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The Secret Origins of The People's Cube

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14 January, 1924. Moscow, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.

As is typical of all Moscow winters, the winter of 1924 was colder than a capitalist heart. A message in the deepest corner of the most secret archives of the Soviet Union is written in the now shaking and nearly paralyzed, bullet-ridden hand of Vladimir Lenin, then sealed and tucked away. Ten days later, Lenin is dead, and the entire progressive world in equally redistributed mourning.

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Moscow, 1943

As the valiant Red Army struggle to hold the Socialist Motherland against the forces of Fascism, a special train pulls out guarded by special crack troops, and pulling a lone armored railcar containing the most closely held State secrets of the Soviet Union. The goal is to hold these secrets against the most unthinkable; the fall of Moscow. In 1946, they are returned and buried inside one of the strongest bunkers underneath the Kremlin.

Moscow, 1991

The glorious Soviet Union is no more. KGB and GRU guards change their uniforms and continue to protect the Big Bunker O' State Secrets.


Moscow 2005

Per orders so clandestine, they were never written down, but passed down orally through the decades, a sealed box is opened, revealing a message from Lenin unseen since 1924. A sleeper agent in the reactionary United States receives a coded signal, and goes off in search of two men on opposite sides of the suffering North American Continent.

19 January, 1924

Lenin lay dying of a poisoned bullet, but mustered the energy to sit behind his red desk as two men in peculiar garb were escorted into his room.

"Ahh Comrade Red Square, Comrade Colonel. Please sit. My time is short and there is much that must conveyed in order to preserve the Revolution in the years to come." The three men were strangers to each other, but one never disobeyed an order from Lenin, even if it was sent from beyond the grave.

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As Lenin finished signing, and stamping seals upon an official document, he beckoned Red Square forward. "Comrade, this is my last official act and perhaps my most important. We've screwed up with the Revolution, I realize it now. Russia is as good as dead now. Therefore, here is my special appointment declaring you to be The Director of a new and even more glorious collective in the distant, historically inevitable future. Your idea of a Cube, red on all sides and being a tool and symbol of equality is correct and proper. Now as my agent you will go forth and create the collective anew in a world of turmoil and fear. The People's Cube will serve as a rallying point for true progressives around the globe. It will nurture, protect and defend Socialist ideals against the capitalist hordes. You Comrade Red shall march at the head as the spiritual successor of my own revolution. Take this now, and go in peace knowing that the future of the Revolution is in your hands. I've already instructed your Colonel on how to take over Centrally Planned Time. This will allow you to return to your own capitalist world and implement your orders. Go now! Return to the mercilessly oppressive 21st Century! Save Socialism!"

A brave and revolutionary light blazed in those bold and equally intelligent eyes again before fading into materialist nothingness. "Go... my work here is ending, yours is just beginning."

With that, I turned and saluted our brave Comrade Lenin, and we were escorted to a bunker full of strange equipment, tubes and coils and shown how to operate the People's Wormhole Generator. The rest as they say, is history.

Comrades, never have I seen a more humble man than our own Red Square as Lenin himself presented the written authority and orders to empower The People's Cube to continue The Proletarian Revolution. Further research suggested that Lenin was our first True Progressive, and as such was able gloriously to transcend space and time in a fashion that we still must rely on artificial means to duplicate. Through these means, he was able to peg the moment in time that The People's Cube must be formed. The scientific truth is, he is not dead. He merely sleeps the thousand year sleep of a great People's Hero. We hold The Revolution in trust until that moment of great need when Lenin arises from his tomb, and seizes the Shovel of Dialectical Materialism, purging the hordes of capitalist exploiters from our oppressed globe once and for all.

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Thanks to our Dear Leader for translating some of this into proper Bolshie-speak

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How many Frequent Chrononaut Minutes did you get for that trip?

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Hah! We were lucky to get back! 1924 wormhole technology was not very stable. In fact it dropped us off smack dab in the middle of the Battle of Stalingrad. We spent four days there sniping at Germans while trying to get out so we could reach Moscow and fix the generator. Red got a Hero of the Soviet Union award for singlehandedly taking out a column of German tank using only a battered Mosin Nagant rifle, and a bullhorn. It seems that after a few hours of taking erratic sniper fire and listening to revolutionary slogans, arguments and catchphrases; even the SS will finally give in. Although quoting from Obama's greatest speeches may have been the kicker.

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I'd read annecdotal accounts of a soldier wearing an outdated uniform haranguing an SS column with phrases like "Hope and Change," "Let me be perfectly clear," and "this is the moment the seas begin to recede," but have never been able to substantiate them. This explains a lot.

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Let's just say I'd never seen SS officers get on their knees and beg for mercy before. Made them handy targets for my own PU scoped Mosin Nagant.

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Is that the one with the flat horizontal bars on either side of a pointed center post?

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That it would be. My own little souvenir of The Great Patriotic War, complete with Stalin's signature on the buttstock.


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OH MINE. That photo of Mr. Lenin, he died with his buttocks exposed? How humiliating is that for such a well respected figure.
Well, I am glad your wormhole works so well and that you are able to get such clear, accurate photos of the now deceased.

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Is that a Prussian "pickelhaube" helmet gracing the desk of comrade Lenin (ala' Col. Klink)?

As for our own Col. of time and skewed history, I notice that you neglected the contributions of so many of the Inner Party. We can only hope that more history surfaces re-distributing some of the glory. I hope for your sake that Pinkie doesn't notice that her efforts and sacrifices have gone un-reported.

Be that as it may, a glorious, if truncated, rendering of history. Good work Col.

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Whoopie, there is much, much more contributing to do and redistribution of glory. Fortunately there are further reports and documents to be declassified. Until then, do not speak of 1937 to anyone.


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WELL YOU TWO STOP MUTTERING AMONGST YOURSELVES, WE'RE ALL RIGHT HERE!
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When I first met Red Square he was in a back alley giving free haircuts to bums. I was a burned out old hippy without a girlfriend, in other words I was homeless. I had pretty much gave up on life. I was convinced there was no hope for our country. But Red Square bent down and took me by the hand and lifted me to my feet. At that moment I realized this guy was special, I can take advantage of him and maybe get rich tagging along.

Red Square took me to his home and introduced me to some of the others he'd gathered around him. Some homicidal woman with a shovel, a light skinned black woman with the biggest booty you ever saw, a brain in a jar, some weirdo in robes who thought he was Rasputin, a gun nut who claimed he had a time machine, a bearded lady from some Islamic circus, a red rooster, a German woman with a big set of knockers, a crazy African dictator, a gay Texan who channeled Vlad the impaler, a whackjob with a boot over his head, a dog wearing a space helmet, a babyfaced sailor, some strungout woman they called 'sister' and a whole slew of stray cats with names like Mi, Mousey-Tongue and Reiuxcat.

He gave me a hot meal and place to sleep and gradually I got to know the others. Pretty soon I discovered that besides being a bunch of weirdos they were just like me. Sad, lonely, mixed up losers looking for a sucker to rip-off and the chance to make a difference by changing society so we could all have a free meal on someone else's dime.

Red Square had a vision (heck we all did when we could score some good acid) but Red Square was different, he didn't need to take drugs. He just saw shit all natural and like. It was spooky. Sometimes he'd just sit there by the window and stare out into space. Mostly he was looking across the street into the window of this hot chick who liked to go topless. But sometimes he was thinkin'. That was deep...thinkin' like that. I asked him what he was thinkin' about one time and he said "Next Tuesday." Whoa, now that was really deep.

Well one day he said he had an idea. This interweb thingy that Al Gore invented was getting popular and he was going to start a website and sell these weird red cube things he had a pile of in his bedroom closet. More importantly he said he'd use his site to gather more followers. Soon he'd a have an army of something he called 'proles'. Best of all he said we'd help him. Right then and there he had us kneel before him and swear an oath of loyalty, he declared us Made Progs and gave us the rank of Commissar.

The rest is history as Col. 7-n-change would say. Been here ever since, heck I got nowhere else to go I guess.

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My Comrades

These photos were found in an old leather suitcase that was found in a People's Commode in the Harare People's Palace. The suitcase also contained thirteen passports with the same ID photo but different nationalities and names, twenty two thousand rubles in cash, a 7.62 Nagant Revolver, a packet of French condoms, and a Russian - Inuit dictionary and phrase book.

Amandla!

Obamugabe


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Comrades Whoopie and Obamugabe, you have brought myself to tears with your lovely recollections of days gone by.. even if that was just last week. We owe our very beings to beloved Red Square Image , who is more equal than any of us but who would be unequal without us.

Photos of our "RS" Image with Stalin have touched my soul and cause wield tingle to run down... to run up my leg. I offer you much gratitude.

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Tears of Joy streaming down Grigori's cheeks.

I just love it when my plans come together. A very happy ending for all. Ever wonder who Lenin's "Spiritual Adviser" was? Hmmmmm?

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I seem to recall it was this man, Mr. Ivelt Yuri Krotchet, who is an "up close and personal" personal adviser. A real hands on technician. You can see the calming effect he has on his clients.

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or it might have been Mr. Zimbawate from south side Chicago. Before finding his "spiritual gifts" he aboded in a small cardboard box outside a 7/11 (open from 8 - 10) down the street from the future Mrs. MO. I hear he is very insightful and has help local authorities take a 'bite out of crime'.

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The PЭOPLЭ'S CUBЭ came out of Lэиiи's heart:

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Comrade Whoopie wrote:a bearded lady from some Islamic circus

Yes Comrade, I can be of some memory of you when you to be entering such the room - a little man with big ice pick coming from the fluffy red hat with such the unsteady walking and much the unsteady talking. I even to be of rememberance when you to be of stumbling then doing the fall right into the soft bosom of the Fraulein and you to say, "ahhh such nice is the soft pillowing." The Frau had been of so much of the drinking of the beet juice she not even to know what was to be of the happening. If I to be of the recollection it was on that day she was of loosing her Cube that she was to be wearing in snugglyness between her endowments.

So I can be of understanding to your lack of the memory from that time from long ago but I must to make for the korrektion that I was not of circus but of the dance troupe. DANCE TROUPE. Do not be of the forgetfullness again.

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Yes of course Mrs. Al, dance troupe (rolling his eyes). Perhaps carnival would be more accurate than circus. But those were my first impressions when I was brought into Red Square's freakshow commune of happy tricksters.

After I got to know everyone (and I'm sure I left a few out, sorry) I realized that we were all in the same boat. Lost, confused, lonely. The throw-away dregs of humanity. Red Square was our Charlie Manson. The pied piper of Progressivism. He took a bunch of derelicts and lunatics and molded us into something that was greater than just the sum of it's parts.

Individually we were nothing. But united in the Cause™ we became the Party™ and the last best hope of restoring the grandeur that was the old Soviet regime. He risked it all for us, for the world.
And by gosh, we're going to succeed. As gosh is my witness we will!

I swear I will not rest until the day Red Square marches triumphantly down....ummm, Red Square and receives his accolates from the adoring crowds. And I wanna be there to collect my rewards. And we all will comrades, there will be graft aplenty for each and every one of us. Plenty of OPM and loot to divide (rubbing his hands in glee).


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Comrade Whoopie -

It is my sad duty to commit you to five hours of solitary self-criticism for using the word "gosh" on this Party organ.

The korrekt expression is "by Marx" or "Marx is my witness." But if you choose to be superstitious about taking Marx's name in vain, you may say "by Sharx" or "Sharx is my witness."

Any other substitute names are welcome.

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A little known fact: That special embalming fluid to pickle Lenin? It's what makes my inch long acrylic nails shine so much--a secret smuggled out and handed down through the years.

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Red Square wrote:Comrade Whoopie -

It is my sad duty to commit you to five hours of solitary self-criticism for using the word "gosh" on this Party organ.

Any other substitute names are welcome.

Did I say "gosh?" I meant to say golly. Is that Ok? How about gawd? You are right, I hesitate to take the sacred names of our founders in vain.

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Still wrong! Instead of Golly or Gawd, you should've said Molly or Mawd. Those mind-impairing drugs you ingested in your pre-Cube life have got to stop releasing toxins at some point!

But I forgive you because your story had such a strong impact on me that I spent the following few hours sitting by that window and just staring at the neighbor's curtains, thinking deep thoughts. Wow!

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(beet juice is to be avoided at all cost. Fermentation never goes as planned and spoils the broth. But, on the bright side, it is a good embalming fluid, if something like that ever comes up on a moments notice or necessity)

oh, golly gosh, is that a new fatwa - no "golly"? WHY DO I NOT GET THESE MEMO'S?!

Leninka, I have always admired your shinny nails and now I know why. Does the smell bother you at all??

Jibaro, is that the true accurate of what happened to Lenin?? Glorious

Red Square, I am so please to see you take personal interest in all our wordings... and I am most assured, Comrade Whoopie will be eager to take your glorious advisement.. If not, we will all enjoy his punishment begask you treat him with kind thoughtfulness.

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Many years ago I was a simple collective farmer at People's Collective Farm #6642071321 just outside of Magentogorsk. I held the important Party post as Assistant Village Sausage Washer and was allowed (on alternate Thursdays) to operate a free dental clinic. The others in the kolkhoz would gather round, chanting "drill baby, drill!" as I sat on the patient's chest to hold him steady. I got an award for inventing a new cavity-filling amalgam made of ground-up Chinese drywall and cabbage juice.

One day, as I was sitting in the village square and scrubbing a particularly uncooperative kovbasa a tall man in an old uniform strode into view. His legs moved like pistons, his heels thudding time with the very soil itself, a primordial beat that seemed to shake the cracked paving stones around the village well. He wore a peaked hat with a red star on front, and his eyes...they were like blazing red stars themselves (I found out later that this was due to vodka). They bore into what I used to call my soul. He said nothing; he didn't even break stride as he progressed across the square. As he drew even with me, he raised his left hand to waist level, palm up, with two fingers extended, then he whipped his hand sharply up from the elbow with the back of his hand facing me.

And he marched on.

I scarcely slept that night, remembering those eyes, that gesture, the sure-footed stride into what I now know as the Glorious World of Next Tuesday. I tossed and turned, and was worth nothing the next day. For three days and three nights this continued, until finally, on the morning of the fourth day, I knew what I had to do. I must give up my life, my work on the collective and dedicate my life to The Collective. So I took the keys to the kolkhoz's tractor and set off to follow this man to Party Central Headquarters.

Once there, I laid about me with great Socialist Zeal, attacking comrades for deviationism and denouncing their failures of character; it brought me to the attention of the very elite of the Party, Sister Massively Opiated and Chairman Punchenko. I remember curling into a fetal position as they beat me with their footwear for being a pesky little bastard and daring to criticize my betters. My body was savaged and battered to the point of expiration when The Man--who I now know as Red Square--stepped in and stopped the beating.

"What would you give for the Party?" he asked.

"I would give my all, Glorious Red Square," I replied, without hesitation.

He regarded me for a long moment, then said but a single word:

"Accepted."

And with that, SMO swept me away into a laboratory, where all my organs and body parts were removed, donated, I am told, to Greater Good (I don't know where they all ultimately went, but if you look at George Soros's left eye, you might notice it is a little bit different than the right). The brain that remained was washed carefully, then steeped in an arcane solution--beet juice, bilge water from the Battleship Potemkin, an extract from the pituitary gland of Gary Coleman, and several ingredients added by SMO when I wasn't looking--then decanted into this sterile receptical I occupy to this day as the Pure Socialist Intellect.

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The collective doctor said I was mad, and even gave me a certificate to prove it. She told me that nobody could have 14 different Inner Comrades, and that my time machine was proven impossible by socialist science. On top of that, they kicked me out of the beet fields, and every time I tried to go back there, some woman in a red head scarf kept whacking me with her gold plated shovel. I was dejected, morose and depressed. In fact I even started to have doubts about my own sanity (Inner Comrade #2, there is no problem that cannot be solved by consumption of several liters of vodka) when I saw Him.

At first I thought it was an orderly from the mental hospital finally come to take me away, but then I realized that orderlies didn't walk with an upright military bearing, and wear the uniform of a soldier from long ago. His path was marked by the ready to harvest beets that grew up in his footprints. A glorious light shined from his face (although some would say that was simply the streetlight that never shut off, even in the daytime) and as he passed by me, a mere glance and the words "It works" were all it took for me to spring up and stagger drunkenly behind him.

I followed this amazing man back to a collective farm he ran. There I was whacked again by the woman with the golden shovel, met a man with an icepick in the back of his head, a brain soaking in a jar of strange fluids, a woman I would grow to call Sister who was cleaning the front room, and a strange assortment of cats and dogs. I took a number for a name, and was given military rank. But most importantly, I was given Hope(TM). Red Square had seen me sitting in the gutter, and saw not the drunken village crazy, but one who could serve The Greater Good through unorthodox means. I was given a laboratory, a bunker and an ancient soviet mainframe, and the rest as they say is history.

I have grown to love The Collective, and now exist to serve The Collective. Without The Collective I would still be chugging vodka and trying to steal plutonium to run my beat up old Zil while enduring endless mockery. Now with The Collective, I merely endure mockery, but have ample plutonium. Thank you Red Square, even the voices are silent in my head when you enter the room.

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I must give up my life, my work on the collective and dedicate my life to The Collective.
Comrade Betinov, that it so touching a story. And to think you were a just lowly dentist/sausage washer before becoming an equal among equals in the Collective.

I would still be chugging vodka and trying to steal...
oh my, Comrade Colonel, is that something we're not supposed to be doing? I didn't get that Memo! WHY AM I NOT GETTING THE MEMO'S??!!

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Fraulein Pulloskies wrote:I didn't get that Memo! WHY AM I NOT GETTING THE MEMO'S??!!
Are not memos to be for printing on beet fiber sheetings? You are to be having much of same problem I am always of having. And I am knowing that it is of the job of the Misha to be bringing such memos to me. And I have just to be of the learning that he to have fondness for the beet fiber. Hmmm... is there not the wonder that sometimes I to get partial memos that seem to have the bitten marks around them? Do you suppose the Misha has been of eating such things? Hmmm.... As for so many of Glorious biographies of first meeting with our most Illustrious Comrade Red.... they are making for tears to well in my eyeballs. Perhaps I to tell my story once upon the day.


 
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