SIBERIA

it's cold as heck here. why are you still here. who dropped you into this place. the world may never know. you can hardly see anything, the blizzard that is being whipped up is strong and the falling snow is thick. you're buried to your knees in snow and you desperately waddle around trying to find something, such as a fire among the horizon.

in the distance, you hear men talking. they speak a language that is foreign to you. you wander off in the direction their voices are coming from. though they may not be able to understand you because of the language barrier you seem to share, perhaps you can still manage to get directions or something out of them to tell where the heck you are. your memory is quite fuzzy, so you don't know who dropped you here, or if you came here out of your own free will. maybe they'll know what happened to you.

as you get closer to the voices, you recognize the language they're speaking as russian. no wonder it's so cold. you're in russia, how could you be so stupid? suddenly, your memory starts to get a little more clear and you remember someone sending you a letter with a ticket to a "wonderful paradise somewhere in the world" with no return address and no return ticket. you boarded a private jet with an anonymous captain and they flew you here and you stumbled around in the snow until you tripped and blacked out, possibly hitting your head on a rock or something. anyway, the past is unnecessary and is in the past. you continue walking towards the voices and start to see four shapes of men. they appear to be sitting around a dimly lit fire and are just talking to each other. they don't appear to be evil or have malicious intents. you walk forward until one of the four spots you and stands up. he interrogates you in russian, but you don't know how to respond because you don't know the language. you simply hold up your hands, get down on your knees, and introduce yourself as a stray american who was sent a mysterious letter in the mail about coming here. you hope they understand.

they seem to because the man that interrogated you smiles. his eyes are shielded by a soviet ushanka and he has a peculiar mustache that you could have sworn you've seen before. he holds out a hand, offering to help you up. you take it and he brings you forward towards the rest of the men. they stand up and also smile. the first man turns to you and says, in english, "it is a pleasure to meet you. my name is joseph stalin. welcome to hell."

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