|I Am Rusty Zeprodalovitz
No longer do my hands work in the correct way. Ouch! My feet appear most similar to the fingers of a withered peasant woman from the village of Koznikolkavastantstan, a woman who has squandered her spirit's essence pleading by the side of one of Putin's grotesque bureaucratic buildings in his city of sin and enigma. For mercy!
Feed me precisely. All that I require is the rib related region of a hog, a portion of the beast that no other man should or would desire. I shall ask for nothing more to stave my hunger.
My buttocks, much to my shock and surprise, have been attached to my frontal region. Do you know that my poop runs directly over me? Such is the sorrow of a Russian national when he exists as an un-empowered man. It is only God's grace which has made me right handed, with the additional fortune of having a right hand.
And yet I dare to think that things will soon be very much better for me and my countrymen. Am I foolish? Bah, I am born Russian, and comrades such as us, Babinski we were born to move in an extremely swift manner. I am tired of these promising songs of opportunity, which never seem to apply to my own starving family, no matter how we pretend that we do not wish to overthrow the corrupt government of puppetmaster Putin, no matter how degenerate his designs on our very souls!
Do you not see how badly I am put back together, comrade? A Russian surgeon, a freshman he was... My face has been solarized, frozen into a mocking grin of rictus. Bah.
Frightening, is it not?
Do you also sometimes feel pain? Perhaps you are the lucky American, awash in all your Florida. Oh, to warm my feet, or as they are these days referred to, fingers.
The novel, which I hid in the non-existent sole of my shoes, has not been finished, nor shall it ever be. Bah. My name, I think that is in the title. I was rechristened Rusty after a virile NASCAR driver by my few true friends, who wished only to give me one moment of joy before I was condemned to a life of salt and cucumbers. Did I escape? Spit your comments out at me, as would the mouth of... as would the... Jeez... as the teeth would be projected from the face of a bitter and broken-faced man.
Why do you look at my buttocks, sir? Was I at one time this rude to you?
©2005, Mark Hoback