“And then what happened?”
“He wrapped his chains around my neck and started choking the life out of me.”
“And did you die?”
“Well, no… that is, I can’t say. You see, the courtroom turned into an opera house filled with several notable figures from the expatriate community here in Kyiv.”
“Did you hear that?”
“I’ve heard enough.”
“No, no. Go on, Zippy! What did he do next?”
“Next, he goes back up to his courtroom cage and slams his shackles against the bars, setting himself free to leave by a side exit.”
“That son of a bitch!”
“I told you he was dangerous.”
“He’s a freak of nature. That’s what he is!”
“All right, boys, pick him up.”
*
Meanwhile, at the very moment that Zippy Zamazda is relating his gut-wrenching account of his own brutal murder at the unexpectedly powerful hands of Saint Stephan, who viciously attacked Zippy while the latter was in the process of performing his solemn civic duty in a court of law as a character(less) witness against Stephan, who stood accused of slandering both the personal and business reputation of PR executive and Kyiv-based writer Welsh Losser via the still hardly known but some believe highly promising Internet publication Kyiv Unedited, The Ferret (a leading personage of Kyiv Unedited) has casually availed himself of free seating right in front of a major Kyiv synagogue on a beautiful spring afternoon.
Remarkably, The Ferret exudes an aura of serenity and (as at least one witness has noted) an uncommonly pleasing appearance. “He looked good,” was the way the witness put it. One can just imagine the scene: The Ferret, his tadpole legs, in shapeless jeans, not dangling menacingly in anticipation of some mischief to be wrought against the world, but resting gently from a bench on the freshly scrubbed pavement.
His torso – so often described as bent into a sinister hunch more often than not associated with the shell of a tortoise or some other sub-mammalian creature than the back of an honest, upright man – is erect, a flagpole of earnest intentions.
His visage, so often described in the most unspeakable of odious terms – sneaky, base, manipulative, underhanded, entirely incapable of dignified expression – now emits the glow of a saint’s, a man free of sin, or at least well on his way toward redemption and spiritual renewal.
Unfortunately, Dear Readers, our only source for this hagiographic description of The Ferret comes from a person whose own supposed claims to sainthood have lately fallen under serious suspicion, whose earthly reputation has been cast into the long dark shadows of infamy and disrepute.
That’s right, Saint Stephan, so recently frog-marched from the premises of a Podil discount eatery, apparently made a beeline therefrom, half a city center away, and JUST COINCIDENTALLY happened upon the new and improved Ferret described above; a Ferret utterly devoid of selfish, sinful motives, but somehow transformed – purportedly by the power of the Hebrew faith – into a saint himself.
Now just forget for a moment, place it completely out of your mind, that countless passages from Kyiv Commix have referred to The Ferret as a Jew, albeit an apparently closet one intent on convincing anyone who would lend him credibility that he, that is The Ferret, was a Born-Again Christian (as well as a could-have-been doctor, hockey player, etc.).
Also disregard, for the sake of argument, that he was supposedly witnessed in this ‘state of bliss’ by the essentially defrocked self-canonized Saint Stephan, an accused slanderer and former alcoholic who was fired by that newspaper that we’ve all heard just about as much of as anyone can stomach at this point.
So why in Hell’s half-acre, I ask you, esteemed readers, would The Ferret be posing in front, of all places, a synagogue, on a sunny afternoon, in full view of all and any leading citizens whom he may have interviewed in his pursuance of his dubious journalistic career; of the sundry colleagues whom he took no little pain to convince of his credentials as a Ukrainian nationalist with fervent non-Judaic beliefs?
I mean, we are essentially being asked to believe that a Jew posing as a Christian has suddenly turned into a saint in front of a Hebrew house of worship.
Really folks, is this just not one more piece of evidence, yet another weight on the scale, now tipped irreversibly against the fantastic claims of Stephan, martyr-turned-superhero freshly returned from those United States where he had supposedly hobnobbed with the Hollywood elite? Enough is enough! The man is a fraud, a charlatan, a…
*
“Kilo Charlie-12, Code Five.”
“Twelve, copy, go ahead.”
The police radio crackles, static blares, and the comfortable, coffee-and-donuts existence of the Podil-area police cruiser is shattered… as if a brick had crashed through its windshield, a madman had leapt onto the hood, a bum-prophet had rocked and then flipped over the squad car, scattering its contents – radio, notepads, night sticks and flashlights, half-filled styrofoam cups flying helter-skelter overhead.
“Possible peeping tom on corner of Khoriva and Mezhigorska.”
“Copy, gotta description?”
“Affirmative, stand by, Kilo Charlie-12.”
The radio crackles again. Silence descends upon the squad car. It’s nearly 11 p.m. and their shift is about to end. The only thing on the streets at this time of night are those stupid-assed students, the mild-mannered lumber-sexual ferrying his tattoo-stained over-educated girlfriend to a place of safety, late-night coffee, yet another dumb-fuck conversation held in a public place for those who don’t want to hear.
“Kilo Charlie-12, are you still with me?”
“Roger, Tango Tanya Titty Twister. We’re still here but we don’t like it.”
“White male, six-foot-something, over fifty; do you read me?”
“Affirmative.”
“Approach with caution. He could be crazy.”
“Copy. So are we.”
Officers laugh.
“There he is… near the window of the Fried Sun!”
“Hit the lights.”
The street goes dark. It’s after 11, after all, and this district of Kyiv just loves to save on power.
“Kilo Charlie-12, waiting for update, any date… please respond.”
“But there was no response. So the dispatcher just assumed they questioned the prowler, the supposed peeping tom, and clocked off.”
“But the car was overturned, the roof stomped in and a brick was thrown through the driver’s-side window.”
“It wasn’t Stephan.”
“It sure looked like him.”
“Is this about Kyiv Commix?”
“What?
“That’s what he said.”
“That’ s what who said?”
“The Man-in-the-Box.”
“Stephan?”
All laugh.
Filed by Dirk Dickerson, May 11, 2017