“Hello, My Dear Nanny, Arina Rodionovna!” It’s a little old, a bit forced. But the people love it and His Majesty respects it. The head of the Culture Chamber suggests lamely that Pushkin should be younger—the same not-very-young actor, Khapensky, has been playing the poet for the last twelve years. But we all know it’s pointless. The actor is one of Her Highness’s favorites. The director shrugs his shoulders, opens his hands:
“Gentlemen, you must understand, it’s not up to me…”
We understand.
And now we come to the most important act. A new piece on the topic of the day: “Like Hell I Will!”
Each of us squirms in his seat and tenses. The stage is dark, the only sounds are the howl of the wind, and the strumming of the Kazakh dombra and the Russian balalaika. The moon crawls out from behind clouds, illuminating the scene with a faint light. In the middle of the stage is the Third Western Pipeline. The very one that’s caused so much hullabaloo the last year and a half, so much trouble and concern. The pipeline stretches across the stage, through Russian forest and field; sparkling in the dim light, it arrives at the Western Wall. There it passes through a flow-regulating valve marked closed, dives into the wall, and moves farther westward. Our border guard stands there with an automatic ray gun, looking through binoculars toward the other side. Suddenly the dombras and balalaikas grow anxious, a warning bass sounds—and near the valve a molehill erupts. In a flash, a mole-saboteur in black goggles crawls out, looks around, sniffs the air, jumps, grabs the valve, digs his huge teeth into it with all his might. He’s just about to turn it, to let the gas through. But—a ravaging ray flashes from the wall and cuts the mole in half! The mole’s guts tumble out, a howl rends the air, and the thieving saboteur breathes his last. Lights flare, and three bold border guards, full of mettle, leap from the wall. Their jumps are agile, accompanied by handsprings and valiant whistles. One of them holds an accordion, the second a tambourine, the third wields wooden spoons. Each of them wears an automatic, loyal and true, on his back. The fine young border guards sing:
“The valves we closed up:
Like His Majesty told us.
But fiendish foes did try
To suck our gas completely dry.
“Right off we told them: ‘No! We’ll fight!’
And honed our eagle gaze.
Europa Gas, that parasite,
For Russian gas must pay!
“Just try to stop those cyberpunksters,
Across the wall’s most chilly side.
What bifurcations, made by funksters,
Like mushrooms sprout both far and wide.
“Each time more brazen do they act,
But wait a moment, contemplate,
How could we give them gas like that?
In a thrice they’d suffocate.”
One border guard opens the valve while the two others rush to the end of the pipe, put it to their rear ends, and fart. With a menacing howl the good fellows’ farts pass through the pipe, flow through the wall, and…screams and wailing are heard in the West. The final chord sounds, and the three valiant fellows jump onto the pipe, raising their automatics in victory. Curtain.
The high-placed audience stirs. They’re looking at Prince Sobakin. He twists his mustache, thinking. He speaks:
“Well now, what opinions do we have, gentlemen?”
The head of the Culture Chamber speaks:
“I see an obvious element of obscenity. Although the piece is topical and executed with vim and vigor.”
The observer from the Secret Department:
“First of all, I don’t like the enemy scout being killed rather than captured alive. Second, why only three border guards? I know for a fact that outposts have a dozen. So there should be twelve guards. Then the fart itself would be more powerful…”
I:
“I agree in regard to the composition of the border guard. And this is a much-needed number, a topical number. But there is an element of obscenity. And His Majesty, as we all know, champions chastity and
“Gentlemen, you must understand, it’s not up to me…”
We understand.
And now we come to the most important act. A new piece on the topic of the day: “Like Hell I Will!”
Each of us squirms in his seat and tenses. The stage is dark, the only sounds are the howl of the wind, and the strumming of the Kazakh dombra and the Russian balalaika. The moon crawls out from behind clouds, illuminating the scene with a faint light. In the middle of the stage is the Third Western Pipeline. The very one that’s caused so much hullabaloo the last year and a half, so much trouble and concern. The pipeline stretches across the stage, through Russian forest and field; sparkling in the dim light, it arrives at the Western Wall. There it passes through a flow-regulating valve marked closed, dives into the wall, and moves farther westward. Our border guard stands there with an automatic ray gun, looking through binoculars toward the other side. Suddenly the dombras and balalaikas grow anxious, a warning bass sounds—and near the valve a molehill erupts. In a flash, a mole-saboteur in black goggles crawls out, looks around, sniffs the air, jumps, grabs the valve, digs his huge teeth into it with all his might. He’s just about to turn it, to let the gas through. But—a ravaging ray flashes from the wall and cuts the mole in half! The mole’s guts tumble out, a howl rends the air, and the thieving saboteur breathes his last. Lights flare, and three bold border guards, full of mettle, leap from the wall. Their jumps are agile, accompanied by handsprings and valiant whistles. One of them holds an accordion, the second a tambourine, the third wields wooden spoons. Each of them wears an automatic, loyal and true, on his back. The fine young border guards sing:
“The valves we closed up:
Like His Majesty told us.
But fiendish foes did try
To suck our gas completely dry.
“Right off we told them: ‘No! We’ll fight!’
And honed our eagle gaze.
Europa Gas, that parasite,
For Russian gas must pay!
“Just try to stop those cyberpunksters,
Across the wall’s most chilly side.
What bifurcations, made by funksters,
Like mushrooms sprout both far and wide.
“Each time more brazen do they act,
But wait a moment, contemplate,
How could we give them gas like that?
In a thrice they’d suffocate.”
One border guard opens the valve while the two others rush to the end of the pipe, put it to their rear ends, and fart. With a menacing howl the good fellows’ farts pass through the pipe, flow through the wall, and…screams and wailing are heard in the West. The final chord sounds, and the three valiant fellows jump onto the pipe, raising their automatics in victory. Curtain.
The high-placed audience stirs. They’re looking at Prince Sobakin. He twists his mustache, thinking. He speaks:
“Well now, what opinions do we have, gentlemen?”
The head of the Culture Chamber speaks:
“I see an obvious element of obscenity. Although the piece is topical and executed with vim and vigor.”
The observer from the Secret Department:
“First of all, I don’t like the enemy scout being killed rather than captured alive. Second, why only three border guards? I know for a fact that outposts have a dozen. So there should be twelve guards. Then the fart itself would be more powerful…”
I:
“I agree in regard to the composition of the border guard. And this is a much-needed number, a topical number. But there is an element of obscenity. And His Majesty, as we all know, champions chastity and
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