Lemurov, dressed like Little Bo Peep, has arranged a dollhouse version of the Kyiv Poster newsroom at his flat somewhere in the Ukrainian capital.
Many of the paper’s mostly expatriate editorial staff are represented as two-inch action figures that bear a remarkable resemblance to the originals.
Lemurov: Now let’s see. I’ll just remove Welsh Losser from the managing editor’s desk and put him… hmm? Well, I guess I’ll have to just put him back in the shoebox, because when he left that position, the only place for him to go was out! And anyway, I don’t have a managing editor’s desk in my dollhouse because that position didn’t ever really exist. Losser just sat at one of the cramped and crummy old work stations like everyone else, even though he spent a good deal of his time walking around the newsroom trying to get the other journalists to sign petitions that he himself wrote in support of some promotion for himself, such as to the so-called managing editor’s position… Soooo, I’m afraid you’re going back into that shoebox, Weeeelsh…
Welsh Losser action figure: Argh! Now, just a minute there, Lemurov. You can’t just toss me out on my can. I’ve been with this paper for over two years… (now from inside the shoebox)… I’ve got a mind to go raise this issue with Seth Sundance…
Returning his slender but hairy forearm to the confines of the dollhouse, Lemurov conspicuously passes by a strangely solitary figure with an impassive stone-gray face, and moves out into the corridor just beyond the newsroom entrance to find another two-inch action figure.
Lemurov: (smiling warmly) Oh, and don’t you look so cute out in the hallway jabbering away so business-like into that mobile phone while you pace back and forth with that sissy cigarette in your mouth… Well, there’s no smoking in my dollhouse, my furry little friend (he picks up The Ferret action figure by two fingers and kind of dangles him in front of his pursed lips).
Ferret action figure: (not to be confused with Ferret Light, who was smashed to smithereens by a meat-tenderizer-wielding Zippy Zamazda at the residence of Rico Soiree several episodes back) Hey, what are you doing? You can’t treat me like this… I’m a consultant… wait! (his cloven-hooved hands clutch the sides of the shoebox as the lid is fixed firmly into place) Dude, what are you doing?!?
Lemurov: (un-prying those cloven hooves from the edge of that shoebox – ever so gently but with the firmness of a professional dressmaker) In you go… and watch out you don’t bump heads with Losser…
From within the shoebox: Argh!!!
The strangely solitary figure – a veteran member of the Poster’s editorial team no less – appears distinctly aware that his colleagues in the dollhouse are being hauled off one at a time, but nevertheless maintains the composure of a barfly at closing time, as if to say: Yes, I know my time has just about come, but I fully intend to finish what I’m doing until circumstance or the administration of this establishment that I’ve found myself in force me out of my drunken inertia and into the cold reality of life that I know all too well.
Lemurov: (letting his slender fingers traipse into one of the Poster’s twin water closets – both notorious for the clearly visible signs above the overworked shitters that read, “Please don’t throw the paper you just wiped your ass with into the toilet, as this is Ukraine and we’d prefer that the water closet reek of human feces than risk overloading this building’s dilapidated plumbing system,” but also for the fact that these facilities are used day in and day out by well over 40 coffee-guzzling, cigarette-smoking, junk-food-filled and hung-over gay and lesbian or backpack-strapped loser journalists with the intestinal health of someone twice their average age) Oh, and who is this?
The Josh Davies action figure is crouched in position of a gut-wrenching bowel movement with a face that almost looks like it’s freezing.
Josh Davies action figure: Dang blasted, Lemurov. We never even worked together at that rag. And besides, I’ve opened almost half a dozen other English-language Internet wonders since then and fully intend to continue doing so until my well-worn pocket-lint-encrusted ticket gets punched on this planet!
Lemurov: Jooossshh! I’m just going to transplant your delightfully wrinkled buttocks to the bottom floor of my dollhouse, where you have a choice of posing as a night watchman or a Walmart greeter, and the best part is that I don’t even have to re-dress you for either position…
Josh Davies: Well, can you at least let me pull my old-man jeans back on before I make even a bigger stink in this place…?
Lemurov: Of courrrrrse, Josh. Of courrrrse.
At this point, the strangely solitary figure, whose solemn brow is for some reason crowned by a dimly lit halo – a saint, no less – appears to be sporting a wan smile if not a knowing smirk. Nevertheless, the rest of his large frame remains motionless – all the more as Lemurov simply refuses to make a move for him.
Kate Mustard: (being dragged by her limbs between the rows of workstations by Lemurov’s ever-more industrious fingers) Eeek! Bawk, bawk, bawk.
Lemurov: Kaaaate, I’m gonna put you into my animal farm collection… You’re going to just love it!
The sinister shadow of a stiff-haired figure dressed in nothing but an A3 loincloth makes itself known behind Lemurov.
Animal Boy: (gruffly pulling his knit cap over his head) Why haven’t you gotten rid of Saint Stephan? You can put him in your Ukrainian Diaspora collection… and then watch me stomp it to stuff (smiles like a sadistic brat), Ha, ha, ha.
Lemurov: Noooo. That won’t do at all, Andrew…
Animal Boy: (bag-boiled face beaming) It works for me…
Lemurov: (clutching his interlocutor’s hand while staring intensely into his eyes) Oh, Andrew, you wouldn’t dare, would you?!?
To be continued
Filed by Dirk Dickerson, April 21, 2013