The Inter Gations
by Misha Firer
In the year 73rd (which also proved to be the last) of Communist Party Rule I lamed to my job plot in the Ministry of Disinformation. I trashed my worn-out passport of a party number to the grueling guard at the en-trance and mountain-ed the unlit steps to the 4th Level, panting hard (I had been smoldering too many Belomorkanal lately), and tendered the Chambers of Foreign Enemy Elements. A piece of urgent and enticing news had waited impatiently for my Coming.
Comrade Tzvetkov popped out of his gray chamber, shook my hand affirmatively and whispered, ensconcing his mouth lest to be overheard by potential defectors that had multiplied in the concluding Red Years. "We caught a Western spy!"
"Oh is it so? Is it so!" I exclaimed jubilantly.
Comrade Tzvetkov snapped his boots to attention and saluted me. "Chief Interrogator Totmakov, Western Spy is tied to the chair in the Ninth Chamber, fully conscious, ready to be tortured by your Comradeship."
"At ease Tzvetkov," I said placidly smiling broadly. It wasn't every day that we caught an individualist spy into our socialist nets. "Lead me on to that beast of concrete jungles."
The captured Spy had fatigued face and bloodshot eyes. Retrospectively my boys were force-feeding him with vodka with unconstrained abundance.
"Hello, you arrogant piece of capitalistic ism. And welcome to our socialist motherland of Union Soviet, the one and only one."
"I copulated with your Mother and Land."
The Spy had apparently been rendered unbecomingly drunk.
"I am here to extract the vital data to the Effect of our Cause. To the point: Weapons of Crass Distraction."
"Redress your query in a comprehensible modus. You have lost me on the second syllable, comrade. Your primitive civilization nauseas me."
"Doesn't my request ring a bell, bourgeois swine?" I yelled turning red like an overripe tomato. "We'll endoscope your left hemisphere with Communocrisy and knock out the mass-produced lifestyle through both of your nostrils. Now. Answer me, where do you stash up the Weapons of Crass Distraction?"
"Instructions?" the Spy uttered malevolently. "I have annexed none from my peers. Besides, you ought to speak my mother's tongue. If you don't mind."
"Don't dare to contraband me with your backward mentalitet. We, oppositely, bring forth Un-free Deletions, Quality Between Dead-Enders and Plight of Ineptness. Do I coerce myself understood?"
"You shall pre-fail to wash my brains, you Mono-glamorous, Mono-atheistic Sad-ist."
I cursed in the now-profane names of Stalin, Beriya and Dzerzhinski. "You are a hard nut, mister Mister. But all Shopping Temples of your consumer faith won't save your sterile behinds from our gradual indoctrination."
"Quite the opposite," the Spy opposed, "your religiberty has been weakened by our pre-planned obsolescence. We'll buy you out with ideal of our –logy."
"Impressive statesmanship. Now let me torture you to prove my point. Prior to the procedure I shall re-repeat the multi-media question: where do you stash up the Weapons of Crass Distraction?"
"To your question," the Spy said eyeing dreadfully the rusty implements and second-hand tools of Soviet Torture, "we have none whatsoever."
"Liar!" I barked and snatched a hacksaw from the table. "I'll saw off a finger for every lie you bestow upon my grand matter."
The Spy paraphrased his train of thought, but remained glued to his plutocratic heroics, "Possessing none, at least that I aware am of."
I vice-ed the Spy's right hand and began to saw his middle finger with a golden ring: decisively catching two birds. "Ahh," the Spy squealed like a castrated piglet, "Ahhhh."
"For Lenin's sake," I complained, fat beads of blood dropping on my shoelaces, "This is just a finger!"
"We'll mechanize your humanity, excavate your nature for house developments and standardize your minds with corporate stores. Then what would you do?"
This ideological banter exhausted my nerves more than the finger that I had just disengaged. "Need medical assistance?" I teased the beleaguered Spy.
"Bug off, un-customized infidel," the Spy spoke colorfully and eloquently. I washed my hands and stepped outside the door to palaver with my conspiratorial buddy. Ever-faithful Comrade Tzvetkov re-saluted me and offered his Belomorkanal papirosa.
"Thankee, Van'ka." I called him diminutively; content to be out of the foreign aura. "The Spy refuses to crack, his brain must have been tempered by high-tech."
"Those bourgeoisini." Vanya spat a nasty-looking gob of saliva, "can't tell from androids under the most microscopic inspection."
"That's my job, comrade, to tell who is who and why is it why and so what."
Vanya deemed me with neo-proletariat infantilism, "What if we demand of our scientists under fear of Incarceration, Torture and Death that they re-program the Spy and infiltrate his own un-respective copy-cat dis-organization? What if?"
I dismissed his boyish dreaminess and killed my papirosa with my soldier boot. "This is not Terminator movie. The latter shall have become a governor if only to disembowel your empiricism. Round two, Van'ka and let the spirit of Lenin be with me."
Inside the Chamber of Torture I swapped my tactic for causality more adequate to the post-modern timetable. "I compel my Self to vibrate less conspicuously. Meaning, let's talk funny."
The depleted Spy nodded indifferently.
"We shall reward you with unbridled support, a family unit, red-brick dacha and Volga limousine. Buttress and insulate against the collectivistic mob: tip-top quality, extra class. You dig my driving at?"
"Disfinger and de-toe me, you won't break me in."
"Why be stubborn? You'd improve your standard of living, besides being re-given your living in the first place."
"Because I believe," the Spy pronounced with pathetic pathos.
I spat three and cursed four times. He didn't abandon me any choice but to abuse my Primary Torturing Device. I aimed the Stalinist Machine at the Spy's groin and pushed the joystick button. A laser ray incinerated the air molecules and bumped into the Spy's organ of re-creation. The Spy exuded a sizable groan. He uttered his utterance of croaking, "awwwww."
"Speak, damn your grand-grand-parents; speak, technocratic imp."
But obnoxiously it was too fashionably late. The Spy was with me no more. I jogged to the exit bedraggled with unprofessional ism. Comrade Tzvetkov had been eavesdropping by the keyhole expecting the positivist news. I hated to break his proletariat heart. To counterpoint his frustration I reenacted to philosophize in impractical terms.
"We shall prevail, Van'ka" I started rather flabbily, "whatever it gives. The countdown is on our side."
But he knew no worse. Van'ka shuddered his upper torso and claimed, "we shan't un-free the world, shan't deliberate the unshackled and communize the super-egoistic. We'll toss our might and go lower in dishonor."
"Why pessimism," I jabbed and asked for another papirosa. Van'ka condescended. I burned its head and ate the smoke. "Relish every momentum of our re-gime, and feast for sure, we'll beam."
We recounted watches for home-retreatment, and discovered it was extremely soon. Comrade Tzvetkov endeared serious demeanor and voiced, "What about Weapons of Crass Distraction?"
I shrugged my arms, "Perhaps Who knows – or maybe even He doesn't."
"What's the signifier?"
"The lifestyle," I unveiled authoritativeness, "the will, the did, the do. Other than those, who cares?"
Van'ka analyzed structurally, "What befouls next?"
"Changes." I bummed another papirosa and fired it. I should be ceasing, but oh well. "Go home and worry don't. Whatever is the maze, every thing shall be OK."
Van'ka distributed a smile and re-re-saluted. I re-re-re-saluted backwards.
About the author:
Misha Firer was born in 1979 in Ulyanovsk, Russia. He lived in Tel Aviv, Amsterdam, New York and currently resides in Oakland, California. This year, 29 of his short stories were published in Ascent, BIG News, City Writers Review, In Posse Review, Laundry Pen, Nuvein, Paumanok Review, Pink Chameleon, Rose & Thorn, Scarlet Letters, Skive, Slow Trains, Spoiled Ink, Taint, Tryst, Vestal Review, Word Riot and Ululation.