Joseph Stalin stared at Bruno with wide eyes, and pupils as thin as needles. He had run quite far to escape from this man and his relentless pursuit. And now that the would-be dictator was sitting across from him, he couldn't help but fear that death was behind Bruno, resting his hand on the man's shoulder in approval of what was about to come as if this foreign general sitting before him was an agent of the Grim Reaper.
A drink? Really? Such was not a kindness at this time, nor was it welcome. Having been reduced to such a pitiful state, an offering like this was merely a way for Bruno to boast about his victory to the defeated wretch in front of him, who was about to die.
