Disclaimer:
I am not the true copyright holder of the characters depicted below. No profit made from this, none intended.
Author's Notes:
Originally posted back in 2009 in response to a writing challenge on LiveJournal. Takes place after Assassinanny 911 (Season 2, episode 3.)
I never realized how short these chapters were, or how weird it was to try and replicate a Russian accent in narrative form. Sorry if it seems weird. I do realize that conjunctions generally join two parts of a sentence. One reader on LiveJournal said that it sounded like her, but I'm still not sure if it came across right.
Assassinanny Alternate Ending (Part 1)
For the most part, Molotov did not like or respect American people or their soldiers. She found them docile, overly dependent on fancy gadgets, and undertrained-like children with shiny new toys instead of grown adults with firm understanding of how to defend themselves. It was an obvious symptom of a diseased nation so fat and bloated with capitalist greed and consumerism that it would be decades before anyone realized it had been slowly dying from lack of moral solidarity or values, again much like a child fed on nothing but Coca-Cola and television while its body and mind continued to starve.
It was not so in old country. In old country, men were men. In KGB, women and children were also men. There was no whining or weeping or lying like a lump by your own personal pool sipping sugary drinks brought to you on a tray. There was no waiting around for someone to pick up your mess or do your laundry, cook you dinner or put your suspiciously juvenile teenagers to bed.
In old country, these Ventures would be torn apart. They represented the very worst of the most useless vestiges of old system of aristocracy. They did nothing, they contributed nothing. They simply took up money, resources, and arable land that could be put to much better use growing food for the whopping percentage of world population that went for days with nothing to eat. As children the boys Hank and Dean could be excused some of their greater faults as they lacked even the access to public education which would give them the ability to grow intellectually beyond the pathetically outdated McCarthy-era mentality imposed on them by their negligent father. For Doctor Venture, however, there was no excuse. The man was a pimple on the face of society; a pallid-skinned, soft-palmed member of the bourgeois whose lecherous unwanted advances were only mitigated by the sheer impotence he displayed as a masculine specimen compounded by the lack of physical threat he imposed on anyone, much less on a woman trained to break every bone in the human body from the age of nine years old. How this effeminate creature whose only function in life (as far as she could tell) was to waste valuable OSI resources and hemorrhage money could even /dream/ of telling the magnificent Brock Sampson what to do, treating such a magnificent specimen of physical fitness and ruthless efficiency as a common nanny or wet nurse offended every sensibility Molotov had.
And yet, for some reason, Samson chose to remain with these imbeciles in this boring, dead-end job when he could be using his God-like skills to crush his enemies and force entire nations to work together to fix the many things wrong with this country. A man as swift and competent in the art of killing as Samson was could end wars before they began and force government bodies to be polite with one another, or else. He could bodyguard any of the world's leaders or, if necessary, take them out. A man with such power did not belong in a mostly closed-off and abandoned factory compound outside a trailer park budgeting for one macaroni and cheese dinner a week and making head lice checks, with only an occasional group of misguided rubber-masked morons showing up from time to time to give him any chance to exercise his art-it was a mockery of Samson's true calling.
To that end, Molotov headed back to the compound to give Samson a piece of her mind. Go Team Venture, indeed. If he were actually competent in any way, she would accuse the American Doctor of having her Samson brainwashed. Instead she would have to hope that now he had finally come to his senses and taken some time off to go on a /real/ mission, maybe he would be having second thoughts. And if not, there were... other forms of persuasion at her disposal. She had a feeling her beloved would request a transfer if she told him where she kept the key to her belt.
He would have to fight to get it off her, of course, but that was to be expected. To patronize Brock Samson was an insult to his abilities, and that simply would not do.
