Morton MortMalway, 53, was an asshole. Vice-President of a large energy concern based out of Houston, Texas, he'd bulldozed his way to the top through intellect, ingenuity, lies and back-stabbing. His high six figure income provided him with all the creature comforts of life: he owned a home in Great Oaks, belonged to Great Oaks Country Club, and could often be found hobnobbing with the rich and famous at Houston Rockets basketball games. But something was missing. Taking stock of his life one day, he came to the conclusion that he had everything but a wife; women, yes, but a wife, no. This was a situation hed have to rectify. Malway didnt have to look for the answer any further than three offices down from his own.
Faron 'Ron' Gruber, 27, was a lucky man in all but one aspect of his life, his having to work directly below Morton Malway in the companys hierarchy. Otherwise, he was: quick-witted, good looking, 26 years his boss's junior, and living with the most beautiful woman anyone had ever seen. Irina Sashenka, 25, hailed from the easternmost point of Kazakhstan, a former republic of the Soviet Union. She was a Pumpokol, an indigenous people on the brink of extinction. Much to the amusement and envy of all males at the Houston Oil and Gas Company (HOG), she sounded exactly like the cartoon character Natasha of 'Boris and Natasha' fame.
Rather than set up shop with one of his blonde bimbos, Mort came up with a plan to wrest his employees significant other away from him. Irina, he decided, was going to be his.
Early on a Monday morning, Faron was asked to see his boss at his earliest convenience. Thinking he'd done something wrong, Ron cautiously entered his supervisors office.
"Come in," Malway began, "come in. How was your weekend?" In his three years of employment at HOG, this was the first time his boss had asked him a personal question.
"Fine," he replied hesitantly, "and yours?"
"Dandy," Morton responded, "just dandy."
'Haven't heard anyone use that word in a long time,' Faron reflected.
Without wasting time on further small talk, Malway got straight to the point. "I'm hosting a get-together for the manager's and their families at my place two weeks from this Saturday, and would like you and yours to be there as well."
Though outwardly appreciative, Faron was inwardly both curious and cautious. It was common knowledge old 'ironshorts' never socialized outside the workplace. Add to that the facts he and his boss weren't overly fond of one another, and his' family' consisted of but him and his common-law wife, Irina.
Although it sounded fishy, Ron knew declining the invitation wasn't an option. "Why, of course," Gruber replied, "we'd be delighted to attend."
After going over a few minor details of the soirée, they concluded their meeting.
The next few days were chock full of surprises. Through general word-of-mouth, it became abundantly clear to Ron that none of the other managers were even remotely aware of Malway's party. Though the situation made him feel uncomfortable, there wasnt anyone he could vent to except Irina. Perhaps, he conjectured, staff from the branch offices will be there, too. Certainly, they wouldnt be the only invitees.
The night of the party finally arrived. Faron and Irina pulled up to an Edwardian-style home set far back from the roadway. The structure and grounds were ablaze with lights, but there was no one around; no other cars and/or people. As they approached the front door, it suddenly opened wide. There stood Mr. Malway, wearing what appeared to be a red satin smoking jacket. Following a two second greeting, he ushered them inside. The homes interior, opulently decorated, was as quiet as its exterior; nary a butler or maid to be found.
Ron, determined to break the ice, began, "Where are the other…?"
"Managers?" Mort said, filling in the blank. "Well, a combination of the flu, car trouble and a family emergency prohibited them from being here tonight. Regrettably, its just us. You will stay, though, wont you?" Ron, smiling in affirmation, hoped his grin didnt appear too phony.
"I want to make this evening as relaxed as possible," Malway said, "so I ordered in some food. Hope you like it."
What Morton had done was to cater a meal from the Imperial Russian Restaurant, a five star eatery located in downtown Houston, inclusive of servers and chef. For the relaxed meal, he'd obviously spent lavishly on its preparation, presentation and delivery.
After the seventh course, with restaurant personnel having departed, host and guests adjourned to the living room. Classic Cossack music was playing softly in the background.
For the next 90 minutes, Malway paid lip service to his young employee, but appeared thoroughly entranced with Irina.
"I dont mean to pry," he said, "but why don't you two kids get married?"
"It's a long story," replied Ms. Sashenka, "but it has nothing to do with our love for one another. The customs of my people are to be respected, and Ron does. We're not rushing into anything until the time is right."
Morton wasn't entirely satisfied with the answer, but chose not to press the issue, yet.
A subject both Mort and Irina did enjoy talking about was desserts; all manner and kinds, from every corner of the globe. They particularly enjoyed bantering about the pleasing treats of mother Russia, chatting away like two old babushkas swapping recipes. In the meantime, Faron was at the opposite end of the couch, following the discussion by moving his head from side to side, speaker to speaker. Precisely, he thought, like a tennis match spectator. He wasn't, however, relishing the game.
The get-together ended about 10:30, which was none too soon for Gruber. Though Irina liked to exchange dessert ideas with someone knowledgeable on the subject, she, too, felt uncomfortable.
On their way to the car, Faron wondered aloud, "And what was that nonsense about the other managers not being able to be here? What a crock!" Irina nodded in agreement.
Following the strange soirée, things quieted down for several weeks, but then began anew.
On a Wednesday morning, Mort asked to see Ron in his office. Faron hadn't had a private audience with Mr. Malway since their previous encounter. Not desensitized yet, the younger man slowly made his way down the hallway, expecting to be lectured.
However, as before, he was greeted with a slap on the back and how-de-do.The ensuing events played out in all-too familiar fashion: Malway asking Gruber a number of personal questions, followed by an invitation to dinner. And, as was the case previously, Ron reluctantly agreed. How in the world was he going to stop this 'thing' before it got out of control? He'd already made mention of it to one of the other managers. That individuals response was, "What the hell's wrong with some free food and a chance to brown-nose old ironshorts? I only wish it were me." Truth be told, Ron wished it were, too.
The night of the dinner, Gruber didn't have to ask his boss where the other managers were; he knew he and Irina were the sole guests.
The evening's main course was, naturally, Russian, capped off with a traditional dessert called pumpkin oladi.
Adjourning to the game room, Morton proceeded to grill Irina about her family, friends, and how she met Gruber. What was odd about the interrogation was the fact that Morton seemed uninterested in her responses, often asking the next question before she'd finished answering the first.
This uncomfortable dialogue was thankfully followed by a more pleasant discussion about Eurasian pastries, cakes, pies and puddings. Poor Faron was again subjugated to tennis viewers syndrome, his neck sore by the time he and Irina were ready to depart.
On this occasion, however, he vociferously complained to his significant other. "But I was only trying to be nice to your boss," she explained to Ron. "Dahling, I never meant to hurt your feelings." Faron felt contrite, sorry hed ever raised his voice to his love.
"Look," he said, maybe I'm making a big deal out of nothing. I just feel so stupid when you two start talking about kitchen-stuff.
"I understand," she replied. "Let me sleep on it; I'll think of something, okay?" They embraced, and put the issue aside for the moment.
Business picked up at HOG over the next few weeks. With Malway having to jet back and forth between Russia and the United States to put the finishing touches on a big deal, he and Gruber had had little time for personal contact. That, however, would soon change.
As negotiations neared completion, Mort was once again able to focus on domestic issues.
On a Monday morning, Faron was summoned to his bosss office. He prayed for a tongue-lashing. No such luck.
"Ronnie, old buddy!" Morton exclaimed.
"Oh my God," Faron thought, "I'm now his old buddy, Ronnie."
Now that life's returning to normal, I'd like to invite you and Irina over for dinner this coming Friday night.
"Mr. Malway," Gruber responded, "I'm not so sure. You know, my departments been awful..."
" Oh, nonsense," he answered, "I know what you're going to say, you workaholic you. The Schier/BerlSiberian deal wont go through for another three to four weeks at the earliest. We've got plenty of time; theres no need for concern."
At a loss for another viable excuse, the manager begrudgingly said, "Then, I suppose, the answers yes."
"Dandy," Mort replied, "dandy."
By Wednesday, however, HOG managerial staff were concerned. The deal was moving along faster than anyone could imagine, and was close to finalization. All staff were putting in, on average, twelve hour days. Desperate for any reason to not go to his bosss residence in 48 hours, Gruber saw the overtime as a gift from heaven. He phoned Mr. Malway from his office Thursday evening.
"Hi, Mr. Malway?" the HOG manager began.
"Yes, Ron," he replied.
"I don't think we'll be able to make it over tomorrow, sir; the deal, you know."
"Appreciate your calling, son. Of course, it's a bit late in the week for me to change plans. I've gone to quite a bit of trouble and expense preparing the babka yablochnaya." After a moment of awkward silence, Morton continued, "Why not have Irina drop by for dessert?"
This question was followed by a longer moment of silence. Faron gagged on his words as he mumbled, "Well, I suppose that'd be alright."
"Dandy," his boss remarked, "just dandy."
When Irina heard the news, she was quite displeased. She was not only irked by Ron's callous misuse of her social calendar, but also that she was left with no other choice but to attend. In a display of passive-aggressive behavior, she agreed to the engagement with great enthusiasm, which really ate at him, and provided her with a small measure of payback.
What neither of them knew was the entire situation had been orchestrated by Mort. It was he who'd accelerated the timetable on the 'big deal,' almost guaranteeing Faron would have to miss the dinner. In truth, he was hoping the cancellation call would come as late in the week as possible, thereby strengthening his trouble and expenseargument, and ensuring Irinas presence. By golly, he gloated, the plan was working like a charm. Everything was falling into place.
When Ms. Sashenka arrived at Morton's home for the after-dinner sweets, she immediately noticed a change in the ambiance. Before, everything was well illumined; tonight both the exterior and interior were generally dark. Candles had been lit, and a fire started in the hearth. She could even discern a scent reminiscent of the steppe in the air.
After the initial pleasantries, they moved to the den. A compact disc of Russian folk songs was playing softly in the background. Before them, arrayed on a teak table, were the babka yablochnaya, silver cutlery, two fine plates and glasses, and a decanter of nalivka. Irina complimented her host on the presentation.
About 40 minutes later, following food, drink and chit-chat, Malway was ready to 'make his move.'
During a lull in the action, he used the excuse of wanting her to see a family heirloom to sit next to her on the couch.
Dispensing with his grandmothers cameo in a matter of seconds, he initiated another round of questions regarding her background. Irina, unlike their previous encounters, and possibly due to the alcohol, began to 'open up.' She described in full the Pumpokols animalistic belief system, and how her particular clan worshipped insects. Upon hearing this, the HOG VP had to use every ounce of self-control to avoid bursting out in hysterics. He came close to choking on his restrained laughter.
The next few minutes, as later described to Faron, were a series of confused and jumbled events. Irina recalled being groped, and of slapping Malway. Or, did that occur before or after she threw the nalivka in his face? Recollections were fuzzy. She was certain, however, of knocking over the dessert table on her way out of the house. It was all very embarrassing. "And that, dahling," she explained, "was how our evening ended."
Gruber was irate, but took a few moments to collect himself before phoning Mr. Malway. He felt like a helpless pawn, caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place. 'Nothing good will come of this,' he surmised.
When he did speak with his boss, Mort fired back full barrel. Before giving his employee a chance to act indignantly, he lashed out about Irinas behavior. "I don't know what was going through her mind," he yelled. "I simply sat down on the couch to show her an antique, accidentally bumped her shoulder, and she went ballistic."
"She has a different opinion of what transpired, sir," the HOG manager retorted.
"Well, son, you can tell your damn communist squeeze she's out of her fucking mind," he countered.
The use of profanity pushed Faron too far. "Look, Mortie," he began, "I'm going to take Irina's word for what happened, so you can take your pirozki, borsht and pelmen, and stick it all up your ass." Ron then slammed the receiver down, effectively ending their exchange of views.
The rest of the weekend passed without further dialogue between the aggrieved parties.
Monday's commute to the office was stressful for Gruber. This was another one of those days he was hoping to have as little contact with his boss as possible.
Think again, Ronnie-boy. The minute he stepped into the building, he was met by the companys executive secretary, who said the VP wanted to see him at once.
Bracing for the second round of their disagreement, he prepared himself by taking long, deep breaths. Entering the lion's den, he was surprised when greeted by a contrite figure who said, "Come in, Ron, come in. Glad you could make it. Look, I think we all need to take a step back and reconsider our positions. I, for one, am willing to chalk up a lot of the miscommunication on the nalivka; that stuff will kick your ass in a heartbeat. What do you say?"
Slightly stunned, Faron took a second or two to grasp what was happening. If he wasn't mistaken, it sure sounded like Morton Malway was offering him a roundabout apology. Before Ron could stop himself, he replied, "Fine, whatever." They shook hands, and the matter was closed.
For the next fifty minutes, the two discussed particulars on the Schier/Berl-Siberian deal. Ms. Sashenko's name never came up once. Faron returned to his office, puzzled, but relieved.
Two weeks went by, when something quite bizarre took place. Pulling into his usual spot in the HOG parking lot, Gruber was met by a group of tall men wearing sunglasses. Identifying themselves as FBI agents, they escorted the manager to a private room for questioning. Ron couldn't believe what was happening. Apparently, computer discs belonging to the company had been found in his residence. His first thoughts were 'who was in my home?' and who gave them permission to be there? He didn't know anything about any pilfered discs, and was therefore initially unconcerned about the accusation. That would soon change.
As HOG and the U.S. Government were jointly involved in several overseas projects, much of the information pertaining to same was deemed 'sensitive to the national interest.' Though Faron had clearance to view much of the data, company policy dictated it never be taken from the building. Both Homeland Security and the FBI had received anonymous tips suggesting that Mr. Gruber was in possession of said discs.
He was, to put it succinctly, in deep guano.
Ripple effects from this incidentalso impacted Irina. Over the next few days, she was badgered about her guest statusin the United States, and threatened with deportation.
In the end, Faron was arrested and arraigned over the matter. However, with the Grand Jury's finding of insufficient evidence, the Prosecutor chose not to press forward with the case. Though never convicted, the HOG manager lost his job. Morton Malway, grieved over the entire affair, had had the unenviable task of letting his employee go. It truly irked Ron to have to listen to Mort say, "Son, if there's anything I can ever do for you or Irina, dont hesitate to call."
"That butt-head planted those discs," he'd concluded. "And if not him personally, someone he hired. He's such a shit."
Shit indeed! For surely, it was Morton Malway who'd arranged to have the classified materials planted at the Gruber residence. His gall, however, didn't stop there. Following the aforementioned fiasco, he arranged to have Irina followed by a private detective. Information, he knew, was power, and he wanted all the leverage he could muster.
Keep in mind, Mort wasn't a poor loser, he simply refused to lose. Throughout his life, he'd attained all his goals. The word 'failure' wasn't in his vocabulary. The supreme egotist, he was convinced everyone and everything had its price.
The HOG VP knew exactly how long his former employee had been out of work. When Gruber reached a point of severe financial hardship, Malway contacted Irina. Acting like he wanted to help Ron, he asked her for a meeting to discuss that possibility. To allay any concerns, he suggested she select a public place for their face to face. "You know," he told her, "Faron will reject any help if he knows it's coming from me, so lets keep this between us".
"I don't care for you," she said bluntly, "and I can only guess your mind. But I do care about him. Meet me at Chaunceys Pub downtown at 11:30 a.m. tomorrow. I'll give you twenty minutes to say what you have to say."
" Agreed," Malway replied, chaffing over the fact he'd had terms dictated to him.
The next day, they met as arranged. Though at first Mort went along with the role of 'secret Santa,' it didnt last long. Acting was never his bag. Ending the charade, he leaned forward and flatly told Irina he wanted her, and was willing to go to any lengths to win her. "Your acquiescence would prove to be a monetary windfall for Ron," he said. "And don't forget, you two aren't married, and there's still a chance you could be deported by the INS. I'm sure that wont happen, but it's something to think about before you say no, yes?"
Although supremely confident in his powers of persuasion, the HOG VP was taken by surprise when Ms. Sashenka countered, "How much money?"
He leaned back in his chair, chortled loudly, and said, "There's obviously more to you than meets the eye. So, you want to talk about cold cash, do you? Your blood must truly run green. You have no idea," Irina replied wryly.
Over the next three courses and two vodka martinis, they negotiated the terms of a marriage. Irina had several conditions, amongst which were: Faron was to be kept in the dark about their relationship as long as possible, and would never know the true source of his newly acquired capital. Malway came up with the idea of making it appear their friends in Siberia had sent him a 'thank you' check for helping to close the oil exploration deal. Irina agreed to the signing of a prenuptial agreement, to be followed by a deposit of funds into her private bank account three days before the wedding. And that was that.
Tired of debating, they concluded their meeting by agreeing to stay in touch to wrap up any loose ends.
One of those 'ends' was the marriage ceremony itself. Ms. Sashenka insisted on a private affair, with as few people invited as possible. "You understand about my culture, my beliefs?" she queried. "I'm a Pumpokol, of the insect clan, a child of the..."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Morton answered, cutting her off.
Getting up, Irina said, "Remember, don't ever call me at the house. Not a word to Ron, and you can take that friend of yours over there with you, for good."
Ms. Sashenka was referring to the tail her future husband had placed on her. Malway nodded to the gentleman at the corner table, and they quietly left together. What he and his stoogefailed to notice was a lone figure sitting on the opposite side of the room, watching the watcher. As Irina turned to leave, she made eye contact with the disguised stranger, and smiled.
And so it came to pass, that a month after their restaurant rendezvous, the happy couple said their 'I do's' at the Houstonian Hotel. The ceremony, conducted by a Justice of the Peace, was followed by a quick dinner for the seven persons in attendance.
The meal was not followed by a reception. As soon as everyone had finished eating, the newlyweds adjourned to the hotels honeymoon suite.
Following consummation of their union, Irina rose up on the bed to rest on her knees. Morton looked up at her, completely satisfied hed gotten everything he desired and rightfully earned.
"Remember my telling you about my people?" she asked.
"Oh no," he pleaded, "we don't have to go through that again, do we?"
If you'll let me finish," she chided. I'm a Pumpokol, of the insect clan, a child of the great mantis."
"I've heard all this before," he said with a loud sigh.
Looking into her eyes, Mort couldn't believe how big they'd suddenly become. His wife had the largest, greenest eyes of anyone he'd ever met. Irina then bent her wrists downward, forming her fingers into two pincer-like shapes, and began licking her forearms.
"What in the world are you doing?" the HOG VP demanded to know.
"A mating ritual of the Pumpokol, of course," she responded matter-of-factly.
Shortly after ingesting her husbands head, as is the custom of the mantis, there was a knock at the door. Opening it, Sashenka amorously greeted Gruber.
"So," he asked, how'd it go?"
"No problem," the clanswoman said. "I gave him exactly what he deserved."
"And that was...?" Ron queried, already knowing the answer.
"Just desserts, dahling," she replied with a grin, "just desserts."
