"Sun"

"Four hours," Boris groaned, "Four hours on a camel's back..."

"Would you rather have eight hours in a tank?" Viktor said without turning back to his comrade, "No air condition, remember that!"

Boris groaned- or whined. Something in between, Viktor thought. It was amusing, though; Boris once stood in Red Square for eight hours without gloves or a coat, his bare palm holding cold Kalashnikov steel all for a bet. And not once during those eight unflinching hours did the December wind make him shiver.

And now, on a day barely above 25 Celsius, he melts under desert sun.

"What do you think about American money going to those rebels?" Viktor asked, mostly for the sake of pulling his friend's thoughts away from the weather.

"I don't," Boris answered.

"No? Come on, this is America we're talking about! Our enemies!"

"Eh, we backed Vietnam rebels," Boris fanned himself, "Tit for tat, eye for an eye."

Viktor hummed and nodded.

"Fuck!" Boris shouted, "This fucking sun!"

"So Mr. Ice melts in the heat, eh?" Viktor teased.

"And Uncle Sam melted in 'Nam,'" Boris scoffed.