coolly as he lit a cigarette, “but you sent a bushel-full of those zealots to hell or… wherever it is they think they go when they perish.” He puffed out a plume of smoke and rested his hip on the makeshift bed.

Pain etched onto Ivan’s face at the mention of his fallen compatriots and the stranger continued. “We all grieve for the fallen sons of our Soviet Union, but we must look forward now.” He whispered and leaned down, “I have been searching for you for months, Ivan, and I will not let Mother Russia’s favored son die in a desert.”

Ivan was taxed with exhaustion and pain. He groaned with discomfort, and the stranger spoke gently, “I will protect you, Ivan Sergeiovich Stanislav, I promise. Let me take care of everything. When you are stronger, I have a great deal of things to discuss.”

The stranger then turned to leave, his cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Ivan fought his fatigue and managed one last question. “Who are you?”

The stranger turned toward him, plucked his brown cap atop his head, and shrugged on his brown overcoat. He smiled and removed the cigarette from his mouth.

“Call me Alexei.”

—

After the argument, I did everything I could to fulfill your wishes, Ivan. I abandoned my life in Russia and left behind decades of work. I tried to escape the constant stream of news and information, seeking solace on a faraway beach in Cuba.

But as I gazed at the endless sea and sky, my mind couldn’t help but wander back to you. Where were you? What were you doing? Did you follow through with your plans to destroy Nate Colton? Who could shield you from the wicked machinations of our government?

I hoped that Kael and Freeman had succeeded in winning the Tag Titles and that PRIME was finally crumbling from within. But more than anything, I couldn’t shake the memories of our lifelong journey together, from Afghanistan to this moment.

Where had it all led us?

—

A lot did happen in forty years. Governments tumbled, wars were fought, and someone other than Jonathan Christopher-Hall willingly fucked his wife. Why would that last piece of notable ‘history’ be lumped in with the rest?

Because each and every time Ivan Stanislav’s “DYAAHAAHAA!!” notification sounded on his phone, it was Vickie Hall.

DYAAHAAHAA!!

Fanya sat at her kitchen table, watching her son struggle to fit under the sink. “Who is calling you, Ivashechka?” she asked, curiously.

He didn’t bother looking up as he responded dismissively, “Trust me, Mother, you do not want to know...”

Fanya was selfishly happy that her son came to visit, and felt a pang of guilt in her stomach. He was a busy, important man in Russia, and rarely had time to spend in his childhood home. But when her Ivashechka lost a match, he frequently came home or, at the very least, called her. It was a bittersweet situation.

He was a proud man, like all Stanislav’s were. He took failure hard and she was flattered that, after all these years, Fanya was still a source of comfort for him. She would have willingly given up that responsibility had he found a better woman to care for him, but alas.

Russian State Media was ill-equipped to handle his catastrophic loss to Nate Colton. Some outlets claimed that Stanislav dominated the match and defeated Colton handily. Others told more or less the truth: That Ivan was attacked and bludgeoned by a cheating, chair-wielding madman who “stole” victory, as most Americans tend to do.

She was a shrewd woman. She knew her government (and her son) sanitized his antics abroad. He tried to shield her from the realities of his profession and she was almost embarrassed by how he would try to protect her.

A kind woman, Fanya was still a Stanislav. Her loyalty to communism and her Motherland ran deep. Those who opposed Russia or threatened her children deserved no mercy. War at any cost. Fight to the death.

Her son had terrorized an American family. So be it. But he also paid a terrible price. Damn them. Hypocritical? Perhaps.

She was a Stanislav, after all.

As she mused on her son, Ivan growled and tightened a pipe beneath the sink, lost in his own frustrated memories.

He had endured multiple, humiliating meetings after the match with Colton. His superiors ripped into him with scathing remarks, tearing away at his pride and dignity until he felt like nothing more than a beaten dog. Colonel Ratimir had gone so far as to suggest that Stanislav was too old to lead The Red Army, stoking doubts and whispers among the ranks. Stanislav, Kael, and Freeman were all failing.

It was a downward spiral into chaos.

DYAAHAAHAA!!

The phone laughed again, causing Ivan to jolt and slam his head against the hard underside of the sink.

“Damn it!”

Fanya joked. “Do not cause more damage than there already is, Ivashechka.”

She wouldn’t quit. Not his mother, but someone else. A reminder of Adam Ellis. The little shit who thought he could poke the bear a year ago and get away with it. Rebounding from Colton was critical for Ivan, and he was committed to positively obliterating the adulterous bastard. After all, if he was screwing Vickie Hall, that probably cost Ivan his match against Hessian/Jiles and Avalon/Colton months ago!

If it weren’t for that cheating punk, Jonathan-Christopher Hall wouldn’t have had his head up his ass during that bout and they’d have won!

Selfish придурок…

Frustrated thoughts compelled Ivan to shove himself out from beneath the sink. He sat on the cold tile floor with his long legs spread. His previously tidy black pants were now stained with dirt and water, and his white undershirt clung to his skin. Wiping his face with a towel, he reluctantly checked his phone for the source of the disturbance. His assumption was correct.

“IVON deerest propropsotick i need help”

“i am quitting never coming back 2 PRINE b/c off adams SEFLISH BLATAUNT LIES!!”

“plz end him 4 meeee!!!!”

DYAAHAAHAA!!

DYAAHAAHAA!!

DYAAHAAHAA!!

She typed lightning quick. Even Ivan was growing tired of his iconic laugh.

And how the hell did she get his phone number?

The weight of the world bore down upon him as he sat despondently on the floor, his mothers concerned gaze fixed upon him. Leaks from the sink were the least of his worries. It was the constant battle against an unforgiving world that weighed heavily on his shoulders.

Fanya reflected on her son’s life, so full of conflict and injury, and long silenced words somehow fell from her lips.

“When will you be done, Ivan?” His mother’s voice was barely above a whisper.

He shook his head and rubbed the muscles in his neck. “Just another hour,” he grunted through clenched teeth. “I need to stretch out.”

She stood from her chair and approached him with hesitant steps, wringing her hands anxiously. “No, my son, when will you be done fighting? When can I stop worrying about you?”

She watched him struggle to stand. No longer the spry young boy she remembered, he was now a battle-worn man, visibly drained by the constant combat and prodigious burden of his oversized body. She watched him awkwardly rise to his hands and knees, then push himself up using the countertop for support. Without the adrenaline of a wrestling match at his back, it was a painful and arduous process.

“There’s still work to be done, mother.” His voice was strained but determined. He didn’t want to dirty her delicate hand by taking it, but she insisted.

“That Colton boy could have killed you, Ivan!” Fear was etched on her features.

He brushed it off with a smile. “But he didn’t, mother.”

“But he could have!” She squeezed his massive hand with desperation. “Must I live in fear forever? Your father, Lenin love him, was gone too soon to enjoy an easy life. You need to slow down and take care of yourself.”

Her words fell on deaf ears as Ivan stared at her blankly. His indifference caused her to weep. “Ivan, I saw your knee…”

His ambivalence shifted to annoyance, and then to irritation. “That is not your concern, mother…”

“You are my only son! The only one who survived. You will always be my concern!” She tried to pull herself together and, with shaky hands, she smoothed out his shirt thoughtfully. She was always caring for him.

He sighed and turned from her. “I need to finish this sink…”

The words flew from her lips and slapped against his enormous back.

“I pray for you!”

He stopped in his tracks, not turning to face her. She repeated herself.

She spread her arms in a helpless gesture behind him. “I pray for you because I don’t know what else to do,” she cried. “Ever since Afghanistan, I have prayed for you every day. Because you lived. Because maybe an angel saved you? I can’t stop.” Her voice cracked as she voiced her fears for his safety.

But Ivan had enough. He turned to face her, his voice firm and expression resolute. “That’s enough.”

She couldn’t stop now, the emotions bursting out of her like a dam breaking. “No, I won’t stop!” She stood up straighter, determination in her eyes. “You cannot keep doing this forever. These young men will never stop coming after you.”

He looked wounded by her words, but it was supplanted with anger as he pointed at his barrel chest. “You think I’m too old? Too weak!? I am Ivan Sergeiovich Stanislav. I am The Russian Bear!” Enraged, he stormed past her towards the door.

“Please, Ivashechka!” She called out after him. “That’s not what I mean!”

The door slammed shut behind Ivan Stanislav as he pulled out his phone and dialed a number. He marched down the hallway and barked at Arina. “Get a plumber to my mother’s apartment to fix her fucking sink!”

He hung up before she could respond.

Ivan stormed his way back to Moscow, now more committed than ever to destroying the next “young man” who stood in his way.

Through her tears, Fanya prayed once more.

—

Gema Caballero was a stunner, her long legs and statuesque figure making her the perfect model for “Sol de Havana” tanning lotion. Despite the recent hurricanes ravaging Cuba, Gema was unbothered as she lounged on a pristine beach, listening to “Ritmo 95.7” on the radio. Sure, most of the island was in shambles, but not where the influential resided.

And she wasn’t alone.

He was a peculiar man. Russian. Clearly, the beach was not his typical destination. Who wears formal attire like a dress shirt, trousers, and suspenders to the beach? Maybe he was a vampire? Or a spy?!

He never went near the water, nor did he leave the shelter of their large umbrella. In contrast, Gema stepped out boldly and twirled in her revealing bikini. How could he be more interested in his phone than her abs?

She let out a dramatic sigh and tilted her head to the side, her perfectly styled hair falling in waves over her shoulders. “So my last photo shoot was pure torture, Alejandro!”

Something caught his ear as he looked up and raised an eyebrow. She continued. “Marco kept insisting on this ridiculous pose where I had to balance on one leg while holding a pineapple, like this!”

She assumed the position and he looked back down at his phone. “Sounds like a real tragedy…” he replied sardonically.

“I just… needed to escape and be with you and away from all those people still out of power because of the hurricanes,” she said, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in his neck. She reeked of sunscreen.

“Who needs basic utilities when you have a beach…” he replied dryly.

She leaned in close, her nose brushing against his stubbled cheek as she planted a quick kiss. She giggled and pulled away, careful not to let his mustache tickle her. Her fingers trailed along the crisp white fabric of his shirt, leaving smudges of tanning oil behind. She played with the buttons, hoping for some attention from him. But he remained fixated on the video playing on his phone, barely acknowledging her presence.

A hunky, young guy was pummeling some huge old dude with a chair. She cleared her throat. “So, Alejandro, is that a movie?” He looked at her, finally.

She couldn’t look away from his oceanic blue eyes, which seemed to bore into her very soul. The coldness in his gaze made the warm sand beneath them feel frigid, and a shiver lanced down her spine as he spoke.

“I wish it was.”

—

I was living a life of luxury and ease, Ivan. No more work or responsibility for this Russian. I had all the money I could want, lounging on a beach with a beautiful woman by my side (even if she did get on my nerves). No Lindsay Troy and her bullshit. No Anglo Luchador. No whiny Brandon Youngblood. What more could I ask for?

I shouldn’t have turned my back to you. I should have marched back in, ignoring your justified rage and anger. I should have swallowed my pride and fear and begged for your forgiveness. I should have fought to salvage our brotherhood.

I look at everything I have here and reflect upon how I earned all of it. Through my hard work, my dedication, and my savvy.

And none of it means anything without you, my brother. This is the life I could want. But it’s not the life I need.

I pledged to protect you in Afghanistan. That together, we would do great things, and I am a man of my word.

I watched Nate Colton assault you and PRIME did nothing. I watched as not a single member of The Red Army came to your aid. No force on Earth would have stopped me.

I would have happily taken that beating for you, and together, we would have been victorious.

There are things that I can do to help you. To enrich your life and pay you, and your family, back for all the love that has been afforded to a man who has had so very little love in his life.

You will demolish Adam Ellis. I cannot wait to see the look on his face when you rip him limb from limb. He will learn never to cross you. He lost his marriage. He lost his family. He lost his manager and now, he will lose whatever shred of dignity he has left.

Stay focused. Despite his frequent annoyances, Adam Ellis is wholly forgettable. Boring. Easily overlooked in favor of more compelling targets. And he is the perfect sacrificial lamb to remind PRIME that you, Ivan Stanislav, are the biggest, strongest, and most dominant force in PRIME. Bar none.

It is time, Ivan.

—

Fanya’s prayer was carried upon the warm, salty Cuban breeze.

“Deliver your guardian, once more, to protect him.”

Alejandro shrugged Gema off with a jolt, his lean muscles tense and his expression cold. “Get off of me,” he snarled, his voice tinged with venom. She quickly backed away and watched him rise from his chair. He watched the ocean waves crash for a moment, and then dialed a number with shaky fingers.

“Ms. Timofeyevna!” His voice was firm and commanding, but tinged with desperation.

A pause.

“This is Alexei Ruslan. I need to talk to you. Privately.”

He hung up, adjusted his suspenders, and slipped on his shoes in short, swift movements.

Gema looked up at him, her eyes following him carefully. “Where are you going?” She asked quizzically.

Alexei’s face hardened as he looked down at her, and then gazed to the east.

“To help my brother.”