Catherine is a witch.
And the day she came to Russia was a dark day for our country.
Five holes she put in me.
But could she kill the son of Peter the Great?
Exactly. Not a fucking chance!
Ordained by God to rule our great land and loving you all as I do.
And God does too. We chat about it all the fucking time.
Yeah, he loves you more than fried quail and aioli.
She fucking has a black tongue
in the shape of a bat.
She once
stuck it up my ass!
Tried to end me, for she hated my love for you.
But instead I rose up!
And with your help,
we will take that heretical bitch
and fertilize our land with her ground-up bones!
She is not ordained by God as I am, and she refuses to ordain Paul the First,
Peter the Great's fucking blood!
She is building a school and a vaccination center in this town.
Poison for our minds. Poison for our bodies!
Let's go burn that shit down!
And afterwards,
form an orderly line to suck the massive cock of Peter the Third.
I suspect you'd like to be front of that queue, Patriarch.
Just do your job, Pugachev.
It doesn't even look like me.
- The eyes are wrong. - Not just the fucking eyes, Velementov.
I think traditionally an effigy has a kind of hateful pastiche quality.
In which case, it's quite effective.
- The hair's good. - No, it's not.
- And they do what with it? - Parade it round the town.
Then they all line up to fuck it in the arse and spit in its face.
- And vice versa. - What?
- Fuck it in the face. Spit in its arse. - Yes, I get it. Thank you.
- They hate me? - They're the wrong blue.
I think that's the problem.
Yours are more crystalline. The eyes.
For fuck's sake, Velementov. I said less booze.
- Was I drunk when you said it? - Yes.
Well, wrong time to tell me then.
- Where's Elizabeth? - I don't know.
We have a massive problem.
They burnt five towns to the ground.
This man is pretending to be Peter, whipping up the crowds,
telling them he escaped you trying to kill him,
railing against your heritage, your Germanness, your horse-fucking.
Apparently he even has five stab wounds in him.
He what?
He's a very convincing Peter, say reports from clergy who've seen him.
- A real look-alike. - Is it Pugachev?
- I had thought it. - Five stabs. Didn't you do five?
- Yes. - Guess he didn't take it very well.
We need to find him, crush him, juice him and spit the pips into the sea.
I should apologize to him.
- What? - I'm sorry?
It's revenge, clearly, for what I did to him.
Let's kill him first and apologize second. He's more likely to accept it that way.
Peter the Great's greatest fear was exactly this.
Some brush fire that builds to conflagration.
Millions of peasants get the idea that they can take you out.
They could, easily, and what they'd do to you would make that effigy
look like it had had an easy life.
Well said, Velementov.
Get me a plan by morning then.
Or maybe I should have one of your officers? Maybe Petrov?
Petrov's a fucking pup.
I can do this.
I'll see you in the morning.
You think he can do this?
Definitely the right man for the job.
Morning.
Did a package arrive? I am to receive new shoes.
Stop buying shoes, Maxim.
My style has become much talked about at court.
"Maximesque" has become a phrase.
We don't have endless amounts of money.
I live large. That's Maxim.
Also, everyone at court is talking about this guy pretending to be Peter,
riling up the peasants.
She needs to go unleash a wave of bloodshed on those fuckers.
- Pretending to be Peter? - That's what the daily pamphlet says.
Also, don't be angry, but tell me these aren't stunning.
Salty.
Spicy. Some notes of turnip top.
What are you doing?
Darling. Paul has colic.
So a festival of tit-sucking is needed to celebrate this?
This is his wet nurse rotation. Leaving aside the fact you don't know that,
I am ascertaining if their milk is to blame.
It is. You're all fired.
Although, Licorice, you can stay,
as I'm interested in Jean-Pierre turning yours into a panna cotta.
- A big Catherine doll. For Paul? - No.
Pugachev is in the regions, whipping up unrest and turning out hate dolls,
which then they… do things to.
- Look! - Pugachev. The fucker!
I wondered what happened to him. Well, "wondered" is too strong a term.
Exactly. Never occurred to us. We are monsters. We should apologize.
Fuck that. He was hired to be a look-alike.
Part of that is knowing you will take a knife to the throat
or a saber to the balls at any point for your beloved leader
and be happy about it. As he took five stabs,
he should be very content that he was an excellent employee.
Well, he's clearly anything but fucking content.
He's out in the regions raising an army of peasants against me,
burning towns, all the while pretending to be you.
- Me? - It seems so.
And the people rise in violence for me?
Yes. Against me.
Are you actually moved by that?
- They love me. - Jesus Christ. That's not the point.
Although how can they hate me when all I do is ponder how to better their lives,
and love you, who never spent a moment on it?
It's chemistry. I have chemistry with the people. You do not.
You need to destroy him and everyone around him.
You don't let trouble start in Russia.
"A fire in your own house," as Daddy would say, "must get no oxygen."
So I heard. Velementov is developing a plan.
I must deal with Paul's colic.
Of course. Poor Paul.
Paul, they love Daddy.
They still love Daddy.
Yes. Brilliant.
Morning.
Pugachev! Your fingerprints are on this.
Isn't it marvelous? The irony, the wit.
It's one of my best moments.
All for God though. No ego involved.
- What are you doing? - Just being my incredible self.
- Serving God, exercising my gifts. - I am not involved in this.
Other than you know. So, complicit. So…
No, no, no, no. Why is this happening again?
- I'll just fucking tell her. - We are too loyal for that.
Don't press too hard on that. Everything breaks at some point.
Relax.
She is now on the back foot, terrified.
An uprising.
Leaders like to think they're gods, that people will love them.
Well, they don't.
- They're making hate fuck dolls. - They're what?
The Russian peasant is passionate and very good at craft.
- Point is we make her desperate. - Don't say "we." This is not a "we."
And when she is truly terrified,
then the exciting rescue… me!
I come in, save her, make a deal, get rid of Pugachev.
She starts to listen to me more.
Paul is ordained. There is one church. She slows down her changes.
I will have built a little house of fear
I can kick the door in on when I see fit.
She has a reminder of who has the power in the people's hearts.
I will pause now for awed applause.
- I hate you. - You needn't worry.
She will be played delightfully. We will all be friends.
I dreamt she and I were in a bubble bath together.
I was soaping her relentlessly.
So much information, none of which I wanted or needed.
- It'll work. - It's me.
And God, hand in hand, dancing for the good of all.
Moose meat! Unthinkable. It's elk. It's always elk!
Why will they not obey me?
Stop looking at your crown. We have work today.
I think today is the day. Velementov is ripe.
- Today? - Today.
Where were you this morning? You missed my raped effigy.
I was tending to my butterflies.
You're not harboring anger about the ordination then?
More intermittent rage.
But intermittent.
So now I'm with you, it's gone. Take your moment.
I need your help.
They're burning towns down. An uprising is building.
I heard. A fake Peter.
- Pugachev is this fake Peter. - Pugachev?
Pugachev is not a political animal. He's just an animal.
Who Peter says is a good employee.
So how does he go from a good employee to a revolutionary?
If he angered on my stabbing him, he seems like the sort of man…
Who would just stab you, rape you and sell your clothes at an outdoor market.
Yes.
So…
- He perhaps has a new employer. - I was thinking that.
A mystery to unravel.
Such fun.
With a bit of help, maybe we could smoke them out.
Severe colic. I'd say a chest infection as well.
- I hate seeing him in pain. - Really?
I love seeing people in pain. Excites me in a strange way.
Hence becoming a doctor.
Torturer was the other way to go.
But the work is sporadic and has low status.
My father's words exactly.
Potassium nitrate, rhubarb and some mercury.
- Great. - A few side effects.
Droopy eye and gout.
- Gout? - Gout. Shit like foie gras.
Fuck off, Vinodel. I will cure him myself.
I will use one of my old nurse's herbal remedy books.
Don't worry, Paul.
Daddy will cure you.
Fuck.
That about sums it up.
- Hello, Daddy. - Hello indeed.
- Shouldn't you be resting in peace? - I was.
Then you took over my apartments, broke my line,
smashed the legacy of a thousand-year reign
and breastfed in front of me.
The point is, you are in trouble and Daddy is here to help.
I don't actually need help.
- I'm content. - Content.
Is there an uglier word in the language? No real man is ever content.
There's always more to get and that "more" is not enough.
But luckily, there's always fucking more beyond that "more."
- My motto. - I remember.
My people fucking love me.
So what? They love watching pigs fuck in the snow.
You know the worst thing about being a ghost?
You're dead and can't have more and then more and then even more.
Yes, and when your living son needs a beating, you can't give it to him.
Makes you feel a failure as a father.
- I don't need a beating. - Here's an idea.
I want you to punch yourself in the eye very hard.
I want to hear the sound of a crisp spring apple being bitten when you do it.
- Go. - I'm not punching myself.
- Are you making Daddy wait? - No, I…
Will you go if I do it?
I will.
If the sound is satisfactory and it makes you go and kill your wife,
ordain your baby and tit-fuck those wet nurses,
I will rest in peace.
I'm busy curing Paul.
- Poor Paul. He has colic. - That's not what I meant.
- They fucking love me, the people. - What does it matter? You gave it away.
Fuck off!
What?
Agnes.
I know I said you could never fuck me, but I am shaking inside.
And I'm going to the forest tonight. I will throw it to fate.
- Meaning? - You find me, you fuck me.
Well, I'm making a plan for…
Know the moment when victory is there to be had.
You missed it in Sweden.
Well, I'm planning for Pu…
Yes. Here's something, Paul, yes.
Okay. Yes, we have it.
Hugo.
I wanted a king to witness it.
Not that you're a king anymore, but we make do.
- Hugo? - Thank you for always being a friend.
Fucking hell. No!
No, not near the sofa? Or…
Paul's here. Right. Good fathering.
Move him so I don't get blood on him.
Look at him.
I could weep when I think of the world we leave you.
- What's wrong? - But leave I must.
They keep using moose meat in the meatballs here.
And I tell them it's too coarse, but they don't fucking care because I'm…
- I'm not a king. - I'll talk to them.
You're not a fucking king either.
Talk to your wife to talk to them, when she's not driving your country to ruin.
I hear your look-alike's out pretending to be you.
Indeed. He's whipping up revolution
out of the incredible love my peasants and serfs have for me.
Maybe he can build a legacy for you,
because truth is, you don't fucking have one.
What the fuck? Some courtesies remain, no matter how sad your brain is.
- Such as kings should lie to each other? - They love me, you fuck.
Name one thing you did. One thing.
- A big bell had been commissioned. - Ding-dong for the fucking bell.
Catherine will be remembered as an iconic figure
and you a fucking blip who held the door for her.
I will load the gun and let you back at it if you don't still your mouth.
You should kill yourself too. You're almost as bad as me.
Please fill my mouth with the barrel and have Paul pull the trigger.
Paul, the serf.
How dare you?
Is he ordained? Then he's a fucking serf.
8Oh, fuck.
We were raised as men and ended up vulva with hands.
I should kill you, for Paul's sake, and then myself.
Bye!
For fuck's sake!
Uncle Hugo.
So funny, Paul.
Think nothing of it.
Or of anything he said, which is all madness and lies.
I do love you.
Vinodel, are you drunk?
I'm mostly high on purple dust, some cocaine
and your heady, post-fucked scent.
You are sweet.
I am fucking you far too often and it is bending your brain a little.
I've watched you for many years.
- Sick and yet thrilling. - The Peter the Great days.
Remember I pronounced him dead?
You tried to carry him through the halls to help.
Yes.
And for years I've watched you refuse to put him down.
But I say this…
put him down and pick me up.
He is dead. I'm not.
It's not just the fucking.
I'm a man of science.
Curiosity is my lead.
To unravel mystery.
You are a mystery I could spend my life unraveling.
You are a strange man. You should go. I have much to do.
- At this hour? - Yes.
That mystery. Enticing.
There is a big fire I fear will burn us all to cinders.
Best ring the bell.
- Is it a drill? - I don't know.
I was dreaming of fucking Catherine.
Me too.
Weird.
I get it a lot.
Yeah.
Me too.
- I need to bring more shoes! - Just go!
What is going on?
It's fine. We're just on a little fact-finding mission.
- Raiding Georgina's apartments. - Then Archie's.
Why is this happening again?
Fuck. Fuck it.
Who knew George could even write.
She actually writes passionately about me and our goals.
Just to herself.
- What are you wearing? - Smolny's coat.
- Anything? - Nothing.
Except that he's desperate for a pegging.
He's written to every servant girl asking them to do it.
- All said no. - Except Petra.
Smolny. Always begging for a pegging.
Where to next?
Arkady. Then Archie.
- I hate you. - Impossible.
I've got a pussy full of your Pugachev stuff.
She's going through the building. Fuck.
Thanks.
- Complicit now, aren't you? - Really annoyed at you right now.
Agnes.
Ever seen a Caravaggio?
The light streaming at you is alike.
Though he never painted anything as beautiful.
I kept thinking I would die without your lips on mine just once.
- Fuck. - Yes, please.
Not here.
By the river.
Nothing.
- Should I be reassured? - No.
How is your intermittent rage?
It did not stretch to setting Pugachev loose, did it?
You did say you fucked him once.
And he was very rude and asked for four rubles and a live quail.
But no, it did not.
Disagree we might, but die together we will.
Good on you for thinking it, though. How necessarily dark your mind grows.
Huzzah.
We will best whoever it is.
Of course we will.
I've always thought it was my destiny to be the most loved
and longest reigning monarch in all of Russia.
Let's just shoot for longest, shall we?
Where's dawn?
I can't fucking hold out.
Something for me. Something for Sweden.
They all hate me.
I wish I had advice, but of course they love me, so it's hard to relate.
They hated you and you were fucking terrible at the job.
- You may be lashing out. - I am, but it doesn't make it untrue.
And how can they be so angry at me when I am right?
And what if…
They gather enough force to march on Petersburg,
come to sack the palace, burn your body,
and throw your pretty, charred corpse off the roof to a gleeful crowd below?
It happened in Sweden.
You could give it back to me, I suppose.
- What? - Well, they love me.
It would calm things down. You find Pugachev…
Are you behind this? Pugachev?
- That is mad. - Is it?
Pugachev, the excellent employee? Elizabeth says someone is driving this.
You are in a leadership paranoia spiral, seeing danger and monsters everywhere.
Thank God. It will save you.
My father slept an hour a night and was tormented by people coming at him.
I suppose I am.
It is fine. It is fine. I'm overly worked up.
Elizabeth will find the traitor driving this,
and Velementov is bringing me a plan, and we will end this fucking Pugachev.
- Thought you were going to say "sorry." - Go down on me.
That's a sudden change of subject, but not an unwelcome one.
Sorry. I need to lose myself. I am in pieces a bit.
I will pull you together.
Well, she looks content.
Of course, she's got everything, so why wouldn't she?
- Where am I? - It's morning.
- What happened? - I fear you're late for your meeting.
My meeting.
Where's my… my plan.
Archie!
Friendly greeting from someone who punched and kicked me last time we met
and then failed fucking dismally to ordain his son.
God is watching. He is very displeased.
Well, a simple hello would suffice.
Are there ghosts? And how does one get rid of them?
- Am I a village witch? - Fine.
Abandon your duty to aid an ordained one.
What do the ghosts say?
Not your business. Just tell me, how do I get rid of them?
An exorcism perhaps, or you do as they wish and they go,
or you resist them until the thing they're trying to bring forth dies inside you
and the opportunity passes.
Or they come from the devil,
in which case they aim to destroy you and you should resist.
Complicated fucking answer.
It's a complicated business. God, the veil, et cetera.
What if it's Daddy?
Peter the Great.
Then you do as he fucking asks, of course.
Unhelpful.
Aunt?
- I need your help. - Do you indeed?
Is it to get your son ordained? Oh, no, we failed at that.
Can we all just put that fucking behind us?
Daddy's back.
- How is he? - Mad.
I need you to speak to him and tell him to leave me alone.
He's saying sharp things.
It's making my head feel very heavy like there's water in it, or a cannonball.
Or I'm the cannonball falling through water. I don't know.
Will you speak to him?
- What's wrong? - I don't want to say.
It would be cruel, considering you're feeling all cannonball and water.
Right.
Well, now you need to say, so just say. Say it now please.
Darling, I will never not love you. You know that.
- But… - Okay. Not loving where this is going.
I expected little from you and loved you freely.
But even the little I expected did not eventuate.
Harsh. But seems the sentiment of the day.
You have left the future open for anyone, anywhere to write their name into it.
- In blood, most likely. - I asked you to let this go.
And I'm telling you, I can't.
Peter, the future is not a place we can travel to when we are ready.
It is a cough in her chest or poison in her veins.
It is a man burning Russia down or a peasant who's had enough.
I will not be told what to do with my son.
But Daddy, will you speak to him or not?
Of course.
My love for you is a wave that washes everything else away.
You are a son to me.
Well, you are the mother I never had. Thank you.
Just use terms like, "Times are different.
"You're dead. Leave us alone.
"You misjudge your son who's actually brilliant,
"just in a way like a book in a language you cannot understand.
"You don't get it and throw it at the wall when it is in fact a great book."
Just talking points. I trust you on it.
- I'm here. I'm here. - Oh, dear.
General.
- I'm late. - Or are you?
Fucking trick question.
- I have my plan to give. - Indeed you do.
But let's just veer over here and rest for a moment.
What if this was the plan? Late idea, but I think strong.
You do not go in there. I do. I say he's not late. Of course he's not.
He has, in fact, fallen from an angry horse
while saving some children from an angry hawk,
hit his head and is now resting unconscious in his room.
Let's reschedule. We, meanwhile, take you, put you in a sauna,
leech all the vodka from your body and collect it in several gallon buckets,
during which you'll invariably black out.
And on waking, refreshed by the novel feeling
of your own unadulterated blood coursing through your veins,
dressed in a uniform that doesn't smell like a stag's douche,
you go in there and work your magic. You like?
Fuck off.
Or we just go in.
Fucking, fucking, fucking move!
- I'm here. - You're late.
I'm sorry.
Oh, good. You're drunk too.
I'm Russian. Born fucking drunk. No bearing on my abilities.
There's knives sticking out of the table. Or am I seeing stuff?
- Usually I just see bears. - That was me.
Not necessary, I suppose, but I love the drama of it.
Shows each village he's burnt down.
Right. Well, we'll pull 'em out and we'll plunge him in his…
Fucking… Fucking thing.
I needed you to be on time with a plan,
sober, here with me.
I am several of those. I'm just missing a couple.
- Jesus! - Had an update.
- One more. - Fuck.
No! No more of that.
Can you stop this man from coming to kill me and burning down Russia?
I have a plan. My plan is…
We get a lot of troops.
We go door to door, we kick the truth out of people,
find him and pop his head from his neck.
And the timeline on that, this door-kicking of Russia?
However long it takes to put this fucker in the ground.
- Huzzah. - Huzzah!
Everybody get out. Now.
What are you doing?
- Where the fuck were you? - Can we sit?
You can't do it, can you?
Choose anything over a fucking bottle.
Not even me. Not even fucking Russia.
Velementov, say something.
Sorry.
Sorry. I need a couple of minutes.
It's been a very long night, actually. I just need to gather my thought…
Maybe a bath. I'll be back.
No, don't. I don't think you can do this anymore.
Of course I can. I can find him in my fucking sleep.
- Not just finding him. - Well, killing him then!
Stringing the man up by his fucking ankles and beating him until he's…
until he cries blood.
I cough it, but he'll cry it.
Fuck me.
Catherine, he's…
I'm here now.
No, you're not.
- You should rest. - I don't need fucking rest.
Someone else can take over. Someone else can lead the army.
You can't take this off me.
Not now.
You're just fucking punishing me.
I'm leading.
I'm saving my reign.
It's a kindness, really.
You are so tired and so sick.
And so old.
I can't lose this.
It's my skin, Catherine.
It's my skin.
I need men who are whole. I'm sorry.
Saw the general go.
Understand he's struggling.
- If you need assistance… - I need Pugachev, is what I need!
- Why don't I just go find him? - How?
Or why don't I just go do it and then one day, when I'm bored,
I'll write you a long letter telling you how I did it.
- Insolence. - More a priorities thing.
I take my leave.
- I decide when you take your leave. - Of course.
You are dismissed.
- I said… - I know.
But you're not exactly known for brevity,
so I was waiting, assuming there was more.
But there's not. So I'll go find him.
Why is everyone such a fucker today?
I'm here.
Waiting.
I was always waiting for you in these rooms, hoping you'd come.
Feels very familiar.
Butterflies in my stomach, and the turning at every noise.
There I go.
You're mad about Peter, the ordination.
He's a handful you found hard to hold.
He and Catherine's love, like ours,
swallows you into a world you did not imagine.
But I will see it done. I promise.
How I miss your bigness…
like a bear in a teacup.
How we filled the room.
How our skin fired, our eyes on each other.
Our talk…
our laughter…
our strange naked dances in the night.
And then you went…
and it all shrank away.
Just come.
Once.
Yes. You're right. Sorry.
Right.
Here we go.
Now, you wear this for four hours on your feet
and through the magic of the human body,
where everything connects except sometimes penis and mind,
it will work through to your chest,
and then I will come back and wash it off before your skin cracks, bubbles
and spits with fire from the inside.
Which trust me, you don't want.
I had something very similar once,
when I got stuck in Great-Grandpa's armor for 17 hours.
Long story. You'll understand when you turn three.
Which, by the way, is a fucking bear-wrestle of a year.
Be warned.
- Who the fuck are you? - Is that an existential question, Daddy?
- Daddy? - I brought you Paul.
Age 20.
Fucking birds.
Nice.
- Thanks. - No problem.
You seem marvelous.
I base my whole being on not being you.
You were always hugging me and offering me foie gras on crackers.
I realized you were such a pussy and Mother had your cock in a box,
so I would base myself on Grandfather.
Flattering. And also logical.
- I will be great. Build a legacy. - Huzzah-de-fucking-zah!
Reinstate the Great!
Fucking catchy, Grandfather!
I always had a way with words, and women,
and war, and building great cities.
- Paul? - You didn't even fucking ordain me.
What the fuck? Who does that?
I'm getting upset. Look, I've got tears welling. I hate that.
Distract. Let's drink, fuck and make plans.
We need women, alcohol and maps.
Listen here, you little fuck.
I made you. I was a good father to you.
Were you?
Because that's what history remembers… good fathers.
I need to smash something.
What's wrong?
Velementov.
- I love him. And he's dying. - He's dying?
That's a shame. Fat fuck.
- Yes. - Shit.
And he was developing a plan for Pugachev.
And he comes in looking like he was raped by the forest
and drowned in a vodka lake.
Incredibly telling imagery. Poor fucker.
He is too sick to work, so I relieved him of his commission.
But then I think, what if he was involved? And it is all fucking swirling about me.
- You're very shaken. - I am hated at court, in the land.
This Pugachev thing is rattling me in a new way.
I feel it here. Danger.
And tonight he will burn down another town and gather more forces
and do unimaginable things to my effigy.
- I should do it. - What?
- I should be head of the army. - What are you talking about?
It all makes fucking sense.
You're brilliant at progress, ideas, transforming the country.
I'm good at violence and killing.
And it has been a grit in our relationship.
But it can be the oyster with shallot vinegar,
and more than that, a pearl.
Peter, I…
I'm talking as a wave of brilliance is rolling through my head.
Let it roll. Let it roll.
- I love it when you're up and at 'em! - It is fate.
- Gives me hope. - It is something to see actually.
Our problems alone, horrible.
But then you walk in and our needs sort together.
It is why we are fate. Why we are destiny.
- You want to be head of the army? - I will lead us to great victories.
Be known as a great military fucking leader.
Better than fucking Father. And Paul will see it too.
This is so brilliant. I am light-headed.
- I can't. - Of course you can. What?
No. Thank you. I love that you were there for me, but…
But what?
Here we go. He'll start crying and go down on her in a moment.
- Catherine, why not? - Peter, don't. I'm tired.
Why not?
If you had not used Pugachev, none of this would…
Fuck that. That is done. This is new. I will take him out with my army.
- No. - No?
I'm gonna need a fucking "because."
Because Sweden.
- What? - You fucked that up. It was a disaster.
Tens of thousands died and more would've had I not solved it.
- Right. - I'm sorry.
- I just can't. - Won't. You mean won't.
Yes. I mean I won't.
Please let it go.
It's gone.
Peter the Great is sad.
- Are you actually fucking dying? - Yes.
Sad.
- To Velementov. - To Velementov.
A tragic end. Should have died in battle, man like you.
That said, now you're out, I should definitely be fucking in.
It's an insult. Blood like yours.
Of course you should be head of the fucking army. No question.
- It's just a job. - It's not just a job.
It's the job.
Wrestling victory from your opponents,
standing side by side with your men,
writing history with your fucking sword.
It's legacy.
And no offense after you being so fucking dying, but I'd be brilliant.
- I'd walk all over you. - Would you?
You'd be on the job one minute before you fucked it up.
- Not true. - Like how you fucked up Sweden.
- You fucked up Sweden. - Should we play badminton?
You got in the way of your own army, of Russia.
I knew it. The men knew it.
That is a blurred fucking memory of it, Velementov.
You stumbled us into a rut and then couldn't get us out of it.
Because I didn't want any more men dying needlessly. I had a plan.
Waves, attack from the ridge, counterattack, turn their flank.
- They would've fucking collapsed. - Then why didn't you do that?
- Because my boss was a fucking idiot! - Fuck. I see it.
You know what this all comes back to?
Is it something to do with wanting to fuck our own mothers?
Sweden.
Fucking Sweden.
It is where everything ended for all of us.
For all of
us.
You, me, this fucking dying old man.
It's the fucking past. Let it go.
- Let's play badminton. - It's not the past.
It's still there mocking me, us.
We should take it back.
His plan, your leadership, my country.
Fucking ridiculous.
What, you scared you couldn't finish the job, fat boy?
You're a china fucking doll, Hugo. Don't make me throw you against the wall.
- He's right. - No, he isn't.
I am? I am!
I am fucking fizzing.
I know what we should do.
We should just take the fucking army, march on Sweden, take it back!
That's a fucking story.
That's a fucking headline, not a fucking footnote.
They'd fucking say something then, wouldn't they?
Take the fort by the border. Two battalions. You attack in waves.
By the third, they're shell-shocked.
By the fifth, they're exhausted, they're begging for mercy.
You hear that? Begging you for mercy.
Bet you never thought you'd hear that again.
All right, all right, we're all fucking drunk. Let's just call it a night.
Peter, you need to take Paul's poultice off.
Indeed I do.
Well, I mean, can you imagine his face when you tell him the story?
It's fucking brilliant!
- Good night. - Good night.
Well, I think we should all sleep on this,
because I believe we all have made some real breakthroughs.
Stop talking to him!
I can fucking take Sweden.
You are better, Paul.
Clean breathing.
Well done, me.
Now, I would run at 12 bears for you. I would inject plague into my veins.
What's that look?
You will know you are loved. But what if you do not know by who?
I always at least knew that.
Daddy.
Try not to think about it.
What?
Out there. Millions of Russians, their hearts boiling with hate.
You can feel it rising through the darkness.
An energy is building out there.
Thanks for the rousing talk.
Velementov has it in hand then?
No.
Troubling turn of events.
What do I do, Archie?
I don't know.
Well, that's terrifying.
The dirty little secret…
our control is an idea.
The minute they don't believe it or fear it, we're done.
They come and cut our throats.
Call it Sweden.
We have to find a way to stop his momentum.
The church's reach is wide.
We'll see if we can get our fingers or eyes on him.
Sorry. Know you're busy.
- Paul is fine. - Oh, good. Thank you.
I'm going hunting for a week.
- Because of what I said? - No, because I love hunting.
- Sorry about… - Not at all.
The truth is a key to the future.
You were right.
Let's do it. Let's take back Sweden. Meet you in the hall.
Our fucking secret, Agnes. Got it?
Fucking…
Okay, you fat fuck. Let's go piss in the street in Stockholm.