Burn Artist

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Two nights before Vyacheslav Nazrenko burned to death, Vassily and I were at the movies. It was a week after the premier of Aliens, and we were watching it together for the third time.

“Ohh… ohhh… here it comes.” Vassily, mumbling around a mouthful of popcorn, pointed at the screen with the straw of his soda. “The screaming cock of doom, Alexi. Right out of her fucking chest.”

I didn’t reply, eating popcorn one kernel at a time. I flicked one into my mouth and caught it with a crunch.

“This is why you never let anything over five inches near your mouth, man. Bananas, squids, nothing. Before you know it, BAM, something’s rammed its dick right down your throat and is pumping you full of alien spooge.”

“Shhhhh.” Someone behind us hissed.

“Vassily.” I stared fixedly at the screen, keeping my voice down. “They’re eggs.”

“Yeah, eggs. Which is basically just spooge in a shell.” He made a face. “Worst M&Ms flavor ever.”

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