chesspolitik | A Battleground for Rival Ideologies

If Anatoly had been thinking more clearly, he would have been suspicious of the little reel in the bookcase bearing the label of "Chess 2009". The bookcase had been on a cycle of giving him things he didn't like or need, so the fact that it was cooperating now should have registered as a bad sign.

None of this crossed his mind, however, as he painstakingly threaded the reel to the projector. Whatever it might be - a documentary on the history of chess or showing of a match between two grandmasters, he was certain he was going to enjoy it. This was clearly about his beloved game and there was just no way that it could show him something he would not like.

His first inkling that he was terribly wrong about all of this was the very first shot showing an enormous concert hall. His mouth dropped open as he heard the announcer call "Josh Groban" and he saw himself walk across the stage. The case fell from his fingers as he saw Freddie follow after someone who bore a rather strong resemblance to Maureen. What was this?

The concert started but things still failed to make any kind of sense. Who would write a concert about chess? Why would someone write a concert about chess? He wasn't sure which was more disconcerting - that or that people who looked exactly like him and Freddie appeared to be in it.

When the song about what appeared to the history of chess ended and the main singer with the gloves started speaking, he was horrified. This wasn't a story about chess, this was about him. Him and Freddie and what happened between them and if he could have found the strength to get up to shut the damned thing off, he would have.

He was too shocked to move, to do anything but watch his nightmares play out in song and bizarre chorus. The only comfort he could find was that at least they had gotten Freddie behaving like a bastard right.

Threaded | Flat

Freddie did a double-take when he heard his voice. At first, he figured it was just Roger and he was not in the mood to see him, so he stayed with his coffee and book in the kitchen. His attention kept wandering to the sound coming from the other room, though, especially when he heard Maureen. Except it wasn't Maureen, it was Florence.

He set his book and cup down and wandered to the entrance of the rec room. The more he saw, the more stunned he became.

When he and Florence came back out, that confirmed it. He remembered those headlines. He'd hated those headlines. But what in the fuck was with the singing? He didn't sing. He couldn't even hold a tune.

He winced when the reporters started throwing out questions and his eyes slid to Segievsky. "What in the hell is this?" he demanded.

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