We are inside SNOBS, where the surviving oligarchs have made a last stand. Nickel-plated tables worth more than the GDP of most African nations have been pushed against rare elitny glass doors to form crude barricades.
We hear from outside the screams of hunted oligarchs and the roar of Zombie Kommissars who are hunting them.
Misha, clutching an oil lease like a club, stands fiercely by the dessert tray. Irina leans against him, petting her shoes and whispering comfortingly to them.
BORIS ABRAMOVICH, a balding, older oligarch, rushes past them and towards the winecellar with a hammer and nails. A very homosexual young Snobs WAITER chases after Boris, carrying a plate of seared Ahi Tuna with a side of Octopus Cevice.
Waiter: "That will be $32 dollars u.e., Boris Abramovich, sir."
Boris: "You call this place Snobs, and you serve me this...stolovaya crap?!"
Waiter: "Uh, I mean $132 dollars, Sir. I must have been thinking about the bottled water."
Boris: "Well, in that case, I could use a little nutrition. Give me that." Snatches food and sucks it down off the plate. "Look what they've done to us, Misha. Animals, we're nothing but animals!"
The zombie-kommissars beat on the barricades. Boris Abramovich finishes the Tuna, licks his fingers, flings the dish away and heads for the wine cellar.
Misha: "Boris Abramovich, wait! You won't be safe down there in the basement! Stay and fight them!"
Boris: "Well, you see, I had the wine-cellar declared British territory last year by having it legally attached to the British Embassy. If I were you I'd follow me into the basement. It's our only way of surviving. The Zombies are afraid of only two things: fire and British territory!"
Misha: "Don't go away, man! This affects our basic freedoms!"
Boris Abramovich runs down into the cellar. We hear him boarding up the door from inside.
The few remaining in Snobs look away from Misha, ashamed.
Misha: "I'm staying. Enjoying my Snobs."
Misha sips a cup of elitny chai and pounds his hands on the Snobs bar counter.
Waiter: "That will be $90 dollars for the tea, Sir."
Misha nods approvingly, "M'm," and gives him his card.
Misha: Enjoying my elitny chai.
Boris Abramovich has already vanished. There is a sound of rapid hammering and Boris Abramovich humming "God Save the Queen."
From outside comes the crash of Zombies tearing at the barricade. A low sinister chant grows louder:
First Zombie: "Soon we feeeast upon their bourgeois Soooouls!"
Second Zombie: "And their moooooney!"
Third Zombie: "Shares!...daughter companies!...want! need!"
The Zombies pound and tear at the barricade, then roar in triumph. The frail barricade is clearly about to fall.
Misha turns to another oligarch, GUSINSKY, who is busily trying on various national costumes.
Gusinsky: (Trying on a sombrero) Be-sa-me/Besame Mu-u-cho...
He notices Misha looking at him.
Gusinsky: "Senor, Spaniards are warm-hearted, generous people, so it breaks my heart to leave you here, Misha mi amigo, but my flight to Madrid leaves in -- "
Gusinsky's cellphone rings. He listens, says, "Spanish pig! Chinga tu madre! Says I'm an 'Undesirable alien,' ha! My Andalucian ass."
Zombie Kommissars break through another layer of the barricade. Gusinsky looks startled.
He throws his sombrero away in disgust, and sorts through other national costumes, next trying on a Greek toga.
Gusinsky: "As Socrates said, he who is not arrested and in jail is truly free. So it's off to the cradle of civilization for me, to be with my fellow Hellenes! See you barbarians in Hades!"
Gusinsky's phone rings again.
Gusinsky: "No I won't let you bugger me. What? Hey, don't hang up! Goddamn Greek con men! They won't take me either!"
He throws off his toga and picks up two costumes: a pair of German leiderhosen with alpine cap, and a yarmulka with prayer shawl.