I know you, Groznyj Grad.

I know what I'll encounter here.

Lieutenant-Colonel Markov was pounding a table the other day at coffee, declaring that Volgin's remote outpost has become a repository for the criminal, and the reprobate. I didn't say anything, as my lips tend toward willful catatonia in the presence of pointless exercises.

When he asked if I agreed, I said "Criminals and reprobates are everywhere. Especially here in Moscow."

Groznyj Grad, you're not the Russian Bear, and you're not the KGB wolf. You're not the tenacious wolverine, either, or the clever fox. Nor are you the shark, for we are he.

You may not be afraid of us. We don't often venture out of deeper waters.

You may not be afraid of me. I often reserve my words to observe the ripples on the pond.

But never doubt this: still waters run deep.

You're nothing so much as a field of lush and thorny weeds in a vacant lot.

A garden of hubris; as if conditions in Tselinoyarsk make for perfect loam, growing large and waving sunflowers of men who imagine themselves above the ethics of humanity.

Fortunately, I've always admired wild flowers. But don't think I'll hesitate to pluck and press them between the heavy books of law.