When Cyrus suggested the idea of going out-of-state for the three-day weekend, Giovanni simply could not refuse. In fact, he was so ecstatic that he invited those other idiots along as well. Did he think of them as close friends! Hell no! They would be there in case things get awkward, usually brought about when stupid things fall out of Giovanni's mouth. Which more often than not was the case.
However, Cyrus's idea of a platonic getaway was to fly across the globe, catch a ferry, ride a train, and carpool on a sheep delivering logwood to the snowy countryside: A spartan universe with no direct airport, no city hall, no McDonalds flashing its golden asscheeks to the uncivilized world.
"We are going to the bathhouse," Cyrus announces.
Ghetsis freezes in his tracks. "Excuuuuuse me? We? You dragged us all the way to the world's edge to take a bath together?"
"It can be fun to hang out naked with friends," Lysandre says. "Don't you Americans hang out in the woods naked all the time?"
"Don't you people go skinny-dipping and French-kissing at the same time?"
"French-kissing? We kiss differently from Americans?"
"Fuggedaboutit."
The men arrive at a rectangular wooden structure. Inside, they are welcomed by an apple-scented, buttery warmth. While snow batters the outside world, here, one can close their eyes and drift off into a slumber of dancing men in loincloth.
A variety of household items line the shelves. Teapots. Dishes. A stringed instrument with a triangular body that bears no resemblance to the ubiquitous guitar.
"That is a balalaika," Cyrus says.
"Is that an urn?" Maxie refers to a tall, tapered metal container.
"That is a samovar, traditionally used to heat and boil water."
Archie whistles. "You're very knowledgeable."
"My apologies. Am I too overbearing?"
"No! I like hearing you roll your consonants. When I try to do it, I douse Maxie with spit."
Ghetsis remains put. The idea of a public bath disgusts him. Back in New York (the hubbub of people with questionable sanity), he avoided public pools because the shower rooms did not come equipped with curtains. He could waltz right in and glimpse the hairy, pimple-dotted backmeat of another man. Once, N dragged him to a lap swim, and he had the misfortune of seeing a personified double-cheese hamburger bending over…
"I am not stripping down in front of you bozos!" Ghetsis insists.
"I have a son," Giovanni says.
"I do not, but I am not interested," says Lysandre.
"Why are you telling me this?!" Ghetsis roars.
Nonetheless, he falls to peer pressure. After everyone changes clothes, they enter the sauna room.
Archie jumps. "OUCH! That's hot!"
The temperature sits at a toasty 104 degrees Celsius, 220 Fahrenheit, with 60 per cent humidity. Sweat explodes over every orifice of exposed skin. A deluge of salty sweat pours into Giovanni's eyeballs, temporarily blinding him.
"Infernal!" Lysandre howls.
Maxie tosses his glittering arms up, spraying beads of perspiration over his colleagues. "This is hotter than the Chi-no-ike Jigaku, the Blood Pond in Beppu!"
Cyrus rolls his eyeballs. "You all are being needlessly dramatic. Please put on these felt hats."
Ghetsis swats the felt hat aside. "You want to see me spontaneously combust?!"
"Banya without a hat is like apple pie without ice cream."
Ghetsis chooses to take personal offense to that comparison.
"In addition to protecting your hair from drying out, these hats prevent overheating," Cyrus continues coldly. "It will be quite a shame if you wake up the next morning with a smooth scalp."
A singular red star sits on the fabric of the hat. His process of rational thinking logjammed from the heat, Giovanni slaps Archie on the hairy, sticky teat.
"How's the weather, Comrade Archie?"
"I can't feel my brain, Comrade Gio."
The stench of six different men's sweat bleeds into the crisp, arid texture of the crackling steam.
At last, Lysandre is so wet from sweat that he snaps. With a lion's roar, he rips off his towel, and like lard on the stove, his mass melts down the seats.
"When in Rome!" Giovanni flints his towel aside.
Howling with heat-induced laughter, Maxie tears off his eyeglasses, his towel, and Archie's towel. Then he swings them around (the towels) like lassos. The other men egg him on by throwing their perspiration like confetti.
Ghetsis is aghast (he needs not be British to utilize the terminology). Those exhibitionists are treating the sauna like a jungle! The only one not losing their heads in this suffocating heat is Cyrus, who sits on the highest seat so he can look down on everyone like some kind of regent lurking behind the imperial throne.
"We call our bathhouses banya," says Cyrus. "Towels are optional, but mandatory with mixed-sex rooms—"
"I don't care—" Ghetsis evades being bumped by a full ass "—about your naked fantasies! I'm getting out of this nuthouse!"
"Have you ever come across a snowdrop flower?"
"Why the fuck would I ever look at a flower?"
Cyrus turns his carnivorous eyes onto his colleague. "They bloom just as the winter snow begins to melt. We call them podsnyeahnik. We also refer to corpses that begin to appear with the first thaw of spring as podsnyeahnik. I believe your language refer to them as 'corpsicles.'" He licks his lips. "Now, unless you wish to thaw with the flowers…"
Ghetsis plants his covered ass squarely on the seat. His heart is pounding. The brief flash of fear, instead of making his insides colder, just makes him even HOTTER. Damn, he's so wet from sweat that his beautiful hair sticks to his skin like fatal cholesterol on a Los Angeles danger dog!
Glancing around to rest his gaze somewhere that does not require bleach on the eyeballs as aftercare, Ghetsis spots a button panel on the wall. He cannot decipher any of those scribbles. The resulting rage only triples his body heat.
"Herbal essences." Cyrus's frosty breath scalds the shivering hairs on Ghetsis's neck. Movement runs down the latter's throat and down to his bowels. Fear? Trepidation? Or something else brought upon by this infernal heat and disturbing intimacy?
"You have the option to infuse the steam with various fragrances," Cyrus continues, oblivious to the opera of destruction playing out in Ghetsis's muddled brain. "This one is labeled 'boiling sea otter.' The disclaimer reads: 'We do no assume responsibility for naughty activities that will result in smelling this arousing aroma.'"
Once Cyrus lets Ghetsis breathe, the latter smashes the forbidden button because fuck it. Being the smart, sane intellectual of this circus troupe, he believes in science, and according to the empirical data as catalogued on JSTOR, there is no explicit evidence to the aphrodisiac nature of boiling sea otter meat.
A faint pink mist appears and quickly disperses with the steam. Some of the droplets splash into Ghetsis's mouth, much to his immense chagrin.
"What is that?" says Giovanni.
"Dunno," says Archie. "But, uh, Lys, have you been working out?"
Lysandre stands up, exposing a sweat-scrubbed pink body dappled with red hair that glows like cinders. He strides across the room, one giant cheek crushing the other with each stride. In the corner, he lifts his leg and plants his foot on a raised square of wood.
"Every day, mon ami."
Maxie gives a low and long whistle. "Big things come with big packages."
"100 per cent locally sourced. It's like this even in the cold," Lysandre assures with a wink.
Ghetsis rubs his eyeballs. When has Giovanni become so… caked? A clumsy ration of fat and muscle stacked like a double-double cheeseburger with melted cheese. Except his meat is tight.
"Like what you see?" Giovanni says. "I have an entire forest down here."
Ghetsis screeches.
Cackling, Giovanni swivels his attention to Archie, about to comment on the carpet on that man's chest when a certain sight knocks the breath out of him.
"Beddra matre santissima, Cyrus. You have thighs that can crush coconuts."
"I bike."
Maxie swoops by Cyrus's side and playfully strokes those swole calves. That earns him a slap under the chin.
Suddenly, a tremor swells in the innards of the older men. Little did they know, the aroma of boiling sea otter has awakened something deep within them, a human instinct since time immemorial.
Groaning, Archie slumps against the wall, his knees locking together. That is the only way to quell these perilous uprisings in the southern oceans. Behind him, Maxie is on the floor, panting like he has a mouthful of hot food that needs to be blown on.
If left unsatisfied, this intense desire will consume their carnal vessels!
Cyrus pours more water onto the heated stones. The parallel tracks of illusion and reality converge. While his older colleagues struggle to untangle want from need, Cyrus grabs a bundle of birch twigs and spanks Ghetsis.
"Being struck with veniki stimulates blood flow," says Cyrus as he smites the pasture of naked flesh. "In addition, it stirs up the air in the banya, making it even hotter."
"YAAA!"
"EEEEE!"
Giovanni tries to crawl away from the beating brush, but his palms skid over the hard, moisture-slicked wood, and he crashes into Archie's chest like a bowling ball flying across lubricated floors. A thick strand of hair catches in his teeth.
Lysandre throws himself against the wall, hands up, legs spread. "Hit me harder!" he roars.
The venik ricochets off his smooth, burnished backmeat, causing ripples to cascade down his body.
When the venik strikes Giovanni, he experiences a big bang of adrenaline, sweat, and pleasu—exhilaration.
Cyrus sings as he keeps up with the flogging.
"In the forest I saw a devil…"
"OogahahbongahohoHO!"
"He was boiling potatoes fast…"
"BaaaaaaaaaaasowehyaaaaaamamabeseaaAAAA!"
"He hung a kettle on his dick…"
"&*Djfkdj *G)_) 008r3!"
"And smoke came out his ass!"
With a cold-blooded swing that covers a wide area in addition to administering splash damage, Cyrus sweeps the men out of the banya.
"Fly!" he yells.
The shock of the snow immediately brings reason back into these certified academics.
Archie shoots up like a rocket. "C-COLD!"
Towel situated firmly around his hips, Cyrus drops to his stomach and rolls around in the snow. Pillowy white crystals hug his thighs like tights struggling to contain its contents.
"After banya, you must rehydrate," Cyrus explains to the gawking professors. "They have bucket showers and icy plunge pools in the city, but the countryside allows us the unique advantage of romping around naked in the snow without the authorities having to be called."
"You're fucking insane!" Ghetsis shouts. "Don't you know what happens when you put hot glass in icy water? It BREAKS! I'm getting outta here."
"Snowflake."
"What. Did you call me?"
"So fragile, so fleeting." Cyrus spins his finger about the swirling flurries. "They delude themselves to being unique, yet in the end, they are but a mass of water like any other snowflake. What is individualism to the opinion of the collective?"
Ghetsis pounces. Cyrus easily melts into the snow, causing the former to faceplant into the crunchy cotton.
"When in Rome!" Giovanni cannonballs into the ice. The shock of the cold lasts only for a millisecond, for an electrifying and invigorating relief washes over his sweaty self. The relief is comparable to aloe vera over a burn.
"The sudden drop in temperature causes the blood vessels to constrict," Cyrus says from his snow fort. "Blood flow slows down, consequently alleviating swelling, inflammation, and muscle soreness… according to the locals."
"Mmmph," Ghestsis says through a mouthful of white powder.
After everyone rehydrates and change clothes, they return to the wood cabin Cyrus rented through unknown means. He serves up tea of steamed tarragon and red basil leaves.
"The owner of the banya was surprised that we used the sea otter meat essence," he says.
"The what?" Archie says.
Ghetsis suddenly finds the painting of the naked woman covering her shrubs with the venik very, very interesting.
"It is said that the odor of boiling sea otter meat stimulates the sexual organs."
Everyone scoots away from their elbow partner.
"Let's never talk about this again," Giovanni says with his head in his hands, his wedding ring pressed tightly into his bosom.
What follows is a rare moment of history in the RRU timeline: a mutual agreement from all parties.
"All that flogging really emptied my stomach," Archie says.
Talk about impeccable timing! As with any well-planned itinerary, food always follows a session of torture. Being the gracious, benevolent host that he is, Cyrus volunteers to cook.
Lowering his voice, Archie says, "Is it just me, or did Cyrus actually enjoyed hitting us with those birch leaves?"
"He was smiling," Maxie says.
"He was laughing," Lysandre clarifies.
"He is crazy! Like all the vodka-chugging sadistic bears here!" Ghetsis hisses.
Giovanni shoots him a crippling look. "That's their culture, cornuto. What do you 'Murcans know about culture?"
"In case you've forgotten, old man, the US is a major superpower. Impressive for a country that's only 200 years old."
"Why do Americans fry Coca-Cola?" says Maxie.
While Ghetsis defends the revolutionary ingenuity of his country, Giovanni stops by the kitchen.
"Ciao."
"Hello, Giovanni."
Matre santa, Cyrus has those little fangs when his lips lift up past his teeth! Giovanni is afflicted with a strange weakness in the knees.
"Yes?"
Finding it extremely difficult to think straight (damn boiling sea otter fragrance), Giovanni gives a half-assed grunt and shuffles out of the room.
Shaking his head in bewilderment, Cyrus returns to twisting the wings and thighs off a washed chicken, tossing the batch in a skillet with peeled tomatoes, chopped white onions, garlic, and spices.
While that simmers, he begins the appetizer by brewing a sour cream béchamel. Once boiled, the mixture is poured into a sauté of mushrooms and white onion. Then everything into ramekins, which go into the oven.
For the soup, he wants to go with something light. No meat. So he grates a pasture of beetroot down into a bloody gruel, combining it into a kefir-based stew of dice cucumbers, radish, and herbs. Garnished with a dollop of mustard.
Should he make dessert? Oh, why the hell not? As Giovanni put it: "When in Rome…"
The first thing that snatches Giovanni's heart is the smell. That aroma is potent enough to bring inanimate objects to life. Second are the colors. Third is the very real possibility of him shoving all that food into his gut until he gets to the point that a wafer-thin mint will make him explode. Like that character in Monty Python's The Meaning of Life. That stupid-ass film was a work of art, easily outclassing Michelangelo.
Now, where shall he begin his culinary campaign?
"You cooked enough for an army," Archie whistles.
Giovanni starts with the chicken ragout dish. Chahohbili, according to Cyrus. At first bite, the tomatoes squeeze flavor onto his palate. Tanginess, sourness, all nullifying the intense garlic burn, leaving his tingling tongue thirsty for the lightly-fried chicken—which upon teeth tearing muscle, unleashes a violent desire to shed tears of joy.
"What is this flavor?" Lysandre says. "I feel as though Madame Autumn has kissed my tongue and imparted a gift of wild eggplants."
"I used utskho suneli and khmeli suneli spices," Cyrus says. "They are popular seasonings in the country of Georgia."
Giovanni moves on to the mushroom julienne, housed so lovingly in its ramekin. The white golden mushrooms squirt out a tidal wave of juice. Just when Giovanni thinks it cannot get any creamier, his incisor pops a pocket of cheese-infused sour cream. He moans under the sheer mass of rich, buttery heaven.
"Is there dairy in here?" Maxie says.
"Yes. I used smetana, the local sour cream."
"I'm sitting this one out," Maxie says sadly. "Dairy destroys my stomach."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I should've asked about everyone's allergens."
Ghetsis snickers. "Hah. Lactose-intolerant. I guess you're not eating your portion then."
"I'll eat it," says Archie.
A smack resounds from Ghetsis slapping Archie's paw away from the uneaten mushroom julienne.
Next, the soup. Holodnik. Broth that shimmers a milky scarlet hue like rosy baby cheeks. The bowl is packed with so much fresh vegetables that it overflows. Giovanni's spoon also overflows. Who the hell approved the idea of making spoons this tiny? The more he shovels into his mouth, the cooler his intestines feel, and they let him know by screaming to his brain to keep it coming.
"Very refreshing! I taste spring onions, dill, and parsley," says Lysandre.
"The Holy Trinity," Cyrus says. "The secret to unleashing the full potential of flavor is to crush salt into the greens before cutting. In addition, holodnik is popular as a summer soup."
Ghetsis gestures to the howling blizzard beyond the window. "Summer."
"Yes. This is the average snowfall for the summer season."
"Y'all insane."
Giovanni leans back in his chair, loosens his belt, and sighs.
"Do you have room for dessert?" says Cyrus.
"Madunnuzza santa!"
Dessert is a platter of button-sized pancakes called syrniki, each stuffed with a body of cottage cheese. The crème-colored innards are feathery, moist, and supple. A scandalous image crosses Giovanni's adult mind, and he banishes it just as fast, panting and wheezing like an out-of-shape donkey.
"Maxie, I made a dairy-free dessert for you," says Cyrus.
"Oh. You did? You should've have… But what is this? Agar agar?"
"Holodets."
"Oh…" Maxie takes a tentative bite of the floral gelatin. "It's very, ah, savory. What did you put in it?"
"In addition to the leftover chicken meat, I used chicken feet."
Ghetsis chokes his seventh syrnik. Maxie smiles.
"Wow, I've never had this type of aspic before. Thank you!"
"Jellified animal hooves are not a dessert!" a horrified Ghetsis snaps.
"I had an American 'pudding' once. Tasted like cheap sunscreen."
Archie intervenes before Ghetsis throws hands on Maxie.
After the table is licked clean, the men kick back with full bellies and glasses of kompot, a chilled juice made from boiled apples, nectarines, and cranberries. No one offers to help wash the mountain of dishes. If they move, their stomachs will rip, and everything will come blasting out like in that Monty Python movie. Regardless, Cyrus seems perfectly content with picking up after everyone.
Giovanni belches. Archie follows with a burp that shakes the ceiling. Lysandre wins by making everyone fall off their chairs.
Cue a collective groan of pain.
"I've had better Slavic food," Ghetsis says.
"You barked at Archie when he tried to take another pancake," Maxie says.
"Where are we going tomorrow?" says Giovanni.
"I plan to visit Sakhalin Island," Cyrus says. "We can see Hokkaido from there. Afterward, we will walk around St Petersburg. There is an escalator that dives 80 meters underground… which should be 1/5 the height of New York's Empire State Building."
That is an oddly specific allusion, but no one presses on the reason for it to be said.
Cyrus gasps. "I know what I will cook for everyone tomorrow."
Giovanni is astounded. "Aren't you exhausted?"
"I want you to have the closest-to-authentic experience as possible. These ingredients are local, and the meat is promptly delivered by the village butcher. It is difficult to achieve the same textures with ingredients in Hawaii."
That weakness in the knees strikes Giovanni again.
Thus, it is time for sleep. Since cell reception is horrible out in the spartan countryside, the professors lounge around watching Cyrus fly to and fro with a broom.
"Sit down already," says Maxie.
"Not yet."
Maxie pulls Cyrus into a chair. As soon as the latter's asscheeks hit the seat, he falls over like a sack of flour. Shaking him awake is useless. Cyrus is dead to the world, snoring like a bear in its den.