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post #35
bio: chris

wish list
first post
that week

Previous Posts
On Sting (and other crap)
Things I Say to My Dad, Because (like myself) He Thinks, Irrationally, He's Going to Die Soon
Why Hipstamatic Was Invented
Happy Mother's Day, Y'all
Black Pear Tree (Guest Post from John Darnielle)

Chapter One
(Here. You're gonna need this. )

We arrived in St. Petersburg that June. We had just gotten off of an 8 hour flight and were bused directly to our hotel. Our guide explained to us "You are here for the White Nights in St. Petersburg. A very popular time for tourists. Unfortunately most of the very good hotels are full, so we had to put you up in the best accommodations we could find."

They put us up in a prostitute hotel.

No joke. They had put us up in and honest-to-goodness prostitute hotel. (Well, at least as honest and as good as a prostitute hotel can be. ) We get
in the door, and immediately pimp-types are handing us flyers -- all written in English -- which read "For a good time with the ladies, visit the 8th floor or call ******. None of us ever partook in the, er, "goods" (with the possible exception of this one sketchy guy who was on the trip with us. He would disappear in the middle of the night for hours at a time. But hey, I have no hard evidence.) but we did check out the 8th floor in the wee hours just to get a glimpse of the action.

Our first night in Sankt Petersburg started calmly. Ro-Dogg and I had dinner at the Pectopah. It was a standard, hearty Russian meal consisting of cabbage, caviar, and gelatinous meat. Oh, the gelatinous meat. Praise be to the Russians for their gelatinous meat! It's not often that we here in the United States get to devour all parts of the animal at once. Yet here in the White Nights of Sankt Petersburg you get it all -- muscle, lips, eyes, hooves, and a bellydance for dessert.

After dinner our tour guide showed us to our respective rooms -- guys in one room, girls in the other. After such a satisfying dinner I couldn't wait to hit the shower and take my first dump in the former U.S.S.R.

"Uh, you might not want to shower here," warned our tour guide as he turned the faucet on. "You see that this water is brown? Do you know why this water is brown?"

"No, not exactly," I replied.

"You see, when Sankt Petersburg was invaded by the Germans in World War Two, many Russian soldiers were killed so quickly that there was no time to bury each and every one of them individually. So we had to dig one, large mass grave for all of the bodies. What we did not realize at the time was that the mass grave we dug for them was right next to the Sankt Petersburg water supply. This water has been brown for 50 years -- brown with the decaying remains of our fallen soldiers."

Ugh. So much for my shower.

"Have a nice night, my friends. We will see you in the morning."

Well, the boys and I settled down with a bottle of Stoli and a deck of cards. We played poker for Rubles. I was up about 1600 Rubles when suddenly our walls started to thump rhythmically. We all looked around at each other wondering what the hell was going on. But within a few seconds I had it figured out.

The walls would thump at a rate of about 2.3 thumps per second. Now, as any good student of Russian culture would know, the average Russian male makes approximately 2.3 thrusts per second while having conjugal relations with a
Russian female. Also, I could tell by the resonance of the thump that the wall-shaking was being caused by Russian female had making forcefull contact with the wall. (Not to mention the fact hat every thump was immediately followed by a high-pitched squeal.)

Crap. "This is not good," I thought. "Some drunken john is pounding the sweet bejesus out of some poor Russian whore."

That's when I decided to take action.

I reached into my suitcase and grabbed my hat and bullwhip. Wearing my old-school Brooklyn Dodgers jacket, Levis, and Nike Air Jordans, I burst into the room next door in all my American glory.

CRACK! cracked my bullwhip. "Let the girl go!".

Needless to say, this startled the naked Russian bear so much that he jumped up off the poor Russian whore and ran for the window. He didn't exactly jump out the window. Not at first. No, I had to whip the sonofabitch a few times before he finally got the hint. (In all the excitement of my glorious entrance, I somehow forgot that we were eight stories up. The Russian Bear hit the ground with a ceremonious FLOP! followed by a satisfyingly climactic SPLAT! Damn, I'm good.)

The poor Russian whore ran over to me, crying into my shoulder as she embraced me.

"Спасибо, мой Американский друг." she managed to mumble thorough her tears.
"Мое название(имя) - Анастасия, но все мои друзья называют меня Nastia."

Miraculously, through the power of Greyskull or some shit like that, I was able to understand and speak Russian!

"Эй там, сладкие синицы. Штат Индиана Моего названия(имени) Jones. Но пожалуйста, Вы можете называть меня Indy."

"О, Indy. Я настолько благодарен, что Вы прибыли и спасли меня. Пара для ударов на голове и я были бы закончены наверняка!"

Just then, Ro-Dogg ran into the room, panting and out of breath.

"Romine! Are you OK? I heard the flop and... well, anyways. The bathroom's clean. You can take a dump now."

"Umm... Анастасия..." I explained to my weeping naked friend, "Это - мой кореш, Короткий Круг"

"What, Romine?"

"Shut up..." I singsongingly hinted to Ro-Dogg. "From now on your name is Short Round. Now put on this Yankee cap and get my car."

"But you don't have a..."

"Do IT!"

Through her tears, Anastasia -- or Nastia, as she liked to be called -- explained to me exactly what had happened to her. When she was 11 years old a big bad man named Boris Presley had kidnapped her, enslaved her, and forced her into a life of prostitution. She was sixteen now, just like I was. But unlike me, she had lived a life of forced prostitution for five years.

She continued with "Я имел обыкновение иметь любимую обезьяну. Его название(имя) было Pompadour. Он использовал до марта вокруг дома и кормы много. Когда он был сделан, pooping, hed бросает его корму на всем протяжении дома. Это заставило меня смеяться."

О, Indy. Я мечтаю об однажды обнаружении Pompadour. Когда я нахожу Pompadour, я должен был брать его, чтобы видеть Бориса Преслей. Тогда Pompadour бросит его корму обезьяны в него. Мы будем смеяться, и я буду иметь
правосудие. Я буду свободен!
Indy, Вы поможете мне найти моя обезьяна?"

"Yes, baby. I'll help you find your monkey."

"О, Indy. Ваша любовь - подобно плохой медицине(лекарству)!"

"Плохая медицина(лекарство), ребенок - - то, в чем я нуждаюсь"

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