The lights were dim as I watched him approach the stage. The backdrop was a simple wall of bricks, with a microphone on a stand in the full light of the spot light. Stalin fidgeted for a moment in his Generalissimo uniform, boots polished to a mirror finish. He brought a cigarette, filled with strong, dark, Russian tobacco to his lips and drew a long pull. He dropped it and crushed it out with the sole of his boot.

In three long steps he was in front of the microphone and faced the crowd. His eyes as dark as his mustache and hair, gazed out into the crowd.
“Good Evening Comrades.”

“How many kulaks does it take to light a fire?”

The silence was palpable.

“Just one, but you have to slice him real thin.”

“Speaking of my wife, we had an argument the other night. So I shot her.”

“How about that Hitler. I really kicked his arse. By the time I was done with him he was deader than Trotsky on a five year plan”

“You know,” I said to my companion, “ I think Mao really knows how to work a room much better.”