Mexico City was hot, so unlike the USSR's windswept tundras and snow laden cities. The sticky, suffocating warmth of the city stuck to the walls and crawled beneath Trotsky's skin. He sat back in his chair, spread his hands over his desk and breathed in the cloying air. He longed for the USSR, not just for the cooler climes of his native Europe, but for the culture for the noble workers he had moved among. Something akin to patriotism - something he should have denounced considering his ambitions for a worldwide worker's revolution - stirred inside him on days like this, filled his soul and cried out for his homeland.

A knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts and he turned around in his chair. He looked, but too late and in overwhelming shock as the familiar figure of Joseph Stalin burst through the door.

"Stop!" He cried in THE VOICE OF STALIN. "TROT patrol!"

Trosky nearly fell out of his chair, hyperventilating and praying to the spirits of Karl Marx, Engles and Lenin that this was not his last day. He did not scream or beg, but instead he raised himself out of his chair and faces Stalin calmly. "Have you come to finish me off?" He asked.

"Da, Comrade." Stalin replied, and Trotsky saw that he was gripping a menacing, gleaming ice pick in his hands. "I have come to finish you off, but not in the way you think."

Trotsky panicked internally, but he did not allow that fear to show itself on his face. Stalin looked gleeful, eyeing Trotsky over with a manic hunger and Trotsky wondered what unspeakable methods, what horrific tortures, the mad-man had dreamt up for him. Stalin advanced, stepping menacingly toward Trotsky and turning around to close the door behind him. Trotsky was paralyzed with fear, his communist heart beating hard against his chest.

"Take off your clothes comrade." Ordered Stalin in a soft voice that seemed out of place considering the situation.

"Why comrade?" Replied Trotsky, his voice escaping as a tiny squeak from his terrified body.

"Just do as I say," said Stalin impatiently, advancing on his once-upon-a-time comrade with THE STEPS OF STALIN.

Trotsky could feel sweat soaking through his shirt, the pounding thunder of adrenaline in his veins causing him to overheat more. Stalin had not stopped advancing - still wielding the icepick - and Trotsky could not see any way around it. He tore off his shirt without ceremony and stripped his trousers, kicking off his shoes and trying not to think about where this might be heading. He went to remove the ushanka from his head, but Stalin stopped him.

"No." Stalin said in a rough voice. "Leave that on."

Trotsky dropped his hands to his sides at once and stood there, naked, confused and awkward, as Stalin pointed at his desk.

"Bend over it."

Trotsky obliged, placing his vulnerable neck against the cold wood of the desk and waited tensely for the deadly blow. He fidgeted, his hands twitched on the desk. He was ready to die, he was ready to have his skull split by the force of the ice pick, but instead of his head, Trotsky felt the cold metal of the ice pick teasing his anal sphincter. He jerked up, he wanted to look behind him, but in that moment the ice pick pushed at him and penetrated him entirely. He felt Stalin's warm hand caress his supple buttocks. His mind was awash with conflicted emotions. Initially he had thought Stalin had come to assassinate him, that his time was up and all was doomed. But this was something different. And he liked it.

"Yes, relax comrade." Stalin purred and Trotsky obliged. He felt the ice pick move further into his anal canal and shuddered with pleasure.

Trotsky moaned unwittingly, he could not help it. The pleasure was intense, teasing and it was slowly flooding through his system, intoxicating him. Stalin let out a pleasant sound and began to gently oscillate the ice pick inside Trotsky's rectum. Trosky clutched the desk and let out a guttural sound. He panted, he whined, the sheer pleasure of it was terrifying and confusing and Trotsky fancied that he saw the meaning of life flashing before him, as glorious and bloody as the Great Revolution.

It was almost unbearable, teasing, ferocious and yet not quite enough to push him over the edge into glorious orgasm. He panted, he arched, he wept, he needed Stalin to increase the pressure, the depth, the anything just that little bit more. Stalin laughed at his desperation. Trotsky begged, he pleaded and Stalin was indeed merciful. He pressed the ice pick in just that little bit deeper, he changed the angle. Trotsly howled as ecstasy erupted behind his eyes like fireworks commemorating the fall of the tsars, they exploded ad flared and they did not cease. Trotsky lost track of time, clutching the desk, and eventually came to surrounded by his own sticky fluids.

Stalin extracted the icepick with a satisfied laugh and Trotsky languished there. He finally understood why climax was called the little death in that disgustingly bourgeoise language that the aristocracy had once favoured. He crawled off the desk after some time, he looked around at a loss, but Stalin was gone. He was alone in the heat, wondering if it had been a violent fever dream that had overtaken him. The boiling, empty room offered no answers, only repeated his own questions back to him.

He really missed the USSR.