Along a wooded trail not far from a McDonald’s on the outskirts of Kyiv, an expatriate writer and a wife half his size find themselves hopelessly lost.
Wife: Jim, are you sure the Yellow Brick Road picks up from this trail?
Hidshit: No, I’m not. But that Zamazda guy managed to get a job – if only briefly – at Soiree’s, and he started along some path also not knowing where the fuck he was going. So, I figure…
Wife: Eeek! It’s Animal Boy!
A gaunt, stiff-haired figure sporting a sour supercilious smile and dressed in nothing more than a loincloth folded out of a distant issue of the Kyiv Poster stands in their way.
Hidshit: (unalarmed, but with a stupid look on his face) Huh… he’s obviously literate. Let’s see if I can make contact. Do you know English?
Animal Boy, standing erect with folded arms, his face, limbs and torso largely covered in mud or dark paint, just smirks, mocking the hapless hikers with his eyes.
Hidshit: I’m a Kyiv-based writer and this is my wi –
Thump!
When the Kyiv-based writer finally comes to his senses, he finds himself in an even worse predicament than simply being lost on a wooded trail with a wife half his size not far from a McDonald’s on the outskirts of the city. In particular, he’s been bound with his chubby bare knees up to his limp chin and his back propped up against a tree that intrinsically contributes to the surroundings of Animal Boy’s woodland retreat. His better half is in a similar position on the other side of the same arboreal column.
At least a foot above his head but still unknown to the unrecognized author swings a parakeet cage fashioned crudely from a Happy Meal box from which Ferret Light peeks inquisitively at the unexpected guests.
Ferret Light: Heh, heh. He hit you with one of those coconuts he carries with him… heh, heh. Don’t know where he got them from on the outskirts of Kyiv, though. Heh, heh.
Hidshit: (still half-dazed, glasses slipping off his face) Huh?
Wife: Jim, Jim… Can you hear me? We’ve fallen into the clutches of Animal Boy. But I’ve yet to be raped, defiled or made a reasonable offer to serve as an editorial assistant after his triumphant return to What’s Off.
Ferret Light: (to no one in particular): Heh, heh… Sweaty Tank Top.
Meanwhile, in the center ring squats Animal Boy, or Andrew Plum, as he was formerly known, on his haunches, rifling through the knapsack he unceremoniously stripped off the back of an unconscious Hidshit. Several books tumble out among other, more mundane, pieces of basic hiking paraphernalia.
Ferret Light: (to Hidshit) He’s checking out your books, dude… heh, heh.
Animal Boy: (his eyes narrow nastily while reading to himself and subconsciously scraping his teeth against each other): What’s this stuff…? “Evening in Byzantium” … Ha! No surprises there (begins to drool a little)… And what else have we got (mockingly) – Ooh, I’m a writer: “The Da Da Da Da Vinci Code”. Of course! Yuk, yuk, yuk… Hmm. Never heard of this crap: “10 Minutes to Parochial PR Prowess” … By Welsh … What the fuck!?!
Another coconut from a pile neatly stacked in the center ring goes flying at Hidshit and the tree.
Ferret Light: (gently splashed with coconut milk, to Hidshit again) Heh, heh. That almost took off your head, dude. But you didn’t hear that from me… heh, heh.
Hidshit: (now concerned but looking no less stupid, gropes for the hand of his better, or at least smaller, half, on the other side of the tree) Did you pack my owl poem in there?
Wife: No, er… Was I supposed to?
Hidshit: Well, it doesn’t matter now. But I distinctly remember asking you to do so…
Ferret Light: Dude, heh heh… He’s gonna pummel you with those coconuts, hitting you in the face and head, or at least say lots of mean and hurtful things about your literary taste… which is kind of cool… Heh, heh.
Hidshit: Honey, is that The Ferret talking to me?
Wife: Ferret Light, I believe, dear.
Hidshit: Well, could you please let that weasel know that I’ve heard all about his getting fired from the Kyiv Poster and that there’s no longer a place for him at the Kyiv Writers’ Club, whether he knows Welsh Losser or not…
Ferret Light: Hey, dude, what are you talking about? You’re spreading rumors…
Animal Boy, tearing pages out of the Welsh Losser book, goes into an angry shaman dance consisting of high knee jerks and patted slaps across his open mouth to produce a childlike imitation of an American Indian chant. He stops and smiles demonically as Losser’s air-brushed photo with expensive watch prominently portrayed in the foreground bend as it melts in the flames of Animal Boy’s fire.
Then, from just beyond the bushes…
Voice One: Well, Curry, I must say that I am pleasantly surprised to see your interest in the outdoors life.
Voice Two: I was trying to mooch a chicken burger and got lost.
Voice One: Oh… Well, all the same, I’m happy to have the company… all the more with this being Animal Boy country…
Voice Two: Who’s that?
Voice One: One vicious son of a bitch, if I may be frank.
Voice Two: May I be frank too, Josh?
Voice One: You may.
Voice Two: Can you lend me 100 hryvnias for a chicken burger and a metro token home?
Voice One: Can you hear someone performing an angry shaman dance behind those bushes, Curry?
Voice Two: No. But can you give me at least 50 hryvnias for the chicken burger, and I can walk back across to the Right Bank?
Voice One: (stopping to listen) Darn it. I may be a saggy-assed old man, but that’s an angry shaman dance if I ever heard it.
To be continued…
Filed by Dirk Dickerson, April 5, 2013