The Balls on Some People

Bryan Dawkins had given his all, yet it was not enough to turn the tide.

Surrounded by the encroaching shadows, he permitted himself a fleeting moment to succumb to the weight of his weariness. Though his eyes could find no light, his ears were assaulted by the cacophony.

"DYAAHAAHAA!!"

The sinister laughter echoed relentlessly, cascading from above, whispering beside him, and rumbling through the very ground beneath his body. It was unstoppable. It was unbeatable. It was indefatigable.

Dawkins let the tides of despair crash over him, for he was acutely aware of the reality he faced.

He lay, buried, in the ignoble embrace of Ivan Stanislav’s testicles.

—

Ivan Stanislav sat at his desk, his massive frame dwarfing the chair beneath him. On the screen of his phone, Alexei’s face appeared, the background showing his opulent Moscow office.

“I think we need to seriously consider purging most, if not all, of The Red Army,” Alexei’s voice crackled through the phone’s speaker.

Ivan glanced up from a glossy photograph and stared across his office to the window, eyeing the Minnesota landscape.

How did it get to this point? A State Senator endorsing him? A huge parcel of land for The Red Army? Conservative Americans cheering them!?

Strange times indeed.

“I think you need to focus on the task at hand, Alexei,” Ivan replied, his tone firm but not unkind. “Are you keeping an eye on Tsonda’s rugrats?”

Alexei’s face twisted into a scowl. He removed his brown hat and ran a hand through his dark hair. “Yes. I am focusing, Ivan. But we cannot ignore the incompetence within our ranks. Dawkins failed to keep the Alias title and his woman is a fucking albatross. Rose sleepwalked you into Troy’s trap with Farthington!”

Ivan sighed as he studied the photograph. He stood tall in his wrestling attire, a stark contrast to rural Minnesota. The hammer and sickle were absent, at Senator Thompson's request.

The Senator was beaming with pride, pointing to Stanislav. Behind them, excited Minnesotans waved signs and wore red hats, celebrating the renaming of State Highway 2.

Now named "The John Stanley Highway," the eight-mile stretch spanned from Minnesota towards Wisconsin and North Dakota, stretching its concrete limbs like a Stanislavian bearhug.

Ivan's stoic expression in the photo hid his whirlwind emotions, unlike Thompson's grin. The cheers of supporters echoed in his memory, and he still struggled to grasp the honor of having a highway named after him.

“Ivan, are you listening to me?” Alexei’s voice brought him back to the present.

Ivan growled. “I wish they had not Americanized my name for that highway…”

“Speaking of that,” Ruslan grumped, “someone leaked the rumor. Tsonda must have suspected you would miss ReVival.”

Ivan narrowed his eyes. That was all Arina needed to see. It was a health hazard to be in the crosshairs of a paranoid Ruslan. It was a death sentence if one was targeted by Ruslan and Stanislav. She held her breath.

“I am not purging The Red Army, Alexei,” Ivan said, his voice low and steady. He glanced over to Arina, and then back at the screen. He placed the photograph back on his desk and leaned back in his chair.

Alexei squawked. “We live in a time where Kenny Freeman is the second most successful member of The Red Army!” Alexei scoffed. “What would I give for Tom Walczak or Loyal Communist Party Member Wang Xue with Pan and Jie Ru…”

Ivan stared at Arina long enough for her to look away, and then leaned closer to the phone.

“We work with what we have,” he said quietly. “I don’t see very many members of the PRIME roster joining us anytime soon, Alyosha. We do not need wins. We have always functioned under the Human Wave Doctrine.”

Alexei acquiesced. “Very well. So what do we do with them?”

Ivan nibbled his lip thoughtfully and narrowed his eyes for a moment, once more staring at Arina. She watched him cautiously. “I will have Ms. Timofeyevna handle that.”

Alexei's face filled the screen as he leaned in closer. “There is something else...” He said quietly.

“Hm?” Ivan replied, looking back down at his friend, who sat half a world away.

“Your mother…”

Ivan snatched the phone from the stand and silenced the speaker. Pressing it to his ear, he muttered, “I do not want to speak of this Alyosha.” He walked to the window and stared outside.

Arina watched intently from her chair, observing the tension lance through Ivan’s broad shoulders. Alexei’s voice was faint, but the phone's volume was habitually high to accommodate Ivan’s aging ears, and she heard snippets of the conversation.

“She misses you…”

Ivan replied curtly. “Take care of that other thing we spoke of. I’ll have Arina handle The Red Army.”

“Releasing them won’t help your mother, Ivan. You–” Alexei tried to respond.

“I have to go.” Stanislav hung up suddenly. Most would think he was staring outside, but he wasn’t. Arina saw how his eyes were transfixed on his reflection. The three minutes of silence felt like an eternity. Then, he spoke to himself.

“Let’s get to work.”

—

The air hung heavy, suffused with the stench of decay and despair as Alexei navigated the shadowy corridors. He drew in a deep breath and a twisted smile crept across his lips.

Some people favored the scent of fresh-cut grass or the crispness after a rainfall, but this? This was Ruslan's delight. The distant moans, muffled cries, and clanging metal reverberating through the halls? A chilling symphony to his ears.

His footsteps echoed with a steady, deliberate rhythm. He passed row upon row of cells, each harboring a figure or two, their faces gaunt, eyes hollow and devoid of hope.

At the end of the corridor, he halted before a heavy, rusted door. The guard posted there, a burly man with a scar etched across his cheek, cast a wary glance at Alexei and nervously fumbled with a set of jangling keys. The door creaked open, revealing a small, dimly lit cell shrouded in shadows.

The woman was but a specter of her former self with sunken cheeks and dark circles under her eyes. Stress and worry had thinned her hair, leaving it limp and oily. She flinched, while laying on the lumpy cot and stared at Alexei with terror-filled eyes.

"Good news!” He barked with a clap of his hands, offering a sinister smile. “Your vacation in Russia is over!"

She wept tears only a mother could shed, but Alexei rolled his eyes and extracted a piece of paper from his coat pocket. He struggled to read it amidst her sobbing and cast a cold glance her way.

"Keep it down. I'm trying to read here."

—

To: All Members of The Red Army Subject: Mandatory Assembly

Comrades,

You are ordered to report to the gymnasium in three days at 1400. Dress in appropriate athletic attire. A grand announcement to follow!

For the glory of The Red Army!

Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav

—

The Red Bear Gymnasium was filled with sneaker squeaks and whispers. Bryan Dawkins, in Red Army sunglasses, floral shorts, and a "BRUH" tank top, bounced a basketball. He passed to his son, Nico, who wore mismatched shorts and a neon cat t-shirt, and smoothly dribbled to the hoop, scoring with a layup.

“Touchdown!!” bellowed Randall Schwartz, his voice booming in the cavernous space. His arms shot up triumphantly, revealing his pasty white skin under an “I’m From Moscow” shirt with the sleeves crudely hacked off for that extra touch of "athleticism."

Kenny Freeman, meanwhile, sported a tight “Stay-Dri” compression shirt that clung to his lean frame, complemented by loose jersey shorts and a garish yellow headband.

He was animatedly gesturing while speaking to Rose, who stood with her arms folded like a fortress, her gaze fixed on the gym's ceiling tiles as if counting them might unlock some cosmic secret. “So like, they’ll show a dining room set or something,” Freeman explained with wide-eyed enthusiasm, “and you gotta guess the actual retail value.”

Rose slowly turned her gaze, barely repressed rage etched into her features, toward Freeman, who continued without a hint of hesitation.

“But it’s usually best to just guess a dollar,” he advised, nodding sagely. “Don’t ask me why. I’ve never found a dining room set that only costs a dollar.”

Her eyes threatened to roll right out of her head in exasperation as she pivoted on her heel and stomped away from Freeman. She made a beeline toward Alexei, the only person in the room not clad in sporty attire. “What the fuck are we doing here?” she demanded, her voice sharp with irritation.

Alexei shoved his fists into his brown overcoat and shrugged. “Situation is need-to-know.” he said curtly. Behind him, Arina stood in a pair of gym shorts while her entire torso was covered by a track jacket.

Rose wouldn’t have to wait long.

The gym doors burst open with a mighty bang, the sound crashing against the walls and echoing throughout the space. Every head in the room swiveled toward the entrance to witness Ivan Stanislav's dramatic arrival.

He had swapped his usual black attire and military garb for a vintage Soviet basketball uniform from the old Olympic days. The bright red tank top with bold white CCCP letters matched the red shorts above his knees. His feet were in enormous high-top sneakers.

In his huge hand, a standard basketball looked tiny next to his bulk. The room fell into a deep hush, where even the faintest sound would seem piercing. Faces in The Red Army exchanged bewildered glances, eyes wide with uncertainty, while Alexei stood firm and focused.

Despite his foreign attire, Stanislav projected an air of unwavering determination. The grizzled Russian Bear pressed his lips tightly and grunted. “Red Army. This year has been difficult—not for lack of effort. Those sinister puppeteers at PRIME's summit have conspired against us—stealing titles, snatching opportunities, twisting rulings, and offering absurd bookings.”

As he spoke, the Bear pivoted on his sneakers, the worn sole squealing on the polished floor. The sound made him flinch; the sneakers felt strange compared to his usual combat boots. Yet, he confidently advanced toward his gathered comrades.

He slammed his fist into his open palm and bellowed, “Take a look at upcoming ReVival. The Russian Bear, forced to open the evening?! Pitted against some obscure journeyman called Felix Mullen?!” He paused, scanning the stunned faces of the group, his eyes burning with indignation. “A legend reduced to such pitiful booking? It is not incompetence—it reeks of negligence.”

Despite the vitriolic tone, the Russian Bear shook his head slowly, as if disowning his own bitter thoughts.

He continued, voice rising in fervor, “It reveals petty spite of Lindsay Troy and entire PRIME regime. We have all suffered under Troy’s hand—whether injustice of Alias Title, disregard for fallen fathers, or slap in face to best tag team in PRIME, denied title shot they so rightfully deserve!”

A low, rumbling growl erupted from Ivan, punctuating the charged atmosphere.

The Bear’s tone softened into a dangerous promise, “And as for this upcoming ReVival? Troy might find amusement in me opening against Mr. Mullen, but mark my words—I will laugh last when he leaves on stretcher!”

Rose’s voice sliced through the moment—a blend of incredulity and resolve. “Love that for you, Ivan, but dare to explain what we’re doing here? And why you’re dressed like Steve Buscemi trying to blend in with the kids in that one episode of 30 Rock?” To be fair, he looked exactly like the meme we’ve all seen on the internet.

Ivan’s eyes softened for a moment, “Because, fellow comrade, sometimes nothing brings us closer than simple game of basketball. After all, we Russians invented it.”

—

Everyone naturally assumed that Ivan would be chosen as one of the team captains, and a glimmer of hope danced in the eyes of those gathered when Rose captained the opposing team.

That hope dissolved when Speedy Riggs jogged onto the court, his faded red and yellow OSW officiating uniform clinging to him as if it were both a badge of honor and a memory. He declared that Stanislav held the privilege of making the first pick among the assembled Red Army members.

“Shouldn’t there be a coin toss?” Bryan Dawkins asked warily as he gently guided Nico to the bleachers. All eyes shifted toward Speedy, whose questioning gaze then met Ivan’s. The imposing Russian Bear simply shook his head.

“I uh, decided that the home team gets the first pick,” Riggs explained in a halting tone. So much for the closeness between Dawkins and Riggs at the presser.

“Not for nothing, bruh, but Rose is the American! And…well, we are in America, last I checked.” Dawkins retorted, his hand sweeping in the direction of Rose. She stood a few feet away from Ivan, her posture straight and her eyes fiercely fixed on the group, silently gaming out potential picks.

"It's fine," Rose said firmly, her cold eyes meeting the Starshy Praporshchik. The Russian Bear rarely exposed much skin, and when he did, his thick fur covered him well. Still, she noticed a nasty scar on his left shoulder and wondered if it was from a gunshot.

Stanislav, with a self-assured smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, scanned the assembled members before decisively pointing in the direction of Alexei. Without a moment’s hesitation, his voice rang out, “Alyosha!”

Rose watched intently, her eyes narrowing slightly as she took in the sight of the man who rivalled Ivan’s own age joining Team Russia. Alexei’s “athletic” attire was the same brown overcoat, shirt, and tie. She wondered if he showered in the coat and then shuddered at the thought. With a nod to the former Alias Champion, her team began to form.

Ivan’s eyes swept over the remaining group, where Kenny, Randall, and Arina stood in a loose formation near the sidelines. A sly smirk tugged at his lips as he declared with confidence, “Arina Timofeyevna!”

Arina faltered for a moment, fingers twitching at the zipper of her jacket. She glanced down, then up, and with a quiet breath unzipped the jacket.

Underneath, she wore an athletic tank top, modest but sleeveless. However, the reveal shifted the room. Her pale skin was a canvas of bruises, faint yellow ones along her upper arms, fresher violet and blue marks across her shoulders and sides of her back. These bruises weren’t from clumsiness, but deliberate.

Earned.

She walked calmly towards Team Russia. Dawkins’ jaw tightened as he glanced at Ivan and Arina. Ruslan squinted, and Ivan’s smirk disappeared, his face becoming calculating. Despite her bruises, Timofeyevna stood straight, not needing to look at anyone.

Rose exhaled. The thought of selecting Kenny or Randall nauseated her. She debated just going five-on-two, but knew it was pointless. “Fuck, I guess Kenny.” Both Kenny and Randall quickened their pace and jogged over to Team Rose, making her groan.

Because, what’s worse than one member of the duo? Both of them.

Stanislav’s voice boomed. “You are over here, Randall.”

Schwartz stood like a stunned puppy as he stared, longingly, at Kenny. The thought of their deep bond being severed was almost too much for him to bear, reminiscent of a wounded animal with its spirit visibly deflated. It was heartbreaking and a little pathetic.

So pathetic that Ivan rolled his eyes with exasperation. “Nico!” he called out, motioning toward the bleachers with a sweeping gesture. The younger Dawkins hesitated for a moment before slowly rising, his movement cautious and wary.

“No, kiddo, that’s not happening,” Dawkins interjected.

“Dad! It’s fine!” Nico called, his voice carrying both urgency and reassurance as he jogged toward his father. Locking eyes with Ivan, who offered a subtle, knowing smirk. The youth didn’t waver.

“Try to keep up, gramps.”

—

The gym roared with Russian onlookers as burly Team Stanislav squared off against athletic Team Rose. Under the harsh fluorescent lights, Ivan loomed at the center court and smirked down at Rose. Alexei straightened his tie and locked eyes with Dawkins, who glared back cockily. At the wing, Kenny eyed Arina’s bruises cautiously. Nico studied Randall, who was staring directly into the overhead light.

Speedy threw the tipoff high… and straight into Ivan’s waiting hand. He caught it with a low chuckle. However, Team Russia (plus Nico) were at a decided disadvantage. Alexei was no match for Dawkins, who ran circles around him. Kenny was careful with Arina, but more athletic. Though Nico shadowed Schwartz effortlessly, Rose’s lightning feet and smaller frame darted past Ivan’s reach again and again.

But there was a secret weapon in Team Russia’s arsenal.

Speedy’s whistle sliced through the action. “Foul!” he barked when Rose barely brushed Ivan’s hip. Seconds later: “Traveling! Keep that dribble alive, Dawkins!” And moments later: “Uh.. off-sides, Randall!!”

“Damn, again?! Sorry guys!” Schwartz called back.

Three baskets waved off, half their points erased. Penalty free throws at the line (including two do-overs for the Starshy Praporshchik due to insufficient lighting) gave the Russians new life. The soldiers on the bench howled and cheered for their venerable leader.

Inside the final minute, the air crackled. Ivan barreled forward like a freight train, dribbling once for every two or three strides. Rose tried to pivot, but he flattened her against the hardwood. Randall dove for cover as Kenny yanked the back of Ivan’s jersey and was dragged off balance.

Speedy seemed to have gotten dirt in his eyes.

In the key, Bryan squared up, bracing for impact. Ivan coiled his massive frame, knees creaking under sixty years of muscle memory, then exploded skyward—an unlikely missile of raw power. The rim shook as he thundered home the dunk.

He landed in Dawkins’s path and tumbled onto him, pinning Bryan face-first into the court. Ivan knelt over Dawkins’ face, and gave more than he ever wanted while straddling him like victory personified. He threw his head back and unleashed a guttural roar that rattled the rafters: “DYAAHAAHAA!!”

His laughter was, yes, unstoppable, unbeatable, and indefatigable.

With two points over Team Rose and thirty seconds remaining, Speedy called the match early out of sheer respect for such athleticism.

—

The Red Army showered and filed into a large conference room. Stanislav, in his crimson uniform, ran a hand through his slicked, recently-showered hair and nudged Ruslan with a booming laugh. The two insufferable Russians acted as if they had clinched gold in the decathlon while they gloated with one another.

“That was a joke,” Dawkins grumbled, folding his arms over his chest as he stood near the back of the room.

Rose leaned against the table, arms crossed. “Were you expecting something different, Bry?” she said with a steady voice while eyeing Stanislav and Ruslan.

Ivan rapped a knuckle against the table’s edge, the wood ringing. “Now, no hard feelings over losing. You sweated blood out there—and that counts! Lindsay Troy might pull every string in world to make it look like a miracle, but a string-puppet show is still just puppet show!”

Alexei, shoulders hunched, cleared his throat. “Let record show, however, we did win.”

Rose rolled a shoulder, one nostril flaring. “The record is about to reflect my boot up your ass. Now, your letter said there was an announcement?”

“Yes. As you well know, Max Kael went rogue some time ago—sparked chaos and made things personal with some of you.” He paused; eyes swept the circle. “With Alexei and Arina’s help, we found Kenny Freeman’s family! They are on transport back home as we speak!”

A hush fell. Kenny’s jaw dropped; he stared at Ivan as if trying to read punctuation in his words. “You… ‘found’ them?”

Ruslan’s eyes narrowed to icy slits, his lips curling beneath his mustache. “They were lost. Now they’re found. Problem?”

Behind Kenny, Nico’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He lifted his chin and whispered to his father, voice quivering, “What about Mom?”

Dawkins let out a grumble and muttered, “You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me…” and he stormed out of the room. Nico, with his shoulders drawn inward, followed his father.

Ruslan rolled his eyes, a single exhalation of disdain. “Crybaby…”

Ivan ground his teeth and nodded. “Well done today. Dismissed!”

Chairs scraped as the Red Army dispersed. Only Ivan and Alexei remained, the room suddenly cavernous and silent. Alexei watched the door. “How hard do you want to press Dawkins?”

“We see if he bends, or breaks, Alyosha.”

A single ping sounded. Ruslan’s phone glowed in his hand; he peered at the screen, a slow smirk curling his lips. “Good news on the Tsonda front,” he said, showing Stanislav the message.

Ivan read the notification, and his crooked grin spread so wide it creased the corners of his eyes.

“Perfect.”

Lindsay Troy might have forced him into the opening bout against Felix Mullen, but The Bear would ensure he was the main event of the evening.

Whether she liked it or not.