Post by Irina Ivanova on Dec 18, 2021 14:14:44 GMT -6
ГУЛАГ для Дед Мороз
“Angel,” begins Viktor, his voice soft, “why did you shoot poor Sergei?”
She casts a disdainful look at the corpse.
“He was going to shut down our operation. Claimed we weren’t serving the interests of the Motherland and that our pursuit of victory in this corrupt and decadent world of professional fighting only indicates that we have, ourselves, been compromised by Capitalist ideology.”
Irina hesitates, then gives the body a swift kick with the toe of her boot.
“Also, he tried to eat my goat,” she adds.
“You could probably stand to have your goat eaten once in a while…” Viktor mutters, not quite under his breath.
The Red Angel scowls.
“Why must you make dirty innuendo out of everything?”
“Why must you not?” quips Romanov.
He turns on his heel and starts to walk away, then hesitates, as if suddenly remembering something.
“Oh, yes, I almost forgot. Go and buy yourself something nice to wear. You and Magnus are attending a party tonight.”
Viktor pauses, the hint of a wicked smile tugging at his lips.
“A Christmas party!”
He chuckles coldly at Irina’s obvious consternation as he disappears, leaving the Soviet supersoldier to stare after him in disbelief.
East Berlin
1989
With the loud creak of hinges long since in need of oil, the heavy iron door swung open, spilling cold, harsh light onto cold, harsh concrete. Irina Ivanova raised one arm to shield her eyes from the unaccustomed brilliance. A shadow filled the doorway. From it came a braying laugh and a gruff voice.
“Ah, my little Angel! Today is a very special day for you! We’re going… to… A PARTY!”
The twelve year old girl frowned, puzzled.
“What’s a -- a par-tee, Uncle Viktor?”
“American word. It means celebration. Music. Food. Dancing. Pretty lights. Capitalist excesses. Bah!”
“This… party… Will it be fun?”
Viktor Romanov snagged the metal chair that served as the only furniture in the small cell and sat on it backward, crossing his arms as he gazed at the young agent he’d code named Red Angel.
“For come, certainly.”
She blinked, still confused.
“Then why are we going?” she pressed.
“Because, my Angel, you will have the most fun of all. Tonight -- this party -- is your very first assignment!”
He beamed proudly, showing a mouth full of slightly oversized teeth.
“You mean…?”
“Yes, Angel! You are finally ready to fulfill your glorious Soviet purpose! You are strong, and quick, and clever thanks to my special training regimen and a steady diet of borscht and vodka -- everything a growing girl needs, da?”
Still in shock, Irina nodded her agreement.
“Good! Now, let’s get you some proper party clothes!”
Irina snaps back to the present, blinking at the scenery flashing by out the window of their rental car. Magnus is driving, clad in an obnoxiously festive red and green sweater. Irina herself is dressed in cocktail-length basic black, her pistol concealed neatly beneath the skirt. In the backseat, Viktor croons some long forgotten Slavic folk song, the little goat napping on his lap. The Red Angel shakes herself from the past, but some memories linger. There had been other parties since, but the first one stayed with her; it had been an unmitigated distaster. Contrary to Viktor’s expectations, in spite of the praise he’d lavished on her afterward, Irina knew it had all gone wrong. She didn’t expect tonight to be much different.
When they arrive, an overly-saccharine woman dressed in too much holiday green ushers them in. Magnus is spirited off to join the men, while Irina reluctantly lags behind their hostess. She prattles merrily as she scoops a ladelful of gloopy egg nog into a plastic cup and hands it to Irina.
“We’ll just let the boys have their discussions about important things we can’t possibly understand,” says the hostess, and Irina can’t tell if she’s joking.
“Important things?”
“Oh, you know… stocks and economy and politics and boring nonsense like that. Come on, I want you to meet the other girls.”
Irina has a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach as she is led into the kitchen, where the women have gathered, gossiping and giggling.
“ -- well, my husband likes it when I put my finger in -- oh! Hello, dear!” one woman greets Irina, breaking off abruptly. “You must be the new neighbor! Hi, I’m Marcia -- this is Jan, Cindy, Barbara, and of course, you’ve met Helen!”
Irina shakes hands with each woman in turn. Weak handshakes of Western decadence. Limp and cold, like the men these poor ladies are forced to sleep with every night.
“Do not let me interrupt, Marcia,” she says. “Do go on. What is it husband likes?”
“Oh, that’s old news,” Jan chines in. “We all know about Greg and his… thing. What about that stud you’ve got in your stable, Irina? How do you keep him home at night?”
Sensing her opportunity, Irina smirks.
“Keeping him home is not about pleasing him,” she tells them. “Like horse, man must be broken before you can ride him.”
This elicits a fresh burst of girlish giggling. Irina suppresses the instinct to shoot them all out of sheer annoyance.
“You humble him. Let him know you are in control. Shove his face between thighs and crush his head like grape. Then… he is yours…”
A collective gasp from the scandalized women. Then, more giggling. They’re intrigued. Irina has them wrapped around her finger. They pepper her with questions, hanging on her every word, until the kids start to complain of boredom. Irina seizes the opportunity to excuse herself to the restroom. She catches Magnus’ eye; he breaks off from the men and hurries after her.
By the time she emerges to rejoin the women, the children have been temporarily placated with juice and cookies, and the topic of discussion has veered in another direction. Irina gazes at the kids, being ignored now that they’re quiet. They look up in curiosity as she approaches them.
“Does anybody know the story of Krampus-nacht?” she asks brightly.
The kids all shake their heads. Irina gives them a big smile.
“My …Uncle. Viktor. He used to tell me stories of Krampus. Krampus is also Christmas figure, but not like Santa. He is not jolly or fat, because he does not make his living on the theft of labor. He is goat-man who collects all the naughty children and punishes them for being bad. So if you are a bully or a thief or you tell lies -- you must beware the Krampus.”
One child puts a hand up. “But what about Santa? Can’t he, I dunno, beat Krampus?”
“No, child. Of all the naughty people in the world, Santa has the most to fear. These toys you receive as gifts -- they are but a mockery of the noble ideal of redistribution of wealth; as your red-suited imposter is a grotesque mockery of Comrade Marx and everything he stood for. This wealth is the stolen labor of the working class!”
She picks up a toy among a dozen or so scattered around.
“The plastic is made from the tears of a mother who cannot feed her own children, but works her fingers to the bone making these toys for entitled bourgeoisie brats who don’t know hardship or strife! Does Santa pay elves? No. Elves work as slaves in North Pole, with no hope of the freedom the rest of us enjoy.
“These gifts are a distraction meant to keep you ignorant of reality. Santa Claus is a tool of the Capitalist regime, a deep cover agent working against the Soviet ideals of true equality among all people. His very actions promote the behaviors that mighty Krampus warns against, keeping you trapped in a cycle of ongoing punishment, so that no matter how much you have, you always want more; no matter how you succeed, you always feel like a failure. This is the nature of Santa Claus -- and of Capitalist oppression. You will always be weak and unworthy so long as you submit yourself to these lies! You must free yourselves. Stand up to the vile treachery of Santa and his Capitalist overlords!”
As if on cue, a hearty “HO HO HO!” sounds from the front door. Abruptly, the kids rush from the kitchen under the indulgent smiles of the adults. The smiles fade as the children converge on the red-suited figure, voices raised as one in a single, unifying cry:
“Gulag for Santa!”