22-02-2004, 13:40
Cde Marat Retires
Sunday Feburay 22, 2004: Year 20 Of The Revolutionary Soviets
Marat waits outside the chair's office. He hears the groping fingers of the wind outside, a hungry rumble against the window. The sound of loneliness, he thinks to himself. From the office door he hears the chair telling him to enter.
"Hi, I'm John Marat, you may remember me from such threads as 'UN strangers bar...and'
"Shut up Marat, shut up. You were sent to the UN to be quiet and keep out of trouble. Half the soviet meetings have been about you and your 'interfacing'.
"...but I..."
"For example: you got the entire supreme soviet to 'hug their way to peace' a month ago. The month before you invited Oprah Winfrey to do a factory soviet tour". The chair shuddered at having to repeat the name. Now I find that we have recieved 300 complaints from UN members about your conduct. You have tried to sell them your self help books. You have offered them 'crying sessions'"
Marat winced like a scolded child trying not to cry. "But comrade Punkachu, the crying sessions have been a great success! We're buidling a softer, more feminine world in the UN...."
The chair boiled in his chair, his face turning ever deeper shades of red.
"BUT WE'RE REVOLUTIONARIES MAN! WE'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BUILDING A FEMININE WORLD! He pointed to the large portrait of marx behind him. "DO YOU THINK THAT MARX HUGGED HIS WAY TO PEACE? NO! HE WAS CRANKY, WORDY, HE INSULTED PEOPLE, HE GOT DRUNK, HE WAS OFTEN POMPOUS! HE WAS IN SHORT, A BLUEPRINT FOR US TO FOLLOW! DO YOU GET IT? The chair regained his composure and asked: 'whose portrait do you have on the wall of your office?" with forced sweetness.
Marat coughed.
"It's Dr. Phil, isn't it?"
Marat managed to squeak out a yes.
"Well it's no good Marat. Our last soviet congress has decided that you are to be sent into the outer reaches of space. Only your mother voted against.
"Aww, my dear mother..."
"Yes she voted that you be buried alive".
The chair reached into a filing cabinet behind him for Marat's official papers. Marat seeing the distraction as his only chance, fled from the office and into the windswept streets of Cromwell city.
....
Sunday Feburay 22, 2004: Year 20 Of The Revolutionary Soviets
Marat waits outside the chair's office. He hears the groping fingers of the wind outside, a hungry rumble against the window. The sound of loneliness, he thinks to himself. From the office door he hears the chair telling him to enter.
"Hi, I'm John Marat, you may remember me from such threads as 'UN strangers bar...and'
"Shut up Marat, shut up. You were sent to the UN to be quiet and keep out of trouble. Half the soviet meetings have been about you and your 'interfacing'.
"...but I..."
"For example: you got the entire supreme soviet to 'hug their way to peace' a month ago. The month before you invited Oprah Winfrey to do a factory soviet tour". The chair shuddered at having to repeat the name. Now I find that we have recieved 300 complaints from UN members about your conduct. You have tried to sell them your self help books. You have offered them 'crying sessions'"
Marat winced like a scolded child trying not to cry. "But comrade Punkachu, the crying sessions have been a great success! We're buidling a softer, more feminine world in the UN...."
The chair boiled in his chair, his face turning ever deeper shades of red.
"BUT WE'RE REVOLUTIONARIES MAN! WE'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BUILDING A FEMININE WORLD! He pointed to the large portrait of marx behind him. "DO YOU THINK THAT MARX HUGGED HIS WAY TO PEACE? NO! HE WAS CRANKY, WORDY, HE INSULTED PEOPLE, HE GOT DRUNK, HE WAS OFTEN POMPOUS! HE WAS IN SHORT, A BLUEPRINT FOR US TO FOLLOW! DO YOU GET IT? The chair regained his composure and asked: 'whose portrait do you have on the wall of your office?" with forced sweetness.
Marat coughed.
"It's Dr. Phil, isn't it?"
Marat managed to squeak out a yes.
"Well it's no good Marat. Our last soviet congress has decided that you are to be sent into the outer reaches of space. Only your mother voted against.
"Aww, my dear mother..."
"Yes she voted that you be buried alive".
The chair reached into a filing cabinet behind him for Marat's official papers. Marat seeing the distraction as his only chance, fled from the office and into the windswept streets of Cromwell city.
....