Yuri is a haunted man. His eyes have that wary look of a veteran who saw too much horror and who now suffers nightmares and insomnia in equal measure. His face twitches and he scratches nervously as he talks. For three years in the Soviet paratroops he was a hunter-killer in Afghanistan, a hit man dropped behind enemy lines to take out heavily armed convoys creeping along the roads of the Hindu Kush mountains. The mojaheddin could never catch him, and he always made it home.
Tonight, however, over sour vodka and shaschlyk, he admits the experience terrified him and that he wet himself on every jump he made. “Hell. Everytime wet through,” he says pointing to his crutch and laughing with a mouthful of borsht. After several hours of downing neat vodka, Yuri is also very drunk.
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