A Pink Dormouse Production
Sands found the stop button on the Discman, then rolled over, neatly dislodging the book from El's hands.
"I still don't know the Russian for flamethrower. What's the point of a language course if it doesn't teach the important things?"
"Mathilda speaks Russian. You should email her."
"And then she'll want to know why I'm asking. Before you know it, our simple little job will escalate into a full scale civil war."
El leaned down and picked his book up off the floor.
"We aren't going to Russia for three weeks. Why don't you listen to your novel instead?"
"Because I want to know the Russian for flamethrower," Sands said in his best 'isn't it obvious?' voice. "I know," he continued, "you go find a group of Russian tourists and use your super mariachi charm on them to find out."
"And where would I find these Russians?"
"You could try over by the ice cream stand."
"You want an ice cream? Why not just ask me to get you one?"
"Because I also want to know the Russian for flamethrower."
El sighed then slid out from under Sands.
"You need a job." He walked off. In the direction of the ice creams and putative Russian tourists, Sands hoped.
"Three weeks, remember," Sands called after him.
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