Making foes of friends, and potential friends, is the art of a moron.
Ivan stood on top of the clumps, two windswept mounds of earth and grass elevated to legendary status amid the surrounding flat farmland. Roland had cheated of course, to this one-on-one meeting he had two goons to pat him down and remove any gadgets to a safe distance away. After passing the detectors over every inch they took his cell phone, placed it in a lead box and retreated to the base of the hills. Ivan swallowed hard. No phone meant no secret transmission of the conversation to his supporters, but there was no such restriction on Roland. As the early October wind bit at his face his adversary greeted him warmly, maximum charm, like he did on every podcast from his never-disclosed location. His audience was listening and to them Ivan was the enemy.
Glancing at the man who was two decades older than his public persona, the cell phone was easy to spot. It wasn't wafer thin like the popular models, but almost as large as the 1980's early "brick types" everyone laughed at. This wasn't simply a phone, it was the latest in mobile broadcasting. The superior sound quality gave an impression authority - an essential tool in the war of rhetoric that was the new age. The smart money was in guns, bombs and misinformation - with Roland the star of the show...
There is no difference between Lucille and I but determination. She's my match in every area, but never my superior. Years back we trained in the same gym, same mentor, but he loved me more. That's what gives me the strength to keep on kicking her ass. I'm not saying I don't get bruised, I hurt like hell, but tomorrow is just another day to knock the bitch flat. I'll wake like a damn clock-work doll, all wound up and ready to go, knives in my pockets and a gun in my belt.