Only problem is, it’s stuck in a bonded warehouse in Brussels.
This information came to light during a visit at the Markov residence, the motive of which was to pick up a recipe for Veal Orloff. We were discussing which mushrooms to use in the purée when the phone rang and the Norris candidate leaped to attention with a smile on his face.
“My Rheostar has arrived!” he exclaimed.
Smelling a scoop, and conscientious as ever of the responsibility he holds towards the public at large, your methodical reporter made sure to record it all.
“Oh, vuk, now what?” Markov began straightaway rubbing his eyes as if he had a headache.
“Brussels?! For how long?”
“But I HAVE the vukking certificate. I send you! You have it in hands for two weeks!”
“Vhat do you mean ‘arouse suspicion’; I’m a vukking hockey player! It’s a mechanical KNEE!” Now he was shouting.
“Platinum, not plutonium! So what if they are stupid? Why must this affect ME? Explain difference between platinum and plutonium, what is problem?”
“I tell everyone I will be ready for this day, then that day, then maybe this day, then this Saturday…what the VUK?! Now, I look like little vudak waiting for mommy’s birthday!”
“Vhat more? Vhat more do I get to not ‘arouse suspicion’ then?” steamed Markov.
“But I don’t need medical expen…expenasure…whatever vukking word is, I don’t…”
“But this…eto pizd dets…this is vukked up! YOU told me you could rebuild me. YOU told me you had the technology. YOU told me you had the capability to make the first of my kind. Better than I was before. Better, stronger, faster. THIS is what you say to me! Now, I need extra vukking parts and must bribe vukking customs official for this to happen?! Maybe I send some friends over there to peel all your eyelids off with vukking pliers instead! Huh? Maybe I do that, yes?”
“Vuk’s sake…” Markov’s shoulders sagged. “Ok. Do it. Vhat the hell can I do? Buy the extra, bribe that vukking clown, and just move it along because I am sick of looking like idyot zhofu. Ty che blyad.”
“Ok, dosvid…oh, vait! Vait a second, hold on, hold on. How much is dis going to cost me?”
“SIX MILLION DOLLARS?!! The man’s shriek was so loud that the caged parakeets beside your wide-eyed reporter became panic-stricken and knocked themselves out flying into their bars. Markov heard the commotion and turned to see…and remembered he had a guest.
“Vait a second, you;” he said into the phone. “You,” he said to yours truly, “Get the vuk out. No time for Orloff today. Go get Big Mac or something.”
--But what about the mushroom purée?
“Get the vuk OUT!”
More updates when events warrant.