Trafika Europe 3 - Latvian Sojourn

You are surely a nukie's child, because you know, your daddy told you – when he didn't prefer to stay silent, when he said that he was just coming home for a bit and then would have to go back – that the whole power plant was leaking. It was leaking like crazy, God damn it, the nukies cursed, it was leaking, the whole thing was just one leak after another, somewhere in the ballpark of fifty cubic meters an hour through the loosened reinforcement, through the drains. Fifty cubic meters of radioactive water an hour, my boy, my dear little Soviet boy – even I know that's a lot. The vaporizers can hardly process it. Radioactive oversaturation, as they say, and they very often send your dad on radioactive business trips, all the way to the great country's capital, to that special Sixth Moscow Clinic. God damn it – but there's no cure for this exhaustion, he's always falling asleep at the table, head on the tablecloth, facedown amidst the cherry jam and slices of bread. That's a gift from our native fields – so I'm there in the picture, too. You don't know it, my dear little comrade, but I was on the work brigade at the jam factory. That very jar, cherry jam, with a pit. It's very easy for them to blame him, to call him an idiot, a drunk or an ideological freak, depending on the audience and the depth of the argument required. But, my dear little comrade, I know – daddies never do anything without thinking about their children. Or even without asking them. The disguised Father Christmas makes every child's dreams come true.

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