Thursday, November 1, 2018

"The Greedy Lemming, a Russian-Style Fable feat. Jordan Peterson" (final preview of vol. 6)

The Greedy Lemming

A Russian-Style Fable by Ryan “Mohnkater” Richie
(b. Orem, Utah, USA)

Once upon a time, there was Lemming named Maxim. He lived in a very dirty den, in the tundra of the Russian Arctic.
His mother was a hoarding House Cat named Helga, and his daddy was a traveling Plumber named Vaughn.
Maxim refused to clean his den, and his mother was always angry at him. She beat him with tinsel and yarn balls from her collection, when he wouldn’t clean his room.
But Maxim just wanted to hang out with his friends, that’s all. Play video games and watch hockey matches in the den. His friends were Brian, the metrosexual Musk Ox, and Ivan, the rapey Ermine.
One day, a Human came by his den and started to take pictures. Maxim bit off his finger, and Ermine raped his stump, while Brain filmed it on his Samsung notebook. It was good fun for everyone.
Maybe the outside world wasn’t so bad, Maxim thought. If I can bite off fingers and stick my willy-wong in the meat, maybe I ought to give playing outside a try.
Maxim discovered a field of mushrooms, mushrooms of every kind. Big African mushrooms, tiny yellow mushrooms, purple mushrooms that tasted like candy frosting and toothpaste. His curiosity got the best of him, and he sat on a red speckled mushroom, until it reached up his bum, and tickled him in the jolly place.
Maxim couldn’t stop after that. He went mushroom to mushroom, squashing them with his bum cheeks, getting his Lemming lovey juices all over the field, even the white-speckled Belgium truffles. And then he chopped them up, and fed them to his friends in a keto-friendly stew.
When his friends and momma found out that they had eaten Maxim’s bumming, they were sore furious. Even though the mushrooms relaxed Maxim, and gotten him outside, like his momma told him to, the field was starting to grow barren. None of the other mushrooms wanted to move to the Russian Arctic, and those who survived the bum storm lived in terror each day of Maxim’s return.
Maxim’s momma sent him to a therapist named Dr. Jordan Peterson, a janitor-like man with a heart of white gold. Jordan Peterson said he could fix Maxim, and save the mushroom village, if Maxim would just clean his room.
With all this cleaning, now, Maxim didn’t have time to stick things up his bum, and his seed started to clog up like ballerinas in a strawberry traffic jam. His prostate got infected. The pain from his rotting seeds could only be relieved by a medical procedure Jordan Peterson recommended, and Maxim had to go once a month to have Jordan Peterson stick his fingers up the Lemming’s bum and caress his sweet sweet seed machine, but only after Maxim had cleaned his room.
And then, Maxim got addicted to opium pills because they were healthier.
The end.




Monday, October 22, 2018

"Dubrovnik, a Fantasy" (a preview of vol. 6)

A Fantasy by Dzmitry Golovin
(b. Pinsk, Belarus)

A day that started in prayer ended with the ashes of burnt flesh billowing in the air, in a miasma of aborted faith.
She came to the gates of our City on a red jilki stag, who scratched his horn against ground upon her arrival. Not in at least seven hundred years had a jilki, with a mane so silver and his horn unscathed from poachers’ bullets, been seen in the fields of Spasitelia without it being dragged here illicitly by King’s hunters. The snipers on the walls of the City – the King’s guards – would have shot them both dead, were it not for the crowd of panicking pilgrims that obscured their firing lines.
When she refused to return the King’s greeting by making the Holy Sign of the Tree, a reverent few were dispatched to detain her and bring her before the royal Obsidian Court, which presided over matters of criminality and municipality.
In an accent that sounded Northern, she screamed at the guards to stop, as they approached the drawbridge. “I am unarmed! I’m not here to cause harm, as long as you respect my jilki. But I cannot allow you to cross that moat, for reasons I must explain to the King. I will surrender willingly, as long as you will take me to him immediately.”
The King was not alone in the Obsidian Court that day. He had called his High Quorum, which included the venerable Monk Sova, a delegate from the Cheburashka tribal council, the Sheik Ras-O-Ghalkesh, and Chancellor Neboskiya from our neighboring commonwealth of Skiourosxylo. The Quorum had intended to meet with the King that day to prepare for the fast-approaching Good Solstice Festival, and pilgrims by the thousands had been showing up in caravans at the gates of Spasitelia, with offerings of candles, beeswax, and cotton, to lay at the altar of the Chapel of the Holy Rebirth, at the center of town. The unusually high number of Bishops, and Monks, in attendance at the court was uncommon in Spasitelia, except for during the Solstice season and the accompanying budget negotiations, when their presence was mandatory, if the Pope did not want to lose out on the Church’s yearly dole of precious Obsidian bars and portions of the pilgrims’ spoils.
Bishops from each parish in the City halted, impressed upon by the Great Spirit, and convened in the Court’s galley, hoping to catch a glimpse of the stranger on the jilki, while those without clerical or journalistic privileges dropped their Solstice preparations and mobbed together to mouth-breathe in a musky awe while she passed.
On the steps of the Court, she clutched at the arm of a guard, while he pulled her from the silver-red jilki, Only then did the crowd see the eyepatch she wore, made from brown Pesarian linen and fashioned against her raven hair with curious steel wires that only a gypsy trader would know how to access. She wore formidable riding boots, made from mammoth skin, still crusted with Northern mud, and a lilac dress, no doubt stolen, and sewn by crafty hands from the piers of the Papal Ocean. She couldn’t have been older than 30. The look of her was so foreign, few outside the clergy’s galley also noticed the nickel chain around her neck, which bore a fine glass ball.
“What happened to your eye?” a guard asked.
“This one?” she asked, pointing to the milky cloud of cataracts on her right. “Or the good one?” pointing to the patch on her left.
The guard laughed.
“Without my jilki, I’m useless. Will you please, in the name of your Holy Solstice and the divine Lord you honor during this season, guide me to your King?”
The guard smirked, saying, “Only because my mother raised me to be a Saint. Which is more than the lot you’ve been given in life. I’m not doing it just because it’s Solstice. In spite of what you may have heard up North, we’re not murdering savages here. I’d be happy to help.”
Some say, they heard her lean towards him, to whisper, “That was your last sermon. I hope it was worth it.”
The King had just lit a pipe of Skiourosxyli moss, when the stranger entered. He left her waiting, while he puffed and scanned the eyes of his Quorum. “Have you lost your mind, Madame –"
“Dubrovnik,” she answered. “Zarazara Dubrovnik, of East Galindos.”
The blood of the Bishops ran white in the galleys. A Galindi in our City, during the holy Festival? What was a savage from the unsettled nomadic valleys, this barbaric pagan, doing here? Didn’t she have a cholera to go catch or a goat to go fuck?
“Madame Dubrovnik. You threaten my City, on the eve of Good Solstice, in the name of what trouble?”
“On behalf of the Gods you will worship, now and henceforth. Every last one of you. If as much your King’s eyelid falters, by the time I leave your City safely on my jilki, my Gods will leave nothing left of your people to mock them.”
Monk Sova broke the silence that followed, chuckling till his tongue drooled on his robe. “What a crock! I’d like to see them try. And by what names do we call your Gods these days? Last I remember, our librarians were a bit confused on that, too, because the Golindi can’t decide what to call their Lords. Why, I believe the whole Golindi pantheon was just replaced with Pesarian jesters from three thousand years ago, with names plucked at random from the dead languages of Tylin scriptures, only a small fraction of which the stoned shamans who picked them actually knew how to pronounce properly. So – Madame Dubrovnik, if I’m even saying that correctly – what should we call your Gods, and for how long can we expect them to keep these names? Or should we just wait for a drunken telegram from the Golindi shaman council every few weeks, until you make up your minds?”
“Fuck off, Sova,” Cheburashka sneered, his tail swaying rhythmically. “You know damn well that you pronounced ‘Madame’ correctly. Well done, just like us grown-ups do. It’s not her fault your brain is only good for mopping up what’s on the lunch menu.”
“I resent this hostility,” the Chancellor exclaimed. “If Sir Cheburashka had been paying attention at all to this morning’s meeting, he would know quite thoroughly that Monk Sova and his priests have been mopping up a lot more than mere lunch meats lately.”
“Good one!” the Cheburashka cackled. “With lines that childish and shitty, maybe the priests’ cocks will start fucking you up the ass, for a change!”
“We’re working on that!” the Monk snapped back. “The entire clergy of the Spasitelian Orthodoxy is under a vow of silence this Solstice, or until our contrition has pleased the Lord and the victims have been healed. Whichever happens first.”
“Your contrition is the abomination!” the stranger yelled. “How dare you think you can repair, with little more than a time-out and a few songs?”
The Sheik, the only one not laughing, waved his hands at his fellowship. “I don’t know why the Cheburashka delegate is acting so sanctimonious. If the Cheburashka religion were as old as the Spasitelian’s, they would certainly have the same problem.”
“Or worse,” the Chancellor agreed. “Prophets in the Cheburashka’s religion are easier to come by than a Pesarian harem. All it takes it a few bottles of wine, and suddenly, everyone is speaking in tongues.”
The Cheburashka shrugged.
“How dare you,” the Sheik scoffed. “For fifty generations, my people have honored Good Solstice, as a token of peace. The only difference between a Pesarian poly-family and a Skiourisxyloan harem are that the Pesarian men still have their full penises. We get it in, and we’re not ashamed of it!”
The Cheburashka then said, “Here here. Skiourisyyloan people are the worst. Can’t even enjoy a good tossed salad in the Chancellor’s house. If anyone deserves a war with the Galindi gods, it’s them.”
“Jilki-shit. As long as a salad isn’t made with web-footed fowl—”
“I wasn’t talking about vegetables, Chancellor.” 
 “Enough!” the King bellowed. “Why must we all be punished by the Gods you claim, only because our Father is the same? The sins of a few priests are not all of our ours to share.”
“Your sins are properties of the commons,” the stranger hissed. “And it’s not contrition or the rapes, or the centuries of Holy Wars upon which this Quorum formed, that you must pay for.”
“What is it, then?”
“The Sin of Forgiveness.”
The galley was neither shocked nor satisfied. The Monk, feeling the Spirit swell in the room, asked: “Forgiveness the sin?”
 “It is your excuse for every evil your people have ever committed. All of you. You spoil this earth with forgiveness.”
The Monk’s voice jumped up an octave, in a boiling rage, “Isn’t that the bloody point?”
“No. The point is to do good while you are still alive. But your people will never truly be good, if they always have a parachute to catch them. And you – you so-called leaders of the Four Faiths, you are the worst of it. You’ve enslaved humankind to forgiveness, and it is your doctrine of forgiveness that you use as your crutch. But it is not a crutch, it is a Sword of Death and Destruction! No one is accountable when anyone can be forgiven!”
The King had heard enough. “Silence! You will not blaspheme our Savior and Creator, while His imagine lays on the Trees of Redemption across this town! Not during Good Solstice!”
“You have no Creator but the dirt you came from!” the stranger shrieked, as quickly as the guards seized upon her. Never had a guest in the court used this tone with his Majesty, especially not on Good Solstice. “How dare you – King of this Damned City – question the nature that birthed you!”
“Get rid of this psycho bitch!” the galley laughed.
“Keep your hands off me, you murderous brutes. You have no power over my Gods, the Gods of Nature, of the Sky and Stars, the Goddess of the Water and Fire.” We should have seen her good eye fall to the ground, stuck to her skull with a wad of honey.
“Is that all of them? HA!”
“The Monkeyman whose false idols hang upon your Solstice Trees is a perversion of true faith. His is not a god of Redemption. He is a God of Human Sacrifice! You’re murderers! All of you! Cannibalizing your own kind is the only virtue that keeps this counsel together! And my Gods have come stop your abominations!”
“Is she still talking?” the Cheburashka sighed, pouring himself some wine.
The King ordered his guards to wait a moment. “If you really think your Gods have any power here, then show us a sign, and I won’t kill you and your jilki!”
“After the Festival—” the Chancellor muttered.
“—After the Festival!”
With her hands newly freed, the stranger unhatched the metal stuck to the side of her raven hair. “Forgive me, people of Spasitelia, if forgiveness is truly what you seek. If not, destroy your idols, and follow me.”
Delicately, she unwrapped the patch around left eye. The ball inside was coated in a spidery film.
By the Gods of the Ancients -- she wasn't blind, at all! What monster from the Old World had done this?
A light, a beam of lava and stardust, burst forth from the hole in her face, pouring across the galley, incinerating the priests and monks therein, until only charred wood and burning silk robes remained.