The People's Cube - Political Satire

A deleted excerpt from Dreams From My Father.

A tip of the ushanka to Jack Cashill.
Read this first, all three parts
Then read this link
And then the kicker

I looked out the window and there was the empty phone booth, stark and desolate against the lonely backdrop of the gas station, the chain dog continued it'spacing with an empty bottle of Putinka in its powerful jaws.

Putinka? Could it be that she had been there and tried to phone me while I was down int he basement coin laundry trying to get the amber stains out of my shorts? Desperately I tried scrubbing and soaking but the stain remained, a stain that would haunt me forever, a wedge that would divide us into our two separate worlds. It was a co-incidence. Soon I saw the familiar red babushka, the glint of her golden shovel, and the sparkle of her green eyes.
The phone rang. I neatly folded the shorts in my bedroom and placed them carefully in the top dresser drawer underneath my collection of Che Guevara T-Shirts, hoping that my secret would remain safe. I glanced in the kitchen at the mound of unsliced happy beets, waiting to be carefully diced and tossed into the skillet, making a stew that she called "borscht".
There was a clap of thunder.
I answered the phone.
"I've got the lamb and the sour cream. Have you diced the beets?"
"Not yet" I replied "I was busy with some laundry."
"Hurry downstairs and let me in, it looks like it's going to pour any second."
"I'm on my way."
At that very second, nature unleashed her fury, opening up the sky in a violent rage, drenching her to the bone.
I opened the door.
"Look out Barry, I got to get out of these sopping wet clothes."
She flew straight past the old man with the fedora and bolted up the steps into my flat, straight for my bedroom.
"Be a doll Barry and put the lamb and sour cream in the fridge while I slip into some dry duds. Do you have any old tee-shirts?"
"Ummm...ahhh...well..I ahh...." I felt like a man without a teleprompter.
She untied her babushka and her dark Georgian locks fell wistfully to her shoulders.
"Well?"she queried me as she slipped out of her clothes, quite unabashedly,proud of her firm, round, wholesome proletarian breasts with the bronzed skin contrasting with her alabaster tan lines. A working girl's tan. A tan you can only get toiling in the hot sun, digging beets.
A strange tingly feeling ran up my legs.
"Ummm...well...ahhh...yes, I have some Che.....ahh"
"A Che tee! Darling! Where? Here in this top dresser drawer? Don't bother. I'll get it."
In a flash she took the red one on top of the collection and tossed it gleefully over her beautifully toned body, her pert nipples protruded between Che's heroic face.
I heaved a heavy sigh. She didn't bother to look farther into the collection of tees. I thought I was safe. What an adrenaline rush.
Again,the strange tingly feeling ran up my legs. I had never been aroused like this before, not even when Pop shared his forbidden passion for me.
"What's that Barry? Is that an ice pick in your pocket or are you just happy to see me? Oh you devilish imp, we'll have time enough for that later. First the borscht."
"Yes, the borscht...borscht. I'll start on the beets."
"Oh Barry, you are going to love this. Yelena passed this recipe down to me from her mother. It's been in the collective for generations."
Together we made hot steamy borscht while the thunderstorm petered out to asteady drizzle, tapping on the window pane to the rhythm of our joyous cooking.
Then it happened. I tripped over my untied Chuck Taylor shoelaces and spilled a ladle of borscht onto her ample bosom.
"Oh,look what you did to your Che tee! I'll just go to your drawer and get another from your pile...Here's a nice one ..Siempre Libre...is this a new tee? What the hell is this?"
She held up the amber stained shorts.
"Ewww...Barry, did you have an accident?"
"Ummm...ahhh...I can explain...you see, me and Pop..well, I mean Pop and I...I ummm...."
"Who the hell is Pop?"
"When I was a teenager, ummm..this senior party member....ahhh...."
"He took advantage of you?"
"Well, not according to NAMBLA."
"Who the hell is Nambla?"
"It's not a 'who', it's an organization."
"You were gang banged? Barry, I'm confused."
"No, I'm confused."
I crumpled to the bedroom floor, unable to explain the beautiful thing that Pop and I shared.
"Go!" I screamed "and you can take the Che tee too" as tears of sorrow and bewilderment streamed down my face.
She grabbed her babushka, wet clothes, and shovel.
"Barry....?"
"Just leave, please, I'm begging you." as I pushed her away.
She never looked back. I closed the door and I sat down at the kitchen table.
A table for one. Alone I supped.
She was right. It was the best damned borscht I ever tasted. I licked the bowl and cried. I was never to see her again.

Comrade space doggie, that was so moving. Pinkie may be the queen of bodice rippers but you have just distinguished yourself as the king of...uhhh...stained shorts rippers.

I didn't write it. I found the "rough" draft in Bill Ayers's bathroom under The French Lieutenant's Woman. What she was doing in Bill Ayers's bathroom, I haven't the slightest clue.

I think Barry and Bruno would make a cute couple; don't you agree Theocritus? He'd have to throw that Hussy Mo out first tho, and make Barry an Honest man.

Czar Czar, meesa think yousa funny. Our MTE already has plans for Obama. She has a banana in her hat with his name on it.

Oh...... I just assumed the banana was for her to sit on... as it seemed larger than Bill's 'cigar'

Not that I've seen Bill's 'cigar', mind you.... just the rumors floating about.

As we learned from the last time somebody tried to sneak a Snuke into her Snatch, she has a very angry Vag.

Perhaps this book would tell us more about Obama's ripped stained shorts?

I, for one, am happy they've given up the hoax that our glorious Leader was born in Kenya America. Be proud of the motherland, King Obaminski! Be proud!goodness knows your heads big enough.

Quite so Fraulein, after all, the motherland is proud of Him...

Oh да! Mother Commieland, is always proud of her offspring, especially when they're subversive and secretive like glorious leader. . . this is a rare photo.
.

I found a picture of the old man in the fedora in Ayers bathroom too.
It was in the French Lieutenant Woman's purse.

Does anybody know who he is?

Kinda looks like my old KGB case officer, he taught me everything I know about dead drops and cutouts. Either that or Heinrich Himmler.

ummm, that face is etched in my memory . . . gulag grunt comes to mind, but I can't place the name. Maybe this is a good thing, since I am long out of Vodka rations.

ummm, that face is etched in my memory . . .

Maybe on top of Lenin's Tomb on May Day? It's so familiar.

"Pop"

Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken
In, sprinkled with ashes,
Pop switches channels, takes another
Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks
What to do with me, a green young man
Who fails to consider the
Flim and flam of the world, since
Things have been easy for me;
I stare hard at his face, a stare
That deflects off his brow;
I'm sure he's unaware of his
Dark, watery eyes, that
Glance in different directions,
And his slow, unwelcome twitches,
Fail to pass.
I listen, nod,
Listen, open, till I cling to his pale,
Beige T-shirt, yelling,
Yelling in his ears, that hang
With heavy lobes, but he's still telling
His joke, so I ask why
He's so unhappy, to which he replies . . .
But I don't care anymore, cause
He took too damn long, and from
Under my seat, I pull out the
Mirror I've been saving; I'm laughing,
Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face
To mine, as he grows small,
A spot in my brain, something
That may be squeezed out, like a
Watermelon seed between
Two fingers.
Pop takes another shot, neat,
Points out the same amber
Stain on his shorts that I've got on mine and
Makes me smell his smell, coming
From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem
He wrote before his mother died,
Stands, shouts, and asks
For a hug, as I shink, my
Arms barely reaching around
His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; 'cause
I see my face, framed within
Pop's black-framed glasses
And know he's laughing too.

"Underground"

Under water grottos, caverns
Filled with apes
That eat figs.
Stepping on the figs
That the apes
Eat, they crunch.
The apes howl, bare
Their fangs, dance,
Tumble in the
Rushing water,
Musty, wet pelts
Glistening in the blue.


Ahh....unwelcome twitches, Amber stained shorts and musty, wet pelts.
Pure poetry.

It must be art. I don't get it.

Betinov...you're just a green young man who fails to consider the flim and the flam of the world.
Don't get your amber stained shorts tied up in a knot.

Comrade brain in jar, art is in the eye of the beholder and y'all ain't got no eyes. Cause you're just a brain and all. Oooooooh.

btw: When was the last time you had your juice changed? It's lookin' kinda yellow and it tastes funky. A dram of vodka added to the mix wouldn't hurt either.

Now if we can just toss a crucifix in there we could call him Ivan "Art" Betinov.

Look, I don't mind the occasional comrade peeing in my jar when the line to the collective port-a-john in the Bunker is too long, but I draw the line at someone suggesting I let something as filthy as a crucifix be placed in my jar!

Betinov has a point. You don't know where that crucifix may have been. I remember that scene in the Exorcist.

I tossed a star and crescent in there while redistributing my vodka ration the other day, but that was just so Comrade Brain in a Jar could look like he is Aware(TM) of the Religion of Peace(TM).

Power.

It was not only what he had, but what his enemy thought he had.

And what he had was her.

His name was Saul. He called her his Saulmate. She'd never been outside the experience of her own people, knowing, with the timeless instinct born of one chosen for a higher, more enlightened purpose (her people called it an easily impressionable head full of mush), that it promised naught but confusion, fear and retreat.

Yet her people were his enemy, and he'd sworn vengeance upon his enemy by vowing to take one of their women.

The one who became . . . his Saulmate.

He spirited her away in his forbidden embrace one moonlit night, taking her far outside her experience . . . the experience of his enemy. Confusion and fear swamped her, and she knew she must retreat or be lost forever to her people. But the gleam in his eyes—or perhaps it was just the way the glow from the full moon glanced off his spectacles like the blow of a rubber pellet gun—told her she could trust him. That she need not fear, for he would make sure she could, nay, would live up to his enemy's book of rules.

And prithee, what did that book of rules command?

Surrender.

Submission.

To never fight back. To always turn the other cheek, be it the one on her face, or the other on her backside. That the important thing was to go along to get along . . . and if she did that, good things would follow.

Oh yes, such good, glorious things would follow . . .

He carried her back to his lair, and threw her down on an old striped mattress dappled with amber. She drew in a sharp breath, and with it an exotic bouquet of stale cigar smoke, flat brew, pungent patchouli . . . and a strange waft that made her think, forever, of the amber.

He gazed down at her. “Your people,” he said, “are a bunch of teabagging idiots. They're racist, bigoted, narrow-minded, intolerant, mean-spirited, knuckle dragging, digitally Limbaughtomized Faux News addicted 19 percenters.”

She glowered up at him with narrowed eyes, leaning back on her elbows, her breasts defiantly pointing up toward him as if in accusation. “Are you trying to ridicule me, sirrah?”

He arched a single brow, just barely visible over the upper rim of his glasses, yet shadowed by the brim of his battered fedora. “It is but my most potent weapon.”

She lowered her gaze to his ever increasing stimulus package, expanding like Obama's deficit before her very eyes. “I would beg to differ. Allow me to raise your awareness even further.”

And with that, she reached up to grab his necktie, and yanked him down on top of her.

“I am your community,” she whispered hotly. “Organize me.”

Passion like she'd never imagined ensued. “Oh, I love what you're doing,” she whimpered. “Where'd you learn to do that?”

He smiled gently as he continued doing it. “It's a good tactic, isn't it, my dear? One that my people enjoy.”

She sighed and tilted her head back as she savored the incredible sensations. “It's one that . . . I enjoy . . . too.”

And so he continued, stroking, caressing, organizing, agitating, as the seconds ticked into minutes, and the minutes clicked into hours. Finally, she cocked her head forward and said, “Why haven't I . . . when am I going to . . . well, what's taking so long?”

He sighed ruefully, and withdrew his forbidden touch, much to her frustration. “Alas, a tactic that drags on too long becomes a drag, I'm afraid.” And with that, he rolled her over, changing position. “But don't worry, my Saulmate, trust me . . . I will simply keep the pressure on, with different tactics and actions, utilizing all events of the period for my purpose.”

Her heart tripped as his fingertips brushed over her again. “What purpose?”

“Don't be so threatened, my little Saulmate,” he chided. “The threat is usually more terrifying than the thing itself.”

She stiffened from head to toe, staring at him suspiciously. “What thing?”

“What thing do you think I'm talking about, my dear? Oh, that's right, you're from the enemy camp. It was all abstinence only education for you, wasn't it?”

“Don't patronize me unless you'd like me to steep a couple of teabags. You speak of your most potent weapon, don't you?”

“Hold your tongue, wench,” he said, as he caressed her more firmly than before, sending her to new, dizzying heights of ecstasy. “As you're about to see, I have developed an operation to maintain a constant pressure upon the opposition.”

“Ohh, I love it when you talk dirty to me,” she moaned.

“And if I push a negative hard and deep enough,” he added, “it will break through into its counterside.”

She stared down at his positive to her negative. “Well, it does look big enough to impale me and then some, but it's your mattress and it's pretty shot anyway.”

He covered her soft, yielding body with the hard warmth of his own. “The price of a successful attack is a constructive alternative. And I can't think of anything more constructive than what we are about to do now. My Saulmate! I have picked my target. I shall freeze it—”

“Oh yes, please do,” she gasped. “For I'm burning with flames of desire for you!”

“And I shall personalize it!”

She might have clamped her legs shut at those ominous words, except . . . well, he was making a pretty successful attack, pushing her negative, thrusting his positive into that deep empty space, his chosen target, that in return embraced his most potent weapon—his throbbing ridicule. “What do you mean? You're not going to, like, tattoo your name . . . there, are you? My BFF couldn't even talk me into getting it pierced.”

He chuckled and muffled her protests with his lips. “I have already personalized you, my sweet Saulmate. I have branded you with my lips, my tongue, my fingers, my most potent weapon. And now, my beloved most radical, brace yourself—for I am about to polarize you!"

“Oh yes,” she breathed. “Oh yes, Saul, yes! Polarize me with your progressively potent pole!”

And he did. He polarized her until she was split into two, divided into halves torn so far apart she thought they could never be brought together again, making her like soggy borscht in his hands.

“Come with me, Saulmate,” he grunted.

“Oh yes!” she cried. “Yes! Ohhh . . . ohh . . . please . . . don't . . . stop . . . pol . . . ar . . . i-zee--YEE-OWWWCH! Damn, I think I'm getting a charley-horse! And get your elbow out of my armpit.”

“That's not my elbow,” he said. “I have breached your barriers and torn through to the counterside.”

And together, with a passion as fiery red as the revolution, they achieved the ultimate in social utopia.

Ah. More art, I see.

Been reading the Fountainhead again along with a few trashy romances I see.

OMG!

Pinkie was "The Mystery Woman"!

The clues were there all the time! The amber! The borscht! The Golden Shovel!
Obama spurned her but she found Saulice and redemption in the agitating arms (and fists) of Alinsky who was the man in the fedora! After Pinkie was pushed away by Barry, she saw Saul in the stairwell on the way out! It all makes sense now! While Barry was supping borscht alone, Pinkie was in the throes of organizing ecstasy just two floors below him!
If it wasn't for the amber stained shorts, Pinkie could possibly have been our First Lady Commissarka!
She is One degree from The One!

I have one question for Pinkie and this romance/mystery will be solved:
Who was The French Lieutenant's Woman?

Pinkie, your nocturnal submission sent me scurrying to the little boy's room for relief. I laughed, I cried, I begged for more, more , MORE! Finally I collapsed in a sweaty miasma of frenzy culminating in a victorious secretion.

Nobody writes wrongs like you. You serve it up by the shovel full.