And when they got to the end of different roads in different stories, the spider shook hands with the praying mantis and the snake shook hands with the lizard, and they parted ways as friends for the rest of their lives. And so, never hate anyone just because they’re different. The End.
And Boo-boo the dwarf elephant, who had once been driven from the Serengeti plains by his kind, whose only difference was they were bigger, into enchanted fairytale-like forestland of Northern Europe, where he had found his home and many, many true friends among the little woodland creatures, who had accepted him the way he was, closed the storybook, and asked, So, what have we learned from this story.
The raccoon wiped away a tear, while the mole started digging, saying he didn’t see the sense of it. The weasel, meanwhile, twittered mockingly and slithered away.
But the sparrow said: Chipmunk, I promise I’m never going to do another scathing satire of you in our alternative underground Internet publication, even if you do look stupid when you stuff those deformed cheeks with nuts, like you’re afraid someone might take them away from you.
And as for me, sparrow, said the chipmunk, I also promise to stop submitting the vicious parodies of you in that even more alternative and further underground rival web rag, even if it’s the stupidest thing every time you find a stale breadcrumb that’s bigger than your pointy little beak and you fly it to a balcony to eat it and then start chirping out in the equivalent of a human scream, like it was just the greatest damn victory in the world. The End.
Josh Davies closes the macabre-looking storybook, while a homely, filthy-faced girl and a mangy, trembling, undernourished Cocker Spaniel cower in the corner of the living room of a 9th-floor Khrushchev-era flat in Kyiv, Ukraine.
And so, what do we think of that, boys and girls?
I have to go to the bathroom, the girl moans in despair.
No, you will go to your room, and to the bathroom when I’m good and ready to let you go…
But I’ll pee-pee all over the place, and…
Yeeeees, that’s right – and you’ll then be punished accordingly. So you’ll do what I say. Who pays the bills around here? And take that mangy dog with you, too.
The dog, whose neural connections are completely shot due to never-ending mental abuse, shakes all over as it gets up, but no matter how hard it tries to move forward, keeps walking in place.
Get that thing the hell out of here!!!, Davies roars. As the girl picks the hapless and doomed dog up, it voids uncontrollably all over the floor.
I’ll deal with the two of you later, Davies leers. Grandpa! Come out of your room!
An old Ukrainian man, who may have been younger than Davies, but has been made older by the house master, simply through applied and consistent cruelty, comes out of a side room. He’s got rows of war hero medals pinned to his filthy stinking shirt.
Dance your dance for me, old man.
The old man dances for Davies.
Come on, pops, step lively, let’s go, let’s go – harder, harder – ha, ha, ha, ha, haaaaa…!!! That’s right, harder, harder, harder…!!! Ha, ha, ha, ha, haaaaa…!!!
The old man dances until he’s nearly dead.
All right, that’ll be enough. Go back to your room. Babushka! Come on out and recite those words I so love to hear!
An old Ukrainian woman in a stinking old flower-print smock barely waddles out on wide-splayed, work-destroyed bare feet attached to legs with grotesque and fascinating knots of varicose veins and recites: I am old Babushka, I make the varenyks with any filling, and I cook the borsch. I do the laundry and I clean the house, and…
That’s right, Babushka, and anything else that needs cleaning. Ha, ha, ha, ha, haaaaa…!!! Very well now, you may go.
Knock knock, ring ring, knock, etc…
Dang! Just when I was having some fun. I wonder who that could be. Here I am, going to the old Josh Davies apartment door to find out. Oh, Lemurov! Well, well, well. And what brings you to these parts.
Lemurov, dressed like a fairy, steps onto Josh Davies territory.
And well may you ask, oh, you, Davies Josh. I would like my action figures back.
I knew you were somewhat twisted, Lemorov, but I haven’t the slightest clue what –
Oh, and do you not, Davies Josh. I was playing with my Kyiv Poster newsroom action figures, of which you arrre one, crrreating some orrrder out of the chaos. I turned around for a second, and then was just so shocked to see your Davies Josh action figure, with its saggy jeans still down and its wrinkly ass not wiped, escaping through my apartment door carrying the shoebox with all the other action figures in it over its head – just sooo strong – I was sooo stunned to chase eet. And eet was laughing, too – oh, just sooo scaaarry and eeevil. Geeve theem back!
You are way out in left field, son. I have absolutely no idea what you’re going on about. So I simply suggest that when I open that door, you turn around and put one foot in front of the other and –
Ring, ring, knock knock knock…
Hell, I wonder who that could be. Here I go again to the old Davies residence door. Oh, well, if it isn’t old Rico Soiree.
Don’t call me old, old man.
Well, that’s fine with me, although you’re not exactly a spring chicken either, Soiree, even with that Grecian Formula hair treatment, and I strongly suggest you begin to face the music. Be that as it may, to what do I owe this pleasure?
Don’t try any of that sweet talk with me, Davies.
Oh, that’s quite all right. It’s no skin off my nose. Would you perhaps like a refreshment of some sort – a lemonade, or maybe an iced tea?
No, what I want is to know what you did with my half of the Viagra profits – and what happened to the barge that floated the stuff up the Dnipro? I checked with my connections at all the port authorities – gone, vanished into thin air, no sign of it anywhere!
Viagra?! Really, Rico, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I certainly don’t need the stuff. I’ve got a penile implant that works just fine, thank you, as my lovely, long-legged archaeologist wife will attest. Ho, ho, ha! Josh Davies involved in the illicit Viagra trade. It sounds like the canned plotline of a second-rate comedy. It’s just too banal and obvious to be real.
Oh, do you not believe heem, Rico! He said to me the same! He took all my action figures and now he says he doesn’t know what I am so talking about! Help me to get them back, Rico – oh, just please so help me!
Well, this is going to stop right now!
Soiree grabs Davies hard around his wrinkled neck and starts choking him, quickly getting him down on the floor and on top of him – apparently looking to finish the job.
Oh, yes, geeve eet to heem, Rico, oh, yes, you just get heem and geeve eet to heeeeem…!!!, Lemurov cries, clasping his hands together in a hopeful excited gesture.
To be continued in Part 2
Filed by Jack Step, June 10, 2013