Thrice-bearded Sergei Sergeiovitch slaps the last militia man aside with the flat of his axe, laughing, tattooed. The women of the village try to shield their girl-children from the leers of his band; the old men are crying. They know that whether the raiders move along or winter here, it won’t end well. Sergei himself is a tale to frighten children. But they’d be less afraid if they knew his real name was Leslie.
“What? No!” roars Leslie. “I am Sergei son of Sergei!”
That’s not what your mother calls you, Leslie.
“Lay off my mom!”
Too late, Leslie.