Wolfgang stabbed Gorbachev’s head with the butt of his cigarette. Looking around, making sure he wasn’t being watched—by the guards, by the Russians, by his fellow Germans—he dropped the stub to the ground and crushed it under his heel.
It wasn’t a life worth living; not this. Waking up, going to the factory, coming home. Rinse and repeat. But then again, Wolfgang thought, is it any different over there?
“In Soviet Russia, Man abuses Man. In capitalist America, it’s the other way around.”
Wolfgang chuckled, walking home. Gorbachev stayed on the wall, painted still, a face full of ash.