The bearded, burly man exhales the cigarette's smoke as he speaks "You see, priyatel, before you were seed in your papa's yaytsa I was already a warrior."
He rolls up his sleeves and shows a collection of scars "This one? Suppressing a revolt, in the Don Cossack lands. This one a bullet I took for me tovarisch Pyotr. This one... this one from an angry whore, stabbed me arm."
Old Sasha puts the cigarette against the trench's muddy wall. "Ah, I could have been a Nachal'nik, commanding an army of cossacks... but I had to screw with the Komandir's wife. Never do that, priyatel, I lost me eye from the beating and almost lost my life if I hadn't escaped. I had friends in the unit, good friends, they let me go... but the Komandir had friends too, Europe wasn't safe for me anymore. So I took a boat, in London, and sailed the great vody to America. Nice land, I tell you priyatel, I'm a respectable dzhentl'men there, with an american job, an american wife and two beautiful american kids."
The russian man spits on the ground and grabs his knife, the sound of approaching steps in the mud startling his interloper "Blyad! Screw that, I'm a cossack! A warrior! I wouldn't have died in my bed, in peace, and pleased thr Predkov. Now prepare yourself, priyatel, there are men we need to send to hell."
