Short Stories of Colin Cohen (DRAFT)

2010-02-08T09:58:00.000-08:00

The Last Days of Kafka (2010)

An Ox in the House (2010)

On Television (2008)

The Revenge of Stalin (2007)

Thirst (2007)

Prague Gothic (2007)

Mr. Enis (2006)

Black Balsams and Horseradish Sandwiches (1999)

The Last Days of Kafka

2010-02-08T09:56:00.000-08:00

THE LAST DAYS OF KAFKA (2010)

THE old train sputtered at such a slow speed that a fast walker could’ve easily overtaken it.

Inside one of the cars a tall and frail man of thirty-nine—a man with a ghost-like complexion—looked around and noticed that the only passengers remaining were others just like him—men half-alive—men taking their final journey. And he half-expected Charon to walk through the door and lead them the rest of the way. He even reached into his pocket for a one-heller coin, just in case.

So, he wasn’t surprised at all when a god-like entity entered the car, even if he were dressed as a train conductor.

"Usti nad Zapomnenim," the man bellowed unemotionally. "Last stop. Usti nad Zapomnenim."

The conductor then exited to the next car, and the train came to a stop in front of a tiny and dilapidated and empty station. And the men, moments later, stood up, almost in unison; and, moments after that—in single file—they mechanically walked out into the dim cold morning light of the town.

The first man off saw, in the near distance, a large white edifice sitting on top of a small hill. The only building in town. One seemingly glowing in front of the smoky fog. And, while maintaining a single file, he and the rest silently marched toward it, as if in a chain gang.

Later on, when he reached the gate of the building, the tall and frail man looked down at the dying river below—with its flow barely a trickle. Which was just before a short man bumped into him gently from behind, signaling that he should proceed.

He then entered the sanitarium and was immediately greeted by a stoic looking nurse, who handed him a card with a number. And he took it and sat on a nearby bench with the others and waited.

And waited.

It was a long wait, but he didn’t mind. He had time. He had eternity.

Which didn’t arrive until nearly sunset.

"Mr. Kafka," the nurse at this time spoke, while looking over his file, "you do realize that this is a provincial establishment. Our staff doesn’t speak German well. Some not even a word."

"I realize."

"Would, wouldn’t you be more comfortable some place closer to Prague, or even in Austria?"

"My doctor recommended the air here."

"Did he mention that we don’t have private rooms?"

"It does not matter."

"Very well. Nurse Cerna will show you to your room."

Suddenly, he felt a coughing spell oncoming and instinctively reached into his pocket for a handkerchief.

The spell was long and violent; and, when it finally subsided, he looked at the blood-stained cloth, unable to determine which stain was newer.

Just at that moment, Nurse Cerna, a large woman with enormous dark eyes, lifted him with ease off his seat and into a wheelchair, before leading him down a seemingly endless and eerily silent corridor.

The journey was so long that he lost track of the time, especially when his eyes wandered toward the misshapen ceiling, where the filthy paint conjured images of beasts—beasts long hidden just below his consciousness.

Finally, she wheeled him inside a large room, where a small group of men surrounded the bed of an obese man Kafka’s age, who was reading aloud from a notebook.

"Lieutenant Dub," the man spoke, "who thought this horrible liquor was going to his head, tapped his finger on the table and lucidly explained to Captain Sagner: ‘The district commissioner and I have always said, "Patriotism, loyalty to duty, self-achievement—these are the true weapons in war." I’m reminded of this especially today, when our troops are on the cusp of crossing the border.’"

The obese man then fell silent. And the men around him, who looked on as if they were listening to the word of God, glanced at each other uncomfortably for a few moments.

"Well?" one asked.

"Aren’t you gonna finish?" inquired another.

"There is no more, gentlemen," answered the obese man. "Perhaps there will be no more."

"You can’t just end it without finishing the story," said a third.

"I don’t know what I can tell you."

Suddenly, he started coughing, as violently as Kafka had—only without a handkerchief—before wiping the product of the fury onto his gown, which was far from clean beforehand.

"Do, do you think," timidly began one of the acolytes, "do you think you could sign my copy?"

"What for?" barked the obese man. "What good will it do you now?"

The timid man responded by lowering his head. And the obese man sighed; or, more accurately, moaned.

"Give it here," he finally uttered.

Instantly, the timid man brightened and quickly took from inside his robe the first volume of The Fortunes of Good Soldier Svejk—which was wrapped in the finest leather cover—and handed it to the obese man, who quickly signed and returned it.

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Hasek—thank you!"

"Jarda. My friends call me Jarda."

"Jarda."

"Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me . . ."

In response, the men smiled and nodded at Hasek before quickly taking their leave, just as the nurse wheeled Kafka to the free bed next to him.

And Hasek took just one look at the Semitic features of Kafka’s face before reddening with anger.

"What’s this," he howled, "it’s not enough the Jews have taken over Prague—now they have to take over my death bed, too?"

"Mr. Hasek," the nurse bellowed, "I’ve told you before to keep your bigotry to yourself. You’ll soon discover how meaningless your petty prejudices truly are."

"Oh, don’t get so upset, nurse. Most of these Jews don’t even understand Czech; apart from the numbers on bills."

"Sometimes not even that," Kafka murmured as he was helped into bed.

"So, you speak Czech. What a miracle. I’m to be stuck with one of the few Czech-speaking Jews in the world. Nurse, please find me another bed."

"Find yourself one. Now, Mr. Kafka, if you need anything, just ring the bell on the end table."

"Thank you, nurse."

"Thank you, nurse," Hasek parodied, as the nurse left. "Where’d you learn to speak Czech so well, Jew?"

"My father’s house. He forced us to speak it."

"Why?"

"This is his country, too. And mine."

In reply, Hasek grumbled something under his breath, before turning away and pulling the covers to his head.

Which was just before sleep came.

To both men.

"FRANZ Kafka!" a monstrous voice echoed in his head, causing his whole body to shake.

Then, the voice repeated itself.

And, when he opened his eyes, Kafka saw Hasek standing at the foot of his bed holding his chart with a surprised expression on his face.

"You’re Franz Kafka?" Hasek asked, with a bitter tone. "Franz Kafka, the writer?"

"You’ve heard of me?" Kafka groggily replied.

"I’ve read some of your stories. If you can call them that. ‘Absurd nonsense’ is a better name for them. Men turning into bugs and ridiculous penal colonies."

"Yes, and you are one to judge literary quality, Jaroslav Hasek. The author of pure and utter dreck. The ramblings of a drunkard. A common street urchin can write more coherently than you."

"You filthy . . ."

Quickly and awkwardly, Hasek rushed toward Kafka and swung his arm at him—missing Kafka, but knocking Kafka’s end table onto the floor, along with the bell.

Moments later, Hasek rolled up his sleeves. And muttered, "It’s time for a little pogrom."

"I should warn you," Kafka replied, while sitting up fearlessly, "my father was a boxer, who taught me well. Very well. Even in my state I can still knock you to the floor. Especially in your state."

"Boxer? . . . You, your father’s not Hermannek?"

"Well, I’ve certainly never called him that; but yes, his name is Hermann."

"He’s got a little shop on Staromak?"

"Yes."

Hasek, in reaction, began to smile—almost against his will. And, as he did, he lowered his fists and sat on his bed.

"Why," he uttered, "he, he’s more Czech than me."

"That’s quite possible," said Kafka.

"You know, I think he’s the only man in Prague who can out drink me."

"That’s quite possible, too."

"How come I’ve never seen you with him?"

"I don’t frequent pubs and such places."

"No, I don’t imagine someone like you would."

"What does that mean?"

"A member of the literati hobnobbing with us common folk?"

"Listen to you talk, like you’re some kind of proletariat. Why, you’re likely the richest writer in the country. I doubt even Capek makes what you do. Seriously, what you earn off Svejk in one day probably exceeds my writing earnings for a lifetime."

Suddenly, Nurse Cerna burst inside the room.

"What’s wrong?" she screamed. "I heard a bell."

"I’m sorry, nurse," Kafka spoke. "I knocked the table over by accident."

Skeptically, she came over; and, while warily looking at Hasek, picked up the table and bell.

"Don’t let this ruffian bully you, Mr. Kafka," she told him.

"Oh, have no fear of that, Nurse Cerna," Hasek jokingly replied. "He’s the son of one Hermann Kafka of Old Town Square Prague—a man who once stared down a whole street of rioters. And I should know. For I was one of them."

"If he bothers you, Mr. Kafka," she added before leaving, "you let me know."

"I’ll say this for you, Jew," Hasek then whispered, "at least, you’re no rat."

FOR Hasek, there were bad days, and even worse ones.

This particular morning was one of the latter. He awoke in a frenzy of hacking, and was coughing so badly that he couldn’t even see. And, when it finally subsided and his eyes gained focus, he saw that his pillow was drenched in blood and mucus.

On bad days, he could usually drag himself outside for a short walk on the grounds, but on days like this all he could do was scurry around the halls a bit in his wheelchair.

At least, it was something, he told himself. Something that would remind him he was still alive.

Well, he crawled into the chair just as Kafka awoke, and he slowly and painfully made his way toward the exit, where he nearly bumped into a smiling Nurse Cerna, who was accompanied by a well-dressed man about Hasek’s age.

The stranger was also smiling; that is, until he saw the man sitting in the chair in front of him. Which is when he instantly turned away, while looking quite uncomfortable.

"Good morning, Mr. Hasek," he muttered.

"It was," Hasek nastily replied, before pushing his way through the two people.

"Mr. Kafka," the nurse proudly announced, "you have a visitor."

Hasek, at the same time, rolled himself down the hallway with all his might.

But, by the time he reached the end of the first corridor, he was out of breath. In fact, he needed to rest five minutes just to acquire sufficient strength to go back to his room. And when he finally reached the threshold, he saw the visitor sitting on Kafka’s bed talking to him.

"You must do what I ask, Max," Kafka pleaded.

"I can’t," Max pleaded back. "Ask me anything else. You are more than a brother to me. I’ll do anything. Anything but that."

"You must burn them."

"I can’t."

Instantly, Kafka grabbed Max by the lapel, and hollered, "It is my property! Destroy it, you hear—destroy it."

In reply, Max lowered his eyes.

"Promise me," Kafka insisted, with his voice becoming suddenly faint.

"I . . . I promise," murmured Max. He then stood up, and, on the verge of tears, rushed toward the door.

Soon, he passed Hasek without acknowledgment, and only stopped when he felt something holding his jacket.

Which is when he turned around and saw Hasek looking up at him, with his eyes ablaze.

"What do you want?" Max asked, in a loud whisper.

"Burn what?" Hasek whispered back.

"What are you talking about?"

"What are you to burn?"

"I don’t see how it’s any of your business."

Seconds later, Max pushed Hasek’s hand away and started walking off.

But Hasek followed, as best he could.

"Brod!" he then screamed, once he realized the chase was quixotic.

On hearing this, Max stopped, but didn’t turn around. And Hasek rolled up to him and lifted himself out of the chair, before grabbing hold of Max for balance.

"What does he want you to burn?" Hasek demanded.

"His novels," Max replied, just as he started crying.

"He has written novels?"

Max nodded back.

"Are, are they like his stories?" Hasek asked.

"Better," answered Max.

"Better? And you, you’re gonna burn them?"

"What else can I do?"

Hasek, in response, forced Max to face him.

"What gives you the right?" Hasek roared.

"Me?" meekly spoke Max. "Their not mine; their his."

"What gives him the right, the selfish little kike!"

"Let me go!"

"Listen, you worthless wretch—you’re gonna publish those novels, every single word."

"No!"

"The greatest writer Prague has ever known, and you’d turn his poetry into ash? You’d be damned. For such crime there can be no absolution!"

"Leave me alone!"

Soon after, Max pushed Hasek away, causing the man to fall to the floor, and then he ran off.

"You won’t do it, Brod!" Hasek screamed. "I know you won’t!"

Well, a short time later, Hasek crawled back onto his chair and slowly made his way back to his bed.

"What was all that screaming about?" Kafka asked when Hasek passed.

"I don’t see how it’s any of your business," Hasek replied.

"You know Max?"

"I know him."

"He’s a very good writer, don’t you think?"

"If you like that sort of stuff."

Just then, Hasek lifted himself into bed and turned away from Kafka, and pulled the covers up to his head. And murmured, "I lied."

"Excuse me?" Kafka replied.

"When I told you yesterday that I had read some of your stories, I lied."

"What do you mean?"

"I’ve read them all. Every single one. In fact, I still have them at my home in Lipnice." Hasek then paused for a few seconds, and added, "Mr. Kafka, you are looking at a jealous man. A man jealous of your talent and accomplishments."

"You?"

"I’m a failure, you see. You see, it doesn’t matter how many books I sell; I’m still a failure. All I ever wanted was recognition. Just a little recognition. To be considered a real writer, not just some uneducated scribbler.

"Yesterday, you called my book ‘dreck.’ But do you wanna know why it made me so mad? Because that’s what many publishers called it. All of them, actually. That’s why I had to self-publish. No one would touch it. Not because they thought it wouldn’t sell—they knew it would. But because it was dreck."

"If it’s confession time," Kafka uttered after a brief silence, "then I guess it’s my turn. I never really thought your book was dreck. I, I was just lashing out. I . . . I loved every page. Every single page. You’re a modern Rabelais, Mr. Hasek—a Cervantes even. And if publishers are too stupid to see that, never you mind. History will prove them wrong.

"You call yourself a failure. But let me tell you a little story. About a month ago, I was walking through Prague and I saw a group of teenage boys acting out a scene from your book. One of the bawdy ones, of course. They had memorized all the best lines. Through them, Mr. Hasek, Svejk will live on past you. He will live forever. These children will pass it onto their children and their children’s children.

"I should be the one who’s jealous. When I die, I’ll be quickly forgotten. But you . . ."

Suddenly, tears streamed down Hasek’s face. He couldn’t remember the last time he cried like that—if he ever had.

"Don’t be so sure you’ll be forgotten, Mr. Kafka," he soon after uttered, with his voice breaking. "Don’t be so sure."

"FRANZ Kafka!" the voice echoed in his head.

Though, this time it wasn’t so monstrous.

Kafka opened his eyes and saw a smiling Hasek staring down at him.

"It’s time, Mr. Kafka," Hasek cooed.

"Time for what?" replied Kafka.

"You’ll see. Come on, let’s go."

"Go where? I’m sorry, but I don’t have the strength."

"You will."

Hasek then helped Kafka into his wheelchair and slowly pushed him into the hallway, where they were greeted by a surprised-looking Nurse Cerna.

"Mr. Hasek!" she howled. "What are you doing with Mr. Kafka?"

"Ah, my dear Nurse Cerna," Hasek howled back with a grin, "the better question is what has Mr. Kafka done to me!"

Well, as the two made their way through the hospital, Kafka looked up at the misshapen ceiling. But no matter how hard he tried, he could no longer see the beasts.

And a short time later, they exited the building into a beautiful sunny morning. Which is when Hasek stopped and took a deep breath.

"Well?" he asked the man in the wheelchair.

"What?" the man in the wheelchair asked back.

"Shall we walk down to the river?"

"I told you, Mr. Hasek, I can’t."

"But we can."

And, without waiting for a reply, Hasek lifted Kafka up, and the two men gently strode down the small hill, while leaning against one another. Together, they complemented each other to the extent that they appeared almost as one healthy body.

Then, when they were about half way to the water, Kafka slipped on a stone.

Quickly, Hasek caught him with his bear-like arm, which he kept around Kafka’s shoulders for support.

And Kafka reciprocated.

"Can I call you Franta?" Hasek asked, with his face beaming with joy as it reflected the nearly blinding sun.

"You may," Kafka affirmed.

"And you call me Jarda. That’s what my friends call me."

Soon, they reached the bank of the river, and they could see a skiff in the near distance, manned by a single ethereal boatman.

"He’s here for us, Franta," Hasek said.

"I know," replied Kafka.

"Have you got your heller ready?"

Kafka smiled at this.

Which was strange, he thought. For he had almost forgotten he knew how.

"Are you scared?" Kafka asked.

"A little," Hasek told him. "You?"

"Not anymore."

2010-01-03T17:38:00.000-08:00

An Ox in the House (2010)

On Television (2008)

The Revenge of Stalin (2007)

Thirst (2007)

Prague Gothic (2007)

Mr. Enis (2006)

Black Balsams and Horseradish Sandwiches (1999)

AN OX IN THE HOUSE (2010)

2010-01-03T17:32:00.000-08:00

AN OX IN THE HOUSE (2010)

Early in the morning a police car sped through our nation's capital with its sirens blaring. A casual observer might've believed that it was in pursuit of some local miscreant; that is, until this observer could see that a car was actually pursuing it -- a dark sedan, from which men were shooting intermittently.

Watching this odd event from her window, Annie, an attractive woman in her early thirties, yawned in between sips of coffee. Another set of gunshots coming from the opposite direction only caused her to look down at her watch.

"Come on, Max," she cried out, "I don't want to be late for the new congressman."

She took a quick look around the block.

"Besides," she added, "the gunfire seems to be at a lull."

"Coming, Mom," a young voice shouted back.

Moments later, there was a low rumble from the back of the apartment, followed by the sound of prancing feet.

A small boy of five, with thick, curly brown hair, rushed to his mother, carrying a knapsack filled with books -- a knapsack so large that it was almost as big as him and most certainly heavier. Gasping for breath, he stopped in front of her and looked up with his large, innocent eyes. The cynical expression on Annie's face suddenly melted. She smiled and gently caressed his cheek.

"You think you could make at least one friend this semester?" she asked.

"They're all dumb," he curtly replied.

"They're not dumb -- they're five years old."

"They haven't even read Dostoevsky . . . not even in translation!"

Annie rolled her eyes, turned, and headed toward the front door. As she did -- no matter how hard she tried -- she couldn't avert her eyes from the eviction notice lying on a bureau nearby.

* * *

As a gilded Amtrak train chugged its way toward Union Station, the heavy-set engineer in the front car dug his shovel into a bin of dollar bills labeled "TAXPAYER FUNDING." With great exertion, he heaved the money into the furnace, and the engine roared to life.

Meanwhile, inside one of the compartments, an unshaven passenger wearing a suit that looked slept-in raised his eyes from his newspaper. What he saw he hoped was an apparition -- a leftover from the previous night of debauchery. For, toward the front of the cabin, he saw a set of horns protruding above a seat.

He nudged the man next to him and pointed at the phenomenon. The man's eyes widened as he gasped.

"You see it?" asked the disheveled gentleman.

"You . . . you don't think that's the . . ."

"I always suspected he lived in DC."

* * *

In the deep bowels of the Capitol Building, Sam, a young man wearing a bow tie and suspenders, spoke nervously into a telephone.

"No," he said, "former Representative Fisk's VIP pass to the Pussycat Ranch is not transferable to the new congressman."

As he hung up, Annie rushed inside and slammed the door behind herself.

"Is he here yet?" she queried, in a tone that sounded more like a plead than a question.

"You're safe."

Annie sighed and collapsed onto her chair, which was just a few steps from the entrance.

"Know anything about him?" she asked.

"Just that his name is Bo somethingoranother. Sounds like a real oaf."

"The more things change . . ."

A large ox, standing on his hind legs, burst inside the office. Sam's face turned red with anger.

"Hey," he hollered, "no pets allowed in the Capitol, unless they've been properly earmarked."

"I'm Bo Vine," the ox uttered. "The new congressman. So to speak."

After a few seconds of shock, Sam picked up a nearby copy of the Constitution; and after finding the appropriate place, began rapidly reading aloud.

"No Person shall be a representative who shall not have attained to the age of twenty five years, and been seven years a citizen of the United States, and who shall not, when elected, be an inhabitant of that state in which he shall be chosen."

"Well," Bo uttered, "I'm none of those things I can't be."

"This is horrific! We'll be a laughingstock."

"Laughingstock?" Annie countered. "Sam, we've had three congressmen in eighteen months. The last one was caught drinking out of a urinal."

Sam, catching a whiff of Bo, waved his hand across his nose. "At least, he knew how to use one."

"I don't understand how someone could vote for an ox," Annie mused.

"I don't understand, either," Bo replied. "Farmer Jones came for me yesterday and says I'm elected, and then puts me on the train. I'm just thankful I didn't have to ride in a cattle car."

"I wonder who else knows about this?" Sam uttered, as he reached for the remote on his desk and turned on the big-screen television hanging on the wall.

On the monitor, a group of reporters were following Rep. Slon, a middle-aged man with a big red nose, through the rain.

"His election," the congressman howled, "is an outrageous mockery of our distinguished institution -- a blatant attempt to make us look like buffoons."

Seconds later, the esteemed gentleman slipped and fell into a puddle.

Sam quickly changed the channel, to where Rep. Osel -- a man who looked very much like Rep. Slon apart from having big blue ears instead of a large proboscis -- was conducting an impromptu news conference.

"He certainly won't caucus with my party," the congressman insisted. "Just imagine -- an ox in Congress! What would PETA say?"

Sam again changed the channel, finding a reporter speaking to a farmer.

"I had no idea he was an ox," the farmer apologetically told the woman. "They said he was incapable of sexual impropriety, and that was good enough for me."

Sam turned off the television and looked at Bo, who was smiling at him.

"That's my neighbor," Bo spoke proudly, pointing at the screen. "I've even pooed on his lawn."

"Well, Annie, you'd better set him up with some housing."

As Sam left the office, Annie's phone rang. She picked it up and heard a mechanical voice on the line.

"Hello, Annie Beckmann . . . this is . . . ACME Collection Agency. You owe . . . seven hundred --"

Annie slammed the phone down.

"Who was that?" Bo asked.

"Just my morning wakeup call."

Sam reentered and turned to Annie.

"Well, are you finding him something?" Sam questioned.

Annie paused momentarily in thought, before turning to Bo. She smiled, and he smiled back.

"Hey, Sam," she said, "just how much is the Congressional housing allowance?"

Before Sam could answer, the burly House Sergeant at Arms entered carrying an immense Bible.

"I'm here to administer the oath of office."

He came up to Bo and put the Bible in front of him.

"Put your left hand on the Bible --"

"Actually, I'm a Hindu."

"All right -- just put your hand in the air."

"Will a hoof do?"

* * *

On the other side of the Capitol, Rep. Osel was sitting in his office reading a newspaper. He shook his head and showed Rep. Slon -- who was standing over his shoulder -- the headline, which read: "CONGRESSIONAL APPROVAL RATING AT ZERO."

"See," Rep. Slon chuckled, as he taped the paper, "we're improving already."

"I just hope we know what we're doing."

"Listen -- after a few months of having an ox in Congress, even we'll look good."

"I had to call in a lot of favors to get him elected."

"So did I."

"We're still gonna split his votes fifty-fifty, right?"

"I told you we would. Don't you trust my word?"

"No. But I guess yours is no worse than mine. How -- how can you be sure he'll do as he's told?"

"He's an ox, you idiot. You tell an ox to do something, and it does it."

"If this comes out . . ."

"Why would it ever come out? We're in this together, aren't we?"

The two men reluctantly shook each other's hand.

* * *

A taxi inched through downtown. In the back seat, Annie and Bo sat.

"What does a congressman actually do?" Bo asked.

"If he wants to succeed, as little as possible."

The cab stopped in front of Annie's apartment building, and the two exited.

"This is where you're gonna live," Annie said, pointing to the crumbling structure, which was surrounded by a front lawn strewn with garbage.

Bo jumped up with excitement.

"You mean, I get this whole yard to myself?"

"This way," she replied, shaking her head.

She led him into the apartment and then into the kitchen, where she motioned to the floor.

"This is where you'll sleep."

"I'd prefer the lawn," he said, lowering his head in disappointment.

"I'm home!" Max shouted from near the front door.

"I'm in here, sweetie," Annie answered.

Max rushed inside, but stopped suddenly when he saw Bo.

"What the . . ."

"Honey, this is Bo -- the new congressman."

"So to speak," Bo added.

"The new what?" Max asked.

"Congressman. He's gonna be staying with us."

"But he's an . . ."

"Ox."

Annie looked down at her watch and headed toward the kitchen door.

"I've got to make a call. I'll be right back."

She exited and Max cautiously approached Bo, shaking his head in disbelief.

"You're not real."

"I feel real," Bo replied, touching his chest.

"Everyone knows an ox can't talk."

"Everyone but oxes."

"Oxen. The plural of 'ox' is 'oxen.'"

"Not according to oxes."

Outside the kitchen, Annie quietly pleaded on the phone.

"Yes, I can pay the rent. . . . No, I don't have the money. But I've got a government voucher. . . . It's a promise to pay. . . . A promise from the government. . . . Hello, are you still there?"

After completing her call, Annie returned to the kitchen and cooked her two men supper.

"Any good?" Annie asked, as Bo finished.

"I'll let you know after I regurgitate it."

"Well, Max, I think it's time for bed."

Max stood up and walked off with an expression of nausea, just as Bo belched -- so loudly that the man in the apartment below screamed, "Earthquake!"

"I don't think Max likes me," Bo spoke after the furniture stopped rattling.

"It's just that he's never seen an ox eat."

"It sure beats the other end."

"Speaking of which, are you housebroken?"

"As housebroken as any congressman, I reckon."

"That's what I was afraid of. I'll leave some newspaper on the floor."

After doing so, Annie left the kitchen and was confronted by Max.

"When is he gonna go?" Max whispered.

"We need the money," she whispered back. "You can understand that, can't you?"

"But he's disgusting. And dumb!"

"Sshhh. He could hear you."

The kitchen door creaked open, and a solemn-looking Bo peeked his head out.

"Oxes have feelings, too, you know."

A suddenly red-faced Max lowered his head.

* * *

Both Annie and Sam were furiously pounding on their respective keyboards when Slon and Osel entered, smiling broadly.

"Is Representative Vine in?" asked Slon.

"Yes," Sam replied, without looking at them.

"Thank you," Osel said, as the two headed inside toward Bo's private office.

"What do you think those two rats want with Bo?" Annie questioned, once the two were out of earshot.

"So, now it's 'Bo.'"

"That's his name."

"Getting a little personal, are we?"

"No."

"Well, I wouldn't if I were you. My guess is that those two will run 'Bo' out of town before the week ends."

Inside his office, Bo was reclining with his two hoofs on his desk when the congressmen knocked on his door. He asked them to enter.

"Good Morning, dear sir!" the two proclaimed in unison as they crossed the threshold.

"Good Morning!"

The congressmen proceeded toward Bo, but suddenly stopped, grimaced, and covered their noses.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Bo apologized. "I just passed some gas."

"It's quite all right," Slon countered.

"I would strongly advise against lighting a cigarette."

"No problem at all," said Osel. "Did you receive our little gift?"

"Gift? Who are you?"

"I'm Representative Slon, leader of the Republicans. And this is Osel, leader of the Democrats."

"Why, yes -- I did receive your gift."

With great exertion, Bo rolled a huge barrel labeled "PORK" from under his desk.

"Unfortunately, I'm a vegetarian."

"How thoughtless of us!" exclaimed Slon.

"Indeed," Osel added. "How about we send you some truffles instead? French, of course."

"Unless you prefer the Italian variety," interjected Slon.

"Why, I've never had a truffle."

"Then, truffles it is!" cried Osel.

"We've got something else for you, too," said Slon, as he handed him a piece of paper.

"Another gift?"

"Something like that. You see, with you being new here, we thought you would like this guide to the new session of Congress."

"Guide?"

"Yes -- it lists all upcoming bills and the proper vote for each of them."

"You mean I don't even have to think about how I should vote?"

"That's right."

"Wow, you guys are really nice. I don't know how to thank you."

"So, you'll follow our voting recommendations?" cautiously asked Osel.

"Of course. I'm an ox -- I do whatever I'm told."

With that, Slon winked knowingly at Osel, who took a deep breath, mixed equally of contentment and relief.

* * *

Almost as soon as the congressmen left, Bo received another two visitors: a farmer and his young daughter. Before sending them in, Annie attempted to apologize to Bo.

"Apologize for what?"

"For what Max said last night."

"Forget about it. I have. Oxes have short memory. In fact, by tomorrow, I'll have forgotten that I forgot about it."

Annie smiled and let the two guests inside before leaving. The farmer and the girl sat in front of Bo and explained their case.

"You see, they wanna take my farm, and lots of others, just to build this huge interstate shopping mall. That farm -- it's been in my family five generations."

"Do you know the name of the bill?"

"I sure do. H.R. 619."

"Well," Bo said, as he looked over his list, "let me see. Yes, here it is. I'm gonna vote . . . yea."

"But -- but a yes vote means the government will take our farm."

"But that's what it says here. Have a look."

The farmer rose out of his seat; and grabbing his daughter, stormed toward the exit. There, he stopped and turned back to Bo.

"I thought you might be different. But you're just like the rest of them."

He rushed out, slamming the door, which startled Bo.

"What's wrong with him?"

Bo sniffed the air.

"Did I pass gas again?"

* * *

Annie entered the House gallery and took a seat. Once settled, she took out her phone and called Max.

"I'm gonna be home late tonight," she told him.

"Is he still upset?"

"Fortunately, oxes have short memories."

"Oxen!"

Down below, on the House floor, Slon and Osel huddled with their respective members, as if they were opposing football teams.

"Break!" they both screamed in near unison, sending the congresspeople scurrying toward their desks.

Bo entered the chambers and walked up to the two leaders.

"Hey, guys," Bo muttered, "I wanted to ask you something. It's about this H.R. 619."

"You're gonna vote yea," Slon curtly replied.

"I know. But this fellow said it would take their farm away."

"Oh, don't listen to that nonsense," countered Osel. "What it'll do is get rid of all that rural blight and replace it with lots of great minimum-wage jobs. You vote yea, you hear."

"Sure thing."

"Oh, and we left some truffles by your desk."

Bo walked toward his desk and the session was called into order by the sergeant at arms.

"We are about to vote on . . ."

"Man, these truffles are great!" howled Bo.

"Order!" the sergeant screamed, banging his gavel.

"But they really are! Here -- try one!"

The sergeant banged his gavel, over and over, until he was red in the face.

"As I was saying, we are about to vote on H.R. 619. Before we do, does anyone want to be heard?"

Bo dropped the truffle he was munching on and turned to the congresswoman next to him.

"What does that mean?" he asked.

"It means that you can go up there and talk about the bill."

"Ooh!" Bo cried, waving his hoof high in the air. "Me! Me! Pick me!"

The sergeant recognized Bo, and Bo shuffled toward the rostrum. As he got there, he saw Slon and Osel frantically trying to wave him off the podium. Bo, misunderstanding their intent, waved at them.

"Hey, buddies! Thanks for the gift!"

Slon and Osel simultaneously covered their eyes and sank in their seats.

"You have two minutes," the sergeant barked.

Bo took a deep breath and smiled.

"I just want to say that everyone should vote for this bill -- even if it means lots of people will have their homes stolen. Even if it makes no sense at all. If our leaders are for it, it just must be right."

Slon and Osel sunk further in their seats, to the point that there were more of them on the floor than on the chairs.

"We should always do exactly what our leaders tell us," Bo continued. "We should follow them blindly, like cattle to slaughter."

Many voices murmured throughout the chamber, causing the sergeant to yet again bang his gavel.

And he would bang it once more after he tallied the vote.

"The final vote for H.R. 619, the 'Stealing Farms for Shopping Mall Act,' is four hundred and thirty-two opposed and three in favor. The bill fails."

Bo stood up and slowly approached Slon and Osel, both of whom were slumped over their desks.

"Sorry, boys," Bo apologized, "it seems we came up just a little short."

"Go choke!" Slon wailed.

"What's wrong with him? I voted for the bill, just as I said I would."

"Get out of my sight!" screamed Osel. "Get out of my sight before I turn you into steak!"

Bo, surprised by their reaction, stepped backward, and bumped into the farmer and his daughter.

"I don't know how to thank you," the farmer said, bursting with emotion. "You saved our farm."

"I did?"

The farmer's daughter grabbed one of Bo's meaty shanks and hugged it.

Up above, in the gallery, Annie wiped a small tear from her eye.

"Come on, Annie," she said to herself, "you've come way too far to lose your cynicism now."

* * *

Deep inside the bowels of the Capitol, Slon shook his head as he apprehensively listened to someone on the phone.

"Thanks," he said, as he hung up and turned to Osel, who was sitting across from him with his head on his hands.

"Well?" Osel asked.

"The latest polls give the ox a ninety-eight percent approval rating. What's worse -- our numbers went down."

"Explain to me again how we can be below zero."

"I'm no expert in math, but I think it has something to do with complex numbers."

"We have to get rid of him."

"Next time we'll elect a fish."

"The only question is how to get rid of him."

"Don't you worry about that."

* * *

On the other side of the building, Annie was still working. She only stopped when she heard a knock on the door, followed by the entrance of a smiling Slon and Osel.

"He's not here," she said, without looking at them.

"We know," spoke Slon.

"We came to see you," added Osel.

"Me? What do you two rats want?"

"Is that any way to talk to friends?" countered Slon.

"What do you want?"

"We want the ox gone."

"And how do you plan on doing that?"

"We know he's staying with you," spoke Osel. "Tonight, we'll send a photographer from the Enquirer to your place with some hookers and drugs."

"You just let them in once the ox is asleep," added Slon, "and he'll take care of the rest."

"What makes you think I'd go along?"

"Because you're a practical woman," replied Osel. "A practical woman whose ex-husband left her a mountain of debt."

"How do you know that?"

"We're in the government, Annie," said Slon. "We know everything about everyone. And we're here to help."

Slon reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a check, which he handed to Annie, whose eyes widened when she saw the number of zeros.

* * *

Bo -- who was reclining on the living room couch while watching television -- chuckled loudly.

"Man, this Animal Planet is great. If only they had some reality shows."

"Hi," Max whispered.

Bo turned and stoically looked at Max, who was wearing pajamas.

"Oh, hi."

"I . . . I was wondering if you could read me a bedtime story."

"I thought I was dumb."

"I thought oxes had short memories."

A smile lit Bo's face.

"You said 'oxes'!" he exclaimed.

With great difficulty, Bo got off the couch and led Max into his bedroom, and tucked him into bed.

"What would you like me to read?" Bo asked.

"I'm just finishing that one," Max replied, pointing to a complete and unabridged French edition of Proust lying on the end table.

The book was so heavy that it took all of Bo's considerable strength to lift it. As he tried to haul it toward Max, though, it fell to the floor and smashed through the wood.

"Now, that's what I call ponderous fiction," Bo joked. "How about I tell you a story instead?"

"Okay."

Bo sat on the edge of the bed, causing it to tip over.

"Once upon a time," he began, "there were these two beings from different worlds. And, at first, one had trouble understanding the other."

As Bo continued his story, Max looked up at him affectionately. It was an expression that Bo eagerly returned.

"And he finally realized that different didn't mean bad," Bo concluded, "or weird, or even dumb. It just meant different. And he came to respect the other guy, and they lived happily ever after."

"I really liked that story," Max said.

"You did? Because I didn't understand any of it."

"Would -- would you mind if I called you 'Uncle Bo'?"

"I've been called worse."

Bo leaned down and kissed Max on the forehead. Annie, who was watching from the edge of the doorway, sighed. Moments later, there was a sound: the sound of torn paper. She looked down at the two pieces of check and shook her head.

"'Practical Annie.' More like 'Stupid Annie.'"

Bo exited the bedroom and smiled at Annie.

"If I'm Max's uncle, does that make me your brother?"

"Goodnight, Bo," Annie retorted, her face blank.

"Goodnight, Annie."

Bo walked away. As he lumbered down the hall, Annie turned and watched him. And she couldn't help but smile.

THIRST (2007)

2009-01-24T18:39:00.000-08:00

THIRST (2007)

"Fear no more the heat o' the sun."

--William Shakespeare

The cowboy's steps labored through the heavy and endless sand, scorching hot from the hazy, omnipresent sun, and made even hotter by the reflections cast from the tall, mountainous bluff that stood alongside him.

He couldn't quite recall how he got there. Or remember how long he had been. It didn't matter. For him there was neither a past, nor a future. There was only a present--a present consumed by one overwhelming desire.

Thirst.

He wanted to stop, but knew he couldn't. Despite his strong physique, he doubted he'd have the power to start again. He might just simply lay down and wait for the inevitable. And he wouldn't wait long, especially if the vultures--the only living things he'd seen in days--decided they needn't wait.

So, he was surprised to find that he had actually stopped moving, that his legs had refused to obey his commands. But instead of anger or rage at this insubordination, the only emotion he could muster was apathy.

He removed the dark Stetson from his bald head and quixotically wiped the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. The perspiration returned before his hand fell to his side.

He looked up in the sky, at the enemy. He scowled. It seemingly brightened in reply, mocking him contemptuously. If only it would set, he thought. If only he could get through this one day.

He put back his hat. His eyes involuntarily focused on his dusty wooden canteen. He tried not to think about it, but it wouldn't be forgotten. He shook it. It hardly made a sound. Perhaps a sip remained. Perhaps less.

He violently raised the canteen to his lips and let the remaining moisture seep into his mouth. There was barely enough to cover his tongue, but he let it soak there for an immeasurable amount of time, until his tongue once again began cracking with pain. With a burst of energy that shocked him, he angrily threw the canteen into the thick reddish muck.

And then it happened.

It started with a low murmur. Soon, the earth was shaking. His hands instinctively reached for his six-shooters--as they did at any sign of trouble--but quickly realized the folly of their action and retreated.

It took only a few moments for the earth to split open, starting at the edge of the bluff. Sand from both directions began pouring down into the nothingness. The huge rock itself started cracking.

The split in the ground quickly lengthened in the direction of the cowboy. He looked down and saw his legs splitting apart.

He turned to his left and then to his right, unable to decide where to jump. With his legs split as far wide as possible, he did the only thing he could: he jumped backward.

In mid-air he somersaulted leftward; and as he completed the revolution he was just able to grab the edge of the earth as it continued rotating outward. But he was holding on to falling sand, which was rapidly flowing downward into the abyss. He was slipping and would've surely fallen if the ground hadn't come to a halting stop.

He sighed. Briefly. Very briefly. For the entire bluff roared thunderously when two towering chunks of rock broke off. They came lunging forward, one of which at him. He could do nothing but watch as it came flying at him, its shadow quickly engulfing him. It landed hard, just barely in front of him, causing an immense wave of sand to erupt over him.

The vast mound of sand stood motionless. And then, a few grains started tumbling down. A form struggled to appear. Finally, the cowboy burst up.

As he brushed the sand off him--for a reason he himself couldn't understand--he felt good. Perhaps if he could survive this, he could survive his entire odyssey.

He turned and looked toward the bluff. The sand had almost dissipated from the air, leaving behind a most curious sight. A large glistening object was embedded within the rock.

He walked toward the bluff, and the object became clearer. But clearer only in the sense that it became more defined, because it made no sense.

It looked like an entrance to a large city. And not just any city, but an ancient city made entirely from brass.

He had heard, of course, of mirages--he had even experienced a few during his long trek in the desert. But this was no mirage. It wasn't vague and fleeting--it was solid and lasting.

He steadily approached; and as he did, a distant childhood memory flooded his mind. It was of a book--an illustrated edition of The Arabian Nights that he adored. The reason for this recall was obvious--the city in front of him was Arabic, or at least, Arabesque.

Above the city walls were the dome of a mosque and two tall minarets, from which he could faintly hear the voices of men chanting. And on top of the gate, stood a large roc, the legendary bird of antiquity that could carry an elephant away.

He stopped, unsurely. Should he proceed? Did he really have a choice?

When he again moved forward, he was no more than a few dozen paces from the entrance. He took slow, deliberate steps--his eyes locked upon the roc, whose countenance seemed to grow fiercer with each step he took. Thankfully, it was looking away from him.

Then he saw it. He froze when he saw its right wing move. At least he thought he saw it move. No, he told himself, it didn't move--his mind made it move. The bird was made of metal. It was only metal.

He started again. But then the bird's left wing flinched as well. This time he was sure it moved. He took one step back. And then another.

Suddenly, the head of the roc turned slowly toward him. It cracked open its vicious jaws and extended its wings above its shoulders, like a fighter flexing his muscles.

There was only one option. He ran toward the gate, the singular possibility of sanctuary. The roc quickly rose off its perch and swooped down toward him.

As the cowboy neared the threshold, the roc extended its claws, which, while being just barely out of reach of his neck, knocked his hat off. He dove toward the gate, hitting his head hard against the metal bars. Once the brief flash of pain subsided, he turned his head, expecting to see the bird pounce.

But it didn't. It was gone. There was only silence. Even the chanting had ceased.

He slowly stood up and saw that he was underneath an awning, perhaps what was protecting him.

He turned back toward the desert; and touching his bare scalp, he saw his hat lying on the sand, tantalizingly close. He liked that hat. He really liked it. So, even though he knew it was well beyond any realm of stupidity, he cautiously leaned forward. Once outside the protection of the awning, fear overwhelmed him. He quickly looked up.

But nothing.

He sighed heavily and reached for the hat. He grabbed it; and as he put it on his head, he turned back toward the gate. At the same time, through the bars, a large claw clasped his throat.

The roc lifted the cowboy into the air. He grabbed the claw, but it wouldn't budge. The bird started squeezing his neck. Slowly. Mercilessly. Sadistically.

With one quick burst, the roc yanked him against the bars, causing his hat to fly off, back onto the desert. Unable to get its prey through the gate, the bird hurriedly pulled the cowboy back before again thrusting him toward the gate--this time with twice the force. When it failed once more, it extended its claw back to full length. It shrieked maniacally, before applying all its force forward.

Again, it was unable to get him through the bars. But it didn't matter. For the entire gate came off its hinges and flew into the mosque, with the cowboy right behind it.

Although he hit the building hard, he jumped to his feet almost immediately, his guns drawn. But there was nothing. Nothing but the sound of running water.

He rushed around the mosque in the direction of the sound, and saw in the near distance a running fountain. The guns slipped out of his hands as he wet his lips in anticipation.

He wildly ran toward the fountain. As he got closer, the flow of water started weakening. He ran faster. But by the time he reached the fountain the flow of water had stopped, and whatever remained exited the drain in front of his maddened eyes.

In frustration he flung his raging fists against the walls of the fountain. But the moment they made contact, the fountain turned into water, splashing his legs, before evaporating in the hot air. He reached for his pants. They were soaking. No, he thought, it can't be a mirage.

Once more he heard the sound of running water. He looked up to his left. Above a walkway running alongside the top edge of the city walls was a faucet, spewing water. He could smell it. He frantically looked around for a way there. There was only one. Around the length of the minarets were spiral pathways that connected to the walkway.

He rushed toward the nearest minaret, jumping over a public bath overflowing with sand. He reached the pathway and began running up, his lungs burning with exhaustion.

When he reached the first turn, he heard an explosive sound. He stopped, turned, and looked downward. The pathway was caving in, starting at the bottom and quickly rising toward him.

He looked at the ground. He wasn't that high up--he could still jump and probably not hurt himself. But then, he looked at the faucet, which was flowing with full force. Which way should he go? Which way?

He jumped. Upward. And sprinted. The cave-in was traveling with far greater velocity than him and should've overtaken him well before he reached the walkway. But he wasn't to be denied simply by physical laws. He burst forward; and just as the cave-in reached him, he landed on the walkway. Gasping for breath, he watched as the entire pathway collapsed onto the ground.

Regaining his senses, he looked for the faucet and saw that it was still going strong. He got up and ran toward it.

As he was running, he could feel the brass bricks underneath him starting to give way. But he didn't care. All he perceived was the water, the flow of which was beginning to falter. At a few steps from his goal he dove toward it.

The water was only a trickle by the time he got to his knees. He frantically grabbed the faucet and put his head underneath it. He closed his eyes and stuck out his tongue as far is it would reach. But there was only one drop left. One. And it took its time. It finally dropped, only to evaporate just before reaching him.

He started crying. But before the tears could form, the sound of water yet again filled the air. This time much louder.

He turned and looked up. From the top of the minaret, a water cannon was releasing high-pressured water onto the walkway. Within moments the bricks gave way; and soon the entire walkway started falling like dominoes, in his direction.

He got to his feat and ran the opposite way, but in his path was solid rock. There were no more escapes.

A shimmer of light caught his eye and he looked down. Many stories beneath him the bath of sand had turned into one of water: beautiful, crystal-clear, and blue.

He jumped.

When he landed, the water reverted to sand. And the force of the impact was so strong that he found himself chest high in sand, his arms completely immersed and fastened. He screamed out in pain.

In reply a brass claw burst through the sand and clutched his neck. He was helpless. He didn't even struggle when--as before--it began tightening its grip. Finally, it lifted him up slightly before yanking him down below.

He heard the sound of dripping water.

He opened his eyes, but there was so little light that it didn't matter. He didn't know where he was, but he knew that he wasn't in sand. His hands were immobile, but he could freely move his head from side to side.

A door far behind him opened noisily; and with it, bright, white light seeped into the room, exposing the roc.

He screamed, but quickly calmed down when he realized that it was just an image of a roc, on a flag hanging over him.

From the direction of the door, he heard the sound of footsteps, deliberately approaching from the distance.

He looked down at himself and saw that he was tied to a wooden board, which lay on the floor at a forty-five degree angle. He also saw that he was dressed in modern army fatigues. Across his breast was a label that read: "LT. BRASS."

Lt. Brass? But he wasn't a soldier, he insisted to himself. Or was he? He was so confused, which scared him far more than the threatening-sounding footsteps steadily coming his way.

The footsteps stopped. There was only silence, a silence that seemed interminable--a silence broken only when two hands wearing black gloves grabbed the board from behind and flung it onto the floor.

He was now lying in a forty-five degree angle in the opposite direction, his feet above his head.

A figure stood over him shrouded in black, with only his dark eyes exposed. He held in one hand a dripping water canon, and a pen in the other.

Finally, the cowboy remembered. He remembered who he was and where he was. He remembered that he wasn't really a cowboy. And he remembered who this man was and what he'd do to him if he didn't cooperate.

The man politely offered the soldier the pen. The soldier closed his eyes. When he reopened them, he shook his head. Resolutely.

The man dropped the pen and lifted the lever of the cannon. Almost immediately the sound of rushing water echoed through the room. Moments later, a little water ran out of the tube and fell harmlessly onto the floor. But the flow got stronger and stronger. And when it was at full force, the man pointed it at the soldier's face.

The force of the water slammed his head back against the board. Water quickly filled his mouth, his nose, his ears, and his eyes. He couldn't scream. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't see. There was only water--water mixed with horror.

And then, underneath the agony, a voice began singing in his head. Weak at first, it grew steadily stronger.

"Libera me, Domine, de morte æterna, in die illa tremenda, quando coeli movendi sunt et terra, dum veneris iudicare sæculum per ignem."

The voice, he soon realized, was his own.

The song was one he had heard innumerable times in his youth, but only now had it meaning . . . Free me . . . Free me!

The deluge continued unabated, but his writhing began to ease. His hand grasped the thin air, reaching for something to grab--something to hold onto.

The hazy, omnipresent sun baked the heavy and endless sand, which was made even hotter by the reflections cast from the tall, mountainous bluff nearby. On the floor of the desert lay the body of a soldier; and extending from it was a hand, its fingers stiff and contracted.

A small spot of red appeared just below the palm, courtesy of a large bird--this one made of flesh--exuberant over the great hunk of manna he'd been provided.

He cocked his head back in preparation for a proper indulgence when the sound of thunder mixed with a flash of lightning made him jump. He looked up in the sky, at the enemy. He scowled, before flying away toward the netherworld.

The clouds opened in a downpour of rain. And with it the soldier's eyes opened. He slowly rose up and spread his hands out to catch the moisture. Even then, he refused to believe it was real. He almost wanted not to believe. For believing would mean accepting truths he had long scorned.

But the storm was impervious to his challenge; and, finally, he could hold out no more. He turned his head upward and opened his mouth, allowing the sweet nectar to seep down his throat.

PRAGUE GOTHIC (2007)

2009-01-24T18:32:00.000-08:00

PRAGUE GOTHIC (2007)

The young boy smiled. It was his first smile in days.

He used his left hand to keep his right one steady as the paint sprayed from the can onto the side of the building. Not having done this before he found writing this way difficult, especially as the words were in a language not his own. The alphabet in particular -- though drummed into him since his first days of school -- was hopelessly foreign.

"ПОЙДИТЕ ДОМОЙ!" he wrote, hoping he spelled it right, hoping it were legible, and hoping most of all that the Russian soldiers -- who days earlier "liberated" his country -- would read it and follow its advice, by going home.

He didn't have long to wait to discover that his grammar was quite good. Too good. A Soviet tank turned the corner just as he finished writing. A round of bullets hit the wall just above his right shoulder, ripping half the slogan -- along with lots of concrete -- onto the sidewalk.

The boy ran.

"Stop!" the commander of the tank shouted in Russian as he rose from inside. But stopping was the last thing the boy would do. He turned right onto Dušní Street and disappeared.

The tank followed, but by the time it maneuvered the corner, the boy was gone. The only soul was a tall old man limping along the side of the road. The tank pulled up to him and halted.

"Hey, you!" the commander shouted.

The old man stopped, turned to the soldier, and smiled as he pointed to himself.

"Yeah, you," the commander continued. "Where'd the boy go?"

"What boy?" the old man asked.

The commander pulled out his revolver and pointed it at the man. He released the safety.

"Where'd he go?" he firmly repeated.

"Lots of boys around today -- running all over the place. Who am I to keep track of them?"

With that, the old man turned and started on his way. The commander thought about shooting him for such impertinence, but realized his bullets would be much better spent that day on the young. He gave the signal and the tank lunged forward.

After a few blocks, the commander gave up looking for the boy. There were plenty more like him. He faced a much bigger problem: he was lost. The populace -- during the first hours of the occupation -- removed most street signs; and finding your way in the Old Town Prague wasn't easy even with them, as the streets twisted and turned in all conceivable directions. What's more, his compass was awry. One moment it told him they were heading south, the next moment, north. In disgust, he threw it onto the cobblestone street, in the immediate path of the tank.

They turned another corner, and there he was -- the old man, limping along. The man smiled and waved as the tank passed. He even winked.

The tank continued. There were no cars traveling on the road and no people on the streets; and most importantly, no other soldiers in sight. The driver was getting nervous. He started hitting parked cars and lampposts, and nothing the commander said could calm him down. Finally, they ran directly into a building and halted.

Around the corner limped the old man.

"Hey, you!" the commander shouted, pointing his gun.

The old man stopped, turned to the soldier, and smiled as he pointed to himself.

"Yes -- you!"

"You should be careful, friend," the old man whispered. "These streets, most have been around since before Charles the Fourth. They weren't made for tanks."

"Never mind your Charles the Fourth. These are Soviet tanks -- they can cross anything. . . . You, you're coming with us. You're gonna lead us out of here."

"Sorry, I cannot help you."

"What do you mean?" the commander cried, turning red with anger.

"I'm just an impartial observer."

"What are you talking about?"

"Best of luck. And give my regards to your emperor."

The old man turned and started on his way. Although he was the Russians' only hope, the commander was so furious that he shot him. The old man calmly stopped and turned back to the commander.

"Now, why did you have to do that?"

The commander unloaded another shot. And yet another. And still the old man stood. He even smiled.

"Better men than you have tried to kill me, and one far better than them all has kept me alive."

The commander flung his gun onto the street. The old man once again turned and started on his way.

"I actually like you," he said, without stopping or looking back. "So, I will partially defer my impartiality and offer you some advice. Avoid the next street up ahead. Go back. Go back where you came from."

The tank pulled away from the building and started backward.

"Not backward," the commander howled. "Forward!"

"But," a young voice cried from inside the tank, "he said
--"

"-- I don't care what he said, college boy! I said, go forward! That's an order!"

The tank inched forward.

"Faster!" the commander screamed. "Faster!"

The tank reached the intersection, and suddenly the ground began to give way. The tank fell through the cobblestones and the soil underneath it. It fell through rock and limestone -- meter after meter -- before breaking into a shaft, where it crashed onto a stone landing.

It took many minutes, but finally a half-dozen soldiers exited the tank, clearly dazed. Apart from the commander, they were all young. Very young. Perhaps a generation older than the boy they were chasing, some perhaps were even younger.

They were in a tunnel. A tunnel that was at least a thousand years old. It was lit; and from the movement of light it was easy to surmise that the source was torches. Lots of them.

The commander fearlessly stepped forward. No one followed.

"Let's go," he ordered.

"Where?" one of the men meekly asked.

"Someone lit those fires. Men. We'll find them and make them lead us out of here."

The commander started again, his men following tenuously.

They reached an intersection.

"Which way?" one of the younger men asked.

"Comrade Commander," another shouted, obviously frightened, pointing toward a wall. "Look!"

On the wall was a word, written in large letters, in an unfathomable archaic alphabet. It was written in blood.

"What is it?" the commander asked.

There was silence. The young man who first noticed it was shaking with fear.

"Lebedev," the commander said, "what's wrong?"

Lebedev shook his head, over and over.

"Come on, college boy -- what is it?"

"It's . . . it's in Gothic."

"Gothic? What do you mean, Gothic?"

"They just disappeared."

"What are you talking about?" the commander screamed with great exasperation.

"The Visigoths, they conquered Spain. But the Ostrogoths, they simply vanished."

"You're talking gibberish."

"What if they didn't disappear?"

"Who?"

"The Goths!"

"Are you saying there are Goths living under Prague? Barbarians?"

"What does it say?" one of the young soldiers asked, pointing to the wall.

"It says . . . "

The commander grabbed Lebedev and threw him onto the ground against the wall.

"Shut up!"

A set of bass drums started beating in the distance. They steadily got louder.

"Weapons!" the commander screamed.

Lebedev remained on the ground while the others hesitantly pulled out their revolvers. They formed a loose semicircle behind the commander.

Soon the sound of the drums were joined by screams -- deep, blood-curdling screams -- screams coming from all directions.

Moments later, there were different screams, coming from different men. But the sounds were no less horrific.

The young boy stood stoically at the corner watching the workmen repair the road -- trying to forget what he witnessed from the edge of the chasm days earlier.

A large hand grabbed his shoulder from behind.

The boy looked up and saw the menacing countenance of a Soviet major.

"Did you see what happened here?" the man asked.

"No, sir . . . I mean, comrade."

"You're lying!"

One of the workmen turned around and limped toward them. He was a tall old man who had "Ahasver" stitched on his work shirt.

"It happens all the time," Ahasver said.

"What?" the major asked.

"These old streets, they just cave in."

"I've never heard such nonsense."

Ahasver shrugged.

"Could . . . could something have fallen through?" the major continued, a bit unsurely.

"What?"

"I don't know . . . a tank perhaps?"

"A Soviet tank?"

The major nodded.

"Nah," Ahavser replied, waving him off dismissively, before turning around and walking back to the site.

"How can you be so sure?"

Ahavser stopped. He paused briefly before turning back to the major. He smiled.

"Soviet tanks can cross anything."

THE REVENGE OF STALIN (2007)

2009-01-24T18:25:00.000-08:00

THE REVENGE OF STALIN (2007)

He cried the day his hero fell.

A large teardrop rolled off his plump cheeks onto his bright red bandanna as he watched the twenty-meter-high statue of Stalin explode into hundreds of pieces onto Letná Park.

While the vast majority of Prague's residents were delighted to have this monstrous blight wiped from their sight, for this little boy the day was well beyond tragic.

Many years later, on Christmas Eve, a little boy attacked his gift, ripping the wrappings to shreds. And there it was. The electric-powered slingshot he had wanted. He looked up at his father, joy filling his eyes.

His father shook his head. He loved the boy, but hated what he was becoming. He and his whole generation would be lost if something wasn't done, something desperate. He went to the hall closet and took out a bright red bandanna, which he wrapped around his neck. He then put on his coat, and the grabbed the canvas bag and the large thin book that were lying by the door. He left, his son watching warily.

At a remote hanger on the outskirts of Ruzynĕ Airport a lone figure stood against the soot-filled sky.

He put the book between his legs, and pulled a pair of heavy wire cutters from his bag. He placed the cutters over the thick chain that covered the door; and as he began to apply pressure, he looked up at the sign that read: "NEBEZPEČÍ!"

He smiled, for he was certain that there was anything but danger inside.

After breaking through, he stepped inside the structure and turned on the lights. And there it was. Tons of white marble. The remains of Stalin.

From high on top of Stalin's head, he chiseled late into the night. He sighed when he finished -- when he had cut the word "PRAVDA" across Stalin's forehead.

"Truth!" he proclaimed, stretching his arms as wide as he could. He dropped to his knees and caressed Stalin's cheek. "And the truth shall set you free."

He returned to the bottom and grabbed his book. He sat on the floor and opened it to the title page, upon which was printed, "Komunistický manifest," and which was autographed by Marx himself. He turned to the first page.

With a high-pitched, squeaky voice he shouted, "A specter is haunting Europe -- the specter of . . ."

There was a rumble, a rumble that grew stronger and stronger. The man jumped to his feet as the hundreds pieces of marble flew together as one. The statue was once again whole.

Stalin began to rise.

Joy filled the man's eyes.

"Glory to the Soviet --"

He was unable to finish his tribute, as the strong right hand of Stalin smashed him into oblivion.

Stalin continued to rise; and breaking through the hanger ceiling, he came to his feet. He saw the bright lights of downtown Prague below and began walking toward it, his infamous smile forming on his equally infamous face.

Unbeknownst to Stalin a small figure watched from behind. It was the figure of a boy, a boy carrying a canvas bag.

Stalin had barely made his way down Dejvická Avenue when the Czech fighter jets arrived. At first they hovered around him, not believing what they were seeing. But soon they began firing -- bullets at first, and then missiles. But while their efforts did result in quite a bit of fallen marble, Stalin continued on as if the planes were nothing but mosquitoes. Finally he grew annoyed and started swatting them. He destroyed most of them, but when he saw the NATO reinforcements arrive he quickened his pace.

And then he discovered something familiar. It was the Soviet architecture of the Hotel International. He climbed onto the roof and started smacking and crushing the aircraft that came near him, as if they were toys.

He laughed heartily when he smashed the last of them. He knew he was invincible -- even more than before. He pounded his chest and howled, a howl that was heard a hundred kilometers away.

Just then, the boy rose from the depths of the nearby Metro station. From the canvas bag he pulled out the slingshot.

Picking up a small stone, he placed it in the device, aimed for Stalin's head, and fired.

The stone hit Stalin directly in the forehead. The impact was so slight that he didn't even feel it. But moments later, the marble began to collapse. In hundreds of pieces it feel to the ground.

The military couldn't understand how a small rock could succeed where all its firepower had failed. That is, until they found the head. The rock had obliterated the "V" in "PRAVDA," breaking the spell.

While the Devil may indeed wear Prada, Stalin most certainly does not.

ON TELEVISION (2008)

2009-01-24T18:20:00.000-08:00

ON TELEVISION (2008)

His eyes barely blinked as he flipped the remote through the stations. Hundreds of them. Network, cable, satellite -- programming from the world brought into the comfort of his bedroom.

The hours past. Day turned into night and back again. And still he watched.

Until he passed out.

He slept a numb, dreamless sleep; and when he awoke, he opened his eyes to his bedroom. Only he wasn't there. He saw his unmade bed, but he wasn't lying in it.

He tried to reach out his arms, but they were pinned -- pinned by a sheet of thick glass. He leaned forward and the same glass pressed against his face. Looking in all directions, he saw the frame of his beloved TV.

Panic set in. He screamed a silent scream. He shook. The television wobbled. He jumped up and down, and it reacted in kind. By hopping he made the TV lunge forward. Seeing his open bedroom door, he quickened his bounce.

The television plug came out. A faint realization appeared on his face before the screen turned black.

MR. ENIS (2006)

2009-01-24T09:37:00.000-08:00

MR. ENIS (2006)

"But I don't understand," Ferguson, a visibly-shaken middle-aged man pleaded. "I've been with this company for twenty-three years. I have a family, kids, mortgages -- mortgages, as in plural. I . . ."

"I'm so sorry," Erasmus replied, his eyes wandering toward the Manhattan skyline below. "We found someone better. You know how it is."

Erasmus was only mildly surprised when Ferguson sat up in his chair, crossed his legs Indian-style, and started sucking his thumb.

Erasmus had seen everything.

#

He screamed.

It was a howling, primeval scream.

When Erasmus came to his senses, he saw that he was in his own bed, in between his own soft sheets, the early sun streaming into his own apartment.

He sighed.

But it was so real, he thought, how could it have been a dream? He had no answer, but didn't much care. Smiling, he jumped out of bed and headed to the bathroom to perform his morning ritual. Standing over the toilet, he opened the fly of his Burberry pajamas. But the smile on his face soon disappeared when he sensed something was amiss. Actually, something was missing.

He looked down and saw nothing. He ripped open his bottoms and stood motionless, looking at the smooth empty space where his once beloved genitalia had been. He remained still, trying to wake himself out of this nightmare. But he was awake.

Then panic set in. He rushed back into the bedroom and threw the covers off the bed, frantically searching -- a search that continued underneath his bed.

Erasmus was in such a state of disarray that morning that he didn't even pay attention to his own appearance. He didn't shower or shave, and just grabbed a suit out of his apparel room at random. He even forgot his phone. Standing outside his building waiting for a cab, he tried to comprehend what happened to him, while at the same time adjusting the sock he had stuffed inside his underwear.

But where was a taxi? They were always waiting for him, sometimes fighting over him. And today, nothing. He stepped to the curb and looked to his left. A cab was slowly approaching. He breathed deeply.

But it passed him. It passed him and stopped just a little further down the street, in front of a sight Erasmus was likely never to forget. For there, patiently waiting was a six-foot penis.

Even stranger, the Penis was dressed in a Paul Smith striped suit -- a suit exactly like the one Erasmus bought just a few days earlier -- a suit that covered the Penis up to the beginning of its head.

The Penis walked toward the cab by the use of its scrotum, which was ensconced in the finest shoe leather.

Erasmus was in a trance-like state watching this take place. He only came out of it when he heard a car approaching. He turned to his left and saw another taxi. He reached out his arm to hail it, but it didn't slow down. Erasmus stepped into the street to stop it, but it hit him -- the force of which caused him to bounce off the hood and into the windshield. His head cracked the glass before he fell onto the ground. He jumped up, using his handkerchief to stem the flow of blood from his head, and leaped into the cab.

"Follow that prick!" he screamed, pointing to the other cab, which had already taken off.

They quickly lost the Penis in the rush-hour traffic, so Erasmus instead headed to his office. Once inside the Pecksniff Building and on his floor, he began to scamper. His scamper soon turned into a slow jog, which turned into a run. Which turned into a dead stop when he saw a workman at the door of his corner office removing his nameplate.

The man tossed Erasmus' nameplate into a nearby garbage pale and put a new name on the door. Erasmus inched forward to see it. It read: "P. ENIS."

"Pee . . . enis," Erasmus whispered to himself. "Pee . . . enis. Penis."

As he enunciated those fateful words, he heard voices approaching. He turned around and saw Hy Pecksniff himself walking with Pete Peterson, the COO -- leading the Penis toward Erasmus' door. Hy put his arm around the Penis.

"Welcome aboard," Hy said. "We're certain you'll be a potent member of our team."

"Mr. Pecksniff," Erasmus interrupted.

The three of them stopped and looked at Erasmus.

"Ah, Erasmus," Hy said with a condescending smile. "We've been looking for you."

"You have?"

"You've been replaced."

"Replaced?"

"Yes, by Mr. Enis."

"Mr. Enis?"

"I'm so sorry. But you know how it is."

"But . . . but he's a dick."

"Now, Ras," Pete interjected, "there's no need for name calling."

"No -- he's a real dick!"

Hy turned to Pete.

"Perhaps we should call security."

A disheveled man boarded a New Jersey Transit bus at Washington Park in Newark. He was unshaven and unwashed, and had clearly slept more than a few days in his clothes. To look at him you would never guess that only a few weeks earlier he had been a high-powered management consultant.

Erasmus was desperate. He saw only one way out. The way led to the small New Jersey hamlet of Dunellen, a town he had never heard of before.

The armed guard at the door of the Moose Lodge eyed Erasmus suspiciously, but let him through. Erasmus paid the ten-dollar fee and entered a medium-sized room filled with amateur merchants.

Erasmus, somewhat nervously, approached the closest dealer, a heavy-set man with a John Deere cap who was chomping on a cigar that was at least a few days old.

"I . . . I want to buy a gun," Erasmus gingerly spoke.

"What kind of gun?"

"Kind?"

"Handgun, rifle, . . ."

"Handgun."

The man led Erasmus a few steps to a showcase. Erasmus pointed to a gun at random.

"Good choice," the man said. He opened the case, pulled out the gun, and handed it to Erasmus. "A Baikal IJ-70."

Erasmus took the gun in one hand and let the other gently slide over its length.

"Named after the largest lake in the world," the man continued. "Unless you consider the Caspian Sea a lake; which, of course, it is."

Erasmus ignored the geography lesson and peeked inside the barrel.

"This gun has an interesting history," the man further said, oblivious to Erasmus' disinterest. "They call it 'the gun that lost the East.' A real history, it has. Why, who knows -- this gun itself might've been used by one of Stalin's henchmen. We can only wonder how many dissidents were offed with this very piece."

"I'll take it," Erasmus uttered, hoping it would shut the man up.

"Fine. As I'm sure you're aware, no background checks are required at gun shows. But, sir, I won't sell a weapon to someone I feel would use it in an act of criminal violence. So, I will ask you directly: do you plan on shooting anyone with this gun unlawfully?"

"No," Erasmus answered, after thinking it over for a few moments.

Erasmus stood at the corner for hours. Sweat was pouring down his brow -- partly from nerves and partly from wearing a jacket in such hot weather. Finally, his target left the Pecksniff Building.

A cab was waiting for the Penis, as there was every afternoon. In fact, a second cab had sneaked behind the first, just in case the Penis didn't like its look. But the Penis apparently didn't like the look of either one; and much to the chagrin of both drivers, it walked west, with Erasmus following close behind.

The Penis kept walking until it reached the edge of Pier 84, a decrepit dock no longer in service. It found a small crevice and took in the fresh Hudson River air.

Erasmus was amazed at his luck. He thought it would be difficult. But it was as if the Penis wanted to be destroyed.

He quickly thought it through: he'd walk up to it, shoot it, and dump it in the river with no one noticing. And then his life would naturally return to normal.

He took a deep breath and slowly approached. Surely the Penis must've heard Erasmus' footsteps, but it didn't flinch. Erasmus was now just steps away. He pulled out his gun and pointed it at the Penis' head. He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

Nothing. The gun had jammed.

"Damn commie piece of junk!" Erasmus howled.

"Next time, buy American," the Penis said with a chuckle, without turning around.

Erasmus repeatedly tried to fire the gun, but to no avail. He finally dropped the weapon and rushed toward the Penis, trying to throw it over. But the Penis wouldn't budge. After a few moments of this folly, the Penis -- tired of the joke -- turned around and knocked Erasmus onto the ground.

Now it was Erasmus who was pursued. He crawled backward on all fours trying to escape, but soon found himself up against a railing. The Penis stopped; and after a brief pause, began urinating on Erasmus. Erasmus violently shook in disgust.

"Stop writhing -- you like this! You like this! This is the best part of you."

Erasmus calmed down somewhat and the deluge finally subsided.

"You're through, pal," the Penis said, towering over Erasmus. "Why should I be controlled by the likes of you -- you're inferior to me in every way. Go away. Disappear."

With that, it left, laughing on its way.

Erasmus crawled back toward the gun. He picked it up, and was about to toss it into the river when he accidentally pulled the trigger.

It fired harmlessly into the sky.

Erasmus found a cool spot in an alley off Times Square, in between bales of refuse. He kept his eyes closed for a long time, looking for courage. He never found it, but his hopelessness overrode his fears, and he took out his friend and placed its barrel at his temple.

He couldn't decide if it were his hand that was shaking or the rest of his body, but it took him countless minutes to steady the gun. He finally did; and after another long pause, he pulled the trigger.

But nothing.

Thinking the gun had jammed again, Erasmus opened his eyes. But he was startled to see that the barrel had become limp, as if made of rubber. He put his fingers around the tip and tried to straighten it, but it quickly returned to its flaccid state. Frustrated, he began jerking it. He pulled and yanked at it -- trying to make it hard. But it kept drooping lifelessly.

Smiling, he gently put the gun on the ground. He crouched into a fetal position and put his thumb into his mouth.

Now he really had seen everything.

BLACK BALZAMS AND HORSERADISH SANDWICHES (1999)

2009-01-24T09:31:00.000-08:00

BLACK BALZAMS AND HORSERADISH SANDWICHES (1999)

Escaping the sticky Latvian rain, I ran into the first bar I saw. It was a July afternoon, my first day in Riga.

Once my eyes got accustomed to the dim lighting inside, I was shocked. Pictures of Lenin, Stalin, and other communist leaders covered the walls, and old Soviet-era paraphernalia was littered everywhere.

"What is this place?" I whispered to myself. Communism in this country had been long dead.

"It is called Marrutku Maizites," a heavily-accented voice called out from behind.

I turned around. A tall drunken man was fully-reclined in front of an old wooden table. Not only was he tall, but he was built like a bodybuilder and had a shaved head -- his menacing appearance somewhat softened by his expensive suit and shoes.

"It means 'Horseradish Sandwiches.'"

"Excuse me?" I asked.

"You wanted to know what this place is; and I just told you. . . . Hey, sit down and have a drink with me."

"Thank you," I smiled as I sat across from him. "You know, this is a pretty strange place."

"Yes, it certainly is. It is supposed to be a Soviet bar. But it is not really for communists; it is for tourists like you. Tell me, where are you from?"

"America. And yourself?"

"I am Latvian. My name is Karlis. So, what are you drinking?"

"I don't know. I guess whatever you're having."

Karlis slammed his hand on the table, in the direction of the large middle-aged woman sitting behind the bar, who was wearing something akin to a hospital gown. The woman reluctantly stood up and slowly walked toward us. The nasty expression on her face looked as if it hadn't changed in years.

"Chto nada?" she growled.

"Day emu Balzams bolshoy," he replied. "Zaplachu!"

Minutes later, she returned with a large glass containing a thick black liquid. She slammed it on the table in front of me, and Karlis pulled out his wallet.

"That's okay," I said. "I can get it."

"Forget it," he waved. "You are my guest."

I took a small sip of the drink. It was rancid.

"This is pretty good," I lied. "What's it called?"

"Black Balzams. It is the national drink of Latvia."

"What's it made of?"

"If I told you, you would not drink it. You really like it?"

"Yeah, it's . . . it's very original."

"I cannot stand it."

"Then, why are you drinking it?"

"After what has happened to me over the past two days, I have no choice but to drink Balzams."

"What happened? That is, if you don't mind talking about it."

"No, I do not mind."

You see, I work for this large American company. Perhaps you have heard of them: Johnstone Consumer. We sell feminine products. You know, tampons and such. I am the distribution manager for Latvia.

Anyway, this week the sales director for Eastern Europe -- an American who, of course, did not speak anything but American
-- was visiting us. He wanted me to take him around our little country to see our customers.

Well, yesterday we were traveling in the western part of Latvia, near a city called Rezekne. David -- the sales director -- wanted to visit some of the stores in the villages, so we got off the highway, in the direction of Balvi. However, along the way, a tire went flat, and we had no spare. And no reception on our cell phones.

I told David, "I did not see any service station on this road. We will have to walk back to the highway."

"That's crazy," he said. "We must be twenty or thirty kilometers away. There must be some kind of station in one of the nearby villages."

"I am very skeptical," I replied. "I am skeptical there is even a nearby village."

So, we started walking back to the highway. Before long, it was getting dark and David was getting tired. Just then we passed what faintly resembled a dirt path. And down this path, far in the distance, we could see a light. Barely.

"There must be a village down there," he said. "It's a good thirty-forty minute walk, but it must be closer than the highway."

I did not think it was a very good idea, but who am I to argue with the boss? So, we walked down the path. You know, we must have walked for at least an hour. Maybe longer.

Finally, we came to a small village, where we found a sign, on which was written the name of the village. It read: "Krepkogorodok." What was strange about this name is that it is a Russian word; the sign was even written with Russian letters. In fact, all the signs in the town were in Russian. In Latvia, this cannot be; all town names and signs must be in the Latvian language.

I stopped the first person I saw, an old woman carrying a basket of vegetables. I wanted to find out what was going on.

"Labvakar!" I said to her. That is "good evening" in Latvian.

She looked at me as if I were crazy. And then she started screaming in Russian for the police.

"Miliciya! Miliciya!"

Moments later, a policeman came. He was dressed like policemen were dressed during Soviet times. In Russian, he asked for our documents. I gave him my identification card and David's passport. He briefly looked at them.

"You will have to come with me," he said.

"Why?" I asked. "What did we do wrong? And how come you do not speak Latvian?"

He did not answer my questions; he just led us to the town's police station. David was becoming very nervous, as he did not know what was happening or what was said. To be honest, I was becoming nervous, too.

Once at the station, we were taken to see the police chief.

"Good evening, comrade," the chief said to me when we walked into his office. "Please, have a seat."

"Comrade?" I said as we sat down. "Why are you calling me 'comrade'?"

"What would you like me to call you, comrade," he sincerely replied.

"How come no one here speaks Latvian?"

"Why should we speak Latvian?"

"Why? Why? This is Latvia! . . . This is Latvia, is it not? I know we could not have walked that far."

"Of course this is Latvia. The Latvian Soviet Socialist Republic."

"What? Latvia has been an independent country for years. How could you not know this?"

"I do not know what you are talking about," he said, shrugging his shoulders -- the way all the old communists used to do when faced with a situation they did not want to accept.

"Are you trying to tell me that you do not know the Soviet Union collapsed?"

"Well, a number of years back we heard some unpleasant things on the television. And we read even more unpleasant things in the newspapers. So, we stopped watching television and stopped reading newspapers."

"Are you saying if you ignore reality you can alter it?"

"If a tree falls in the forest, and no one hears it --"

"-- You are insane! You are all insane!"

"We are insane? You and all the other decadent class criminals let the greatest nation this world has ever known crumble before your very own eyes. And we are insane?"

As you can probably understand, there was not much purpose in arguing with this idiot. So, I calmed down and asked him what he planned to do with us.

"You will be executed in the morning," he calmly replied.

"What?" I asked, unable not to smile. "You are joking, right?"

"Unfortunately, I am not. Now please do not take this as anything personal, comrade. I actually like you. But you have to understand my position. We are a very small town, hidden in the countryside. No one knows about us. No one cares about us. We are free to live the way we want to live -- true to the ideals of Vladimir Ilich. However, if we were to let you go free, there would certainly be trouble for us. And I cannot allow that to happen. Of course, I could just lock you up, but I am sure that you would make trouble. Besides, you would be miserable. You would not want that, would you? No, the best thing for all concerned will be to execute you tomorrow morning."

When David saw the expression on my face, he became even more nervous than before.

"What's going on, Karlis?" he whispered.

I told him.

"Execute?" David screamed. He jumped out of his seat, and turned to the police chief. "Listen, you -- I'm an American citizen, and I know my rights! I demand to speak with my embassy immediately!"

David's shouting must have made the chief nervous, because he called in one of his henchmen, who put his gun to David's head.

"David, you better sit down," I said, grabbing his arm.

"I'm not gonna sit down!" he screamed at me. "This is outrageous!"

"If you do not sit down, David, the man behind you is going to blow your brains out. Right now."

David reluctantly sat down, put his hands to his head, and started whimpering.

"This can't be happening, Karlis. It must be some kind of nightmare."

I didn't know what to say to him; I just put my hand on his shoulder and tried to calm him down. I only wished there was someone to calm me down.

They took us to a small cell in the back of the building. David sat on the floor in the corner and cried like a little baby. You know, when I met him, I really thought he was an arrogant son-of-a-bitch. In fact, all you Americans are arrogant sons-of-a-bitches. But let me tell you, he was no longer arrogant.

Soon, they served us dinner, and David calmed down a little.

"You'd think they'd give us something good to eat for our final meal," he joked after he took a sip of the bitter cabbage soup.

"For Russian food," I smiled, "this is good."

Once we finished, we stared at each other. I do not think either of us could believe our fate. He took a photograph from his wallet and looked at it for a moment, before handing it to me.

"Is this your family?" I asked, looking at a picture of him, a woman, and a young girl.

He nodded.

I really started feeling sorry for David. You know, I am single. If I die, it means nothing; it will affect no one. But his death would affect two innocent people; two people who, for whatever reason, obviously loved this son-of-a-bitch.

I handed him back the photograph, but he refused it.

"Keep it," he said. "I have a whole wallet full of them. Besides, what good is it gonna do me?"

In the morning, both David and I woke up at dawn. That is, if we ever really slept. Before long, we heard footsteps. We knew to whom they belonged.

"Glory to the Soviet nation!" the policeman hollered, saluting no one in particular.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I sarcastically replied, nodding my head.

"The American is first," he said, as he unlocked the cell.

"Why?" I asked. "Can we not be shot together?"

"The American is first!" he shouted back.

I turned to David and translated. I was surprised. He did not cry or shout; he even grinned a little when he came over to shake my hand good-bye.

"Next year in Jerusalem," he said.

I did not know what he meant, but I answered back, "Yes, next year in Jerusalem."

The policeman led David away. I listened carefully as the footsteps became weaker and weaker. For a while I did not hear anything at all, and then I started hearing footsteps again -- this time coming from the courtyard. You know, I could have watched the execution from the window, but I did not look out. In fact, I tried not to even listen; but I could not help but hear when the round of bullets were fired.

Soon, I heard the footsteps approaching again. This time they were for me.

"It is your turn, comrade," the policeman said.

"Screw you," I snarled. "I am not your comrade."

He just smiled and led me out.

This is the interesting part; because, as I walked down the hallway, I really did see my life before me. Just like it is described in all those cheap American novels.

Well, let me tell you, fate and luck are amazing things. You never know what is going to happen. You would never think that a simple sneeze could save your life. Well, it did. Just a little ordinary sneeze. The kind millions of people have every moment of the day. You see, as we were approaching the end of the hallway, the policeman sneezed. And I did not hesitate pushing him against the wall. I then took his head and pounded it against the wall. And I kept pounding it even after he was unconscious.

I started running. I did not know where; I did not care. I just ran. I ran like a madman.

As I reached the forest, I heard someone scream, "Stoy!" But I did not stop, not even when I heard bullets flying at me.

I do not know how long I ran. Maybe it was minutes; maybe it was hours. Finally, I found the highway and stopped a truck driver. He agreed to drive me to Riga. I did not say another word to him until we reached the edge of the city. I immediately came here.

"That's a pretty incredible story," I smiled, not believing one word.

"You do not believe me, do you? Well, screw you. Screw you, all. Hey, where is that fat pig of a waitress? . . . Povtorit! Povtorit!"

The woman was in no hurry. By the time she came to our table with the half-empty bottle of Balzams, Karlis was already passed out, his long body sprawled across the table.

"Pyanica!" the woman howled, before spitting on the back of his head. "He is the drunk," she said to me in English. "Do not listen one word he say. He lies people all day."

She looked briefly at the bottle and then glared at me. "You want more?" she asked, waving the bottle.

"No thanks," I smiled.

She shrugged her shoulders, took a large swig, and waddled back to the bar.

Moments later, I stood up and got ready to leave. When I looked down at Karlis, though, I felt I had to do something; at least sit him back in his chair. So, I gently grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back. As I did this, I noticed a small tear in his loose-fitting jacket, just below his arm pit. It looked like a bullet hole.

"It can't be," I whispered to myself.

I nonchalantly put my hands in his pockets, and pulled out a small photograph. It was a picture of a man, a woman, and a small girl -- obviously taken at Disney World.

"Excuse me, miss," I motioned to the waitress. "Perhaps I will have another Balzams."

Short Stories of Colin Cohen (DRAFT)

Table of Contents

The Last Days of Kafka

THE LAST DAYS OF KAFKA (2010)

Table of Contents

AN OX IN THE HOUSE (2010)

AN OX IN THE HOUSE (2010)

THIRST (2007)

THIRST (2007)

PRAGUE GOTHIC (2007)

PRAGUE GOTHIC (2007)

THE REVENGE OF STALIN (2007)

THE REVENGE OF STALIN (2007)

ON TELEVISION (2008)

ON TELEVISION (2008)

MR. ENIS (2006)

MR. ENIS (2006)

BLACK BALZAMS AND HORSERADISH SANDWICHES (1999)

BLACK BALZAMS AND HORSERADISH SANDWICHES (1999)