At about the same time that this would happen, several thousand miles and several time zones away, Bashar would receive a fresh jar of fish food from one of his lackeys. He would inspect its contents and permit himself the seldomly enjoyed pleasure of a smile.
The fish would have quite a treat today, he would muse, dropping a choice tidbit from the tweezers into the tank. They seemed to relish human gonads, he would say to himself, even those such as these, still bloody from being hacked with a very dull knife from the traitorous mahmoons who had run from Americans rather than fight the hated Sons of Dogs.
Farther still from Berlin, yet another player in the just-ended game would sip a vodka martini and ponder the events that had recently transpired, thinking about another scheme in which his poputchik might prove useful. It would be wise to console him in defeat, he decided.
Setting down his glass, Soviet Premier Boris Starchinov would pick up the desk phone and order a dozen prize Siamese fighting fish delivered to Tehran on the next available flight.