The Red Cow and the Pint of Tiger

It's horrible. The mental challenge of maintaining my cover and still trying to infiltrate the Russian underground in England is quite stressful. It's a game of patience and precision. Any false move could risk disaster. Lives are at stake, and I can't help but feel that overbearing responsibility with every pint I'm forced to drink.

I am going by the name Boris Grebenshikov. I'm a beer drinking lad from Leningrad who loves the Eurythmics. It's too bad you can not hear my Russian accent, because it is dead on.

I think the bartender should be able to get me into the back room. He says his name is Jon, but he is definitely an Igor or something.

If the fate of the world relies on my drinking here all week. So be it. I'm that kind of penguin.