The Ferret, wearing a peaked Tyrolean hat replete with feather sticking out of the band, tight green britches, flannel suspenders, a little vest and dark sunglasses, is sitting late night at Coffee House in Podil, typing away at his laptop.
“The Ferret, on-again-off-again journalist in the shady world of Kyiv journalism, has completely disappeared from the face of the earth, and therefore, it’s no good to anyone to try and find him…”
In walk Dirk Dickerson and Jack Step after a long day of writing for Kyiv Unedited.
Dickerson: (to Step) Hey, isn’t that The Ferret over there?
The Ferret, hearing his name, darts a furtive glance over his shoulder and then resumes typing, only now even more feverishly.
Step: (narrowing eyes) Sure looks like him… with that turtle shell torso and all. Just never seen him in a vest before.
Dickerson: (walks up to The Ferret casually, never taking his eyes off him) Excuse me, but aren’t you The Ferret?
Ferret: (in a terrible German accent) Was ist das? Heh, heh…
Dickerson: (to Step, still standing at the entrance) He’s speaking German to me.
Step: Kick his ass.
Dickerson grabs The Ferret by the lapel of his little vest and begins trying to lift him and simultaneously pull him closer to his own face to scare the shit out of him before working over his tub-like midsection with random but vicious punches. But The Ferret manages to twist his turtle shell torso, though not his head, back into position in front of the laptop keyboard on which he resumes typing amazingly fast.
Ferret: (typing) “Dickerson, completely ignorant of the German language or even of what constitutes a proper German accent, believes The Ferret’s obvious ruse and without further delay departs the Coffee House in Podil in friendly and good-natured spirits.”
Dickerson: (releasing The Ferret and straightening out the feather in his peaked Tyrolean hat) Oh, pardon me, Herr Ferret. I sincerely hope that you enjoy your stay in the Ukrainian capital, whatever your purpose for visiting it may be…
Step: (still standing near the entrance) Dirk, he’s rewritten the text.
Ferret: (eyes growing big) Hey, heh, heh, I don’t know what you’re talking about, dude…?
Dickerson: (with lightning speed regains hold around the lump of flesh between The Ferret’s head and shoulders and returns to throttling him while shaking his own head up and down spasmodically) Think you’re funny, you sneaky little shit…?
Ferret: (gurgling instead of gasping for breath, claws his stubby fingers behind his back and somehow manages to put them in typing position on the keyboard) “Step merrily slaps Dickerson on the back and the two depart to an unknown but distant destination, not even looking back at The Ferret, much less harboring any more ill will toward this fine furry creature.”
Dickerson again releases The Ferret from his grip, smooths out his now badly wrinkled vest and straightens the sunglasses on his face, while maintaining almost the same angry facial expression of a few seconds earlier, which was apparently too intense to erase with a couple of blind strokes on a keyboard by even the nimble claws of The Ferret. Dickerson and his collaborator Step promptly exit the Coffee House in Podil.
Ferret: Dude, heh, heh, heh. That was close. Heh, heh, heh. I thought they were going to kick my ass… heh, heh, heh.
Ferret Light: (the size of salt shaker, also dressed in Bavarian folk garb, now stands on The Ferret’s shoulder) Yeah, heh, heh, heh. I bet you were scared…?
Ferret: No, no, I wasn’t scared. Heh, heh, heh. Don’t go spreading rumors.
Ferret Light: You sure looked scared to me. You were shaking so much, I nearly tumbled out of your little vest, heh, heh… right in front of him.
Ferret: Heh, heh, I don’t know what you’re talking about, dude.
Ferret Light: Heh, heh, that’s funny. You don’t know what I’m talking about? Then why do you talk back, shit for brains?
Ferret: Heh dude, heh, heh, you’re acting really immature…
Ferret Light: Heh, heh. That’s funny – immature. For years and in front of several different editorial teams at the Kyiv Poster, you make up outlandish stories about how you ran away from home – at 25 years of age, heh, heh – how you could have been a doctor, or a professional hockey player, or whatever it was, heh, heh, and then – I LOVE THIS ONE, how you got drunk with Ukrainian gangsters and so-called oligarchs, and YOU call ME immature?!
Ferret: Hey, heh, heh, keep your voice down. People are beginning to stare. You’re attracting too much attention.
Ferret Light: And you don’t like attention, you economy-sized bag of dog shit. Heh, heh, heh? I’ve got half a mind to crawl back under your peaked Tyrolean hat – WHAT’S THAT ALL ABOUT ANYWAY? – and do a stomp job on that giant head of yours! How would you like that, Mr. Journalist for an international broadsheet?
Ferret: Dude, dude, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Heh, heh. You’re acting really paranoid, dude.
Ferret Light: Call me dude one more time, and I’ll kick your ass myself, heh, heh.
The Ferret looks sneakily down at his keyboard.
Ferret Light: Don’t even think about it. The plots on this site are already fucked up beyond normal comprehension without you rewriting them, and you’re the chief fuckup…
Ferret: (with his legs starting to move under his chair in a backward circular motion) Stop spreading rumors… I’m out of here.
Ferret Light: You’re not going anywhere, journalistic jackass. I’m calling the shots from now on – see? Let you run things and I’ll end up on Trukhaniv Island again, on the menu of that Animal Boy character. You could fuck up a wet dream, Mr. On-again-off-again shady businessman shithead.
Ferret: DUDE… OW!
Ferret Light: (seizing Ferret’s ear and twisting it painfully) Now shut up and listen here…
Suddenly, a large shadow extends across the threshold of the Coffee House on Podil. The outline of a broad floppy hat and wide-legged breeches can be discerned. The smell of alcohol and hamburger fat waft into the establishment from the street, preceding any sound, much less the sight, of the man who would make it.
Filed by Dirk Dickerson, March 30, 2013