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The oppressed illumination of a wire-hanging bulb was the only reprieve from the pressing darkness of the room. The pervasive thickness of cigar smoke choked what little light the space still held. Wispy figures of ethereal translucence danced through the elucidation of the light and back into the obscurity of the shadows. A round figure moved his head forward into the light, leaning heavily upon a dusty wooden table and grotesquely rolling the source of the smoky phantoms around his tongue. Every portion of the man’s appearance, from the crooked yellow sneer to the thick stubble running from his fat face, seemed to be some expression of the ubiquitous filth in which he lived. He puffed, sending another sombre cloud dancing through the feeble light.

"Let’s see it." His words were deep in the malice of his dense Eastern European accent. “I haven’t all day.” Puff.

A thin, gangling figure stepped into the light and warily unfurled a small poster on the table. Red, beady eyes set about scanning the piece. Spiky brows immediately encroached on their territory, betraying the apparent displeasure of the reader. Puff.

“Well, it’s just…you know what they say. They’ll believe anything…”

“Let me read, Zoli!” he snapped, eyes unmoved from the object of his cavernous attention. At this the slender man awkwardly withdrew from the scornful reproach of his superior. He stood writhing the sweat from his hands while the poster was studied. After a few pregnant moments he scrounged the courage to defend his work.

“We have the numbers. It would be at the top within an hour…” His angular chin dipped modestly into the light as he spoke.

“If this doesn’t work…” It was as though there were some answer behind the laminate that he might see if only he looked hard enough. Puff.

It was in the style of a World War II propaganda poster. It showed a young, healthy man standing triumphantly on the crest of a trench, impervious to the streaking lacerations of amber tracers against the setting coral sky. The only part of his person unblemished by the mire of the trenches was the white and red crest of his shoulder, which seemed to shine boastfully against the macabre backdrop of the battlefield. His outstretched hand pointed toward the horizon where blue-crossed flags of red curled against the wind. To his right, obtrusive white lettering had been imposed upon the image: “Fight for Norway from home! Gain wellness and go quicker in rank!” The broken wording and awkward imposition of the text didn’t seem to bother the scrutinizing eyes of the Hungarian.

“You had better pray that President Koppany has lunch in the Kremlin tomorrow. If the Canadians aren’t as dumb as you say, it’ll be your head.”

At this slim approval the skeletal figure bowed his allegiance. Slender fingers tremulously furled the poster and placed it under the arm. With an uneasy nod he slowly receded from the table until he was again in the encompassing coldness of the darkness.

Puff.