Hello! We had that Silvio Berlusconi in Smolensk butcher shop this morning.
We just open up. Few customer. Radio on. Easy listening channel. And I get stuck up a bovine ass.
You see we ask Farmer Grimka to bring us beef this week. After what happen last year with massive projectile vomiting outbreak in Smolensk – where people reportedly spew up Grimka’s meat before consume it – we ask beef be extra fresh. So he bring us whole cow. Fedenka. Just decease, he say. We doubtful. Plenty smell. Parts of Fedenka held together with sewn on plastic bag. But we seen worse, and otherwise, apart from be keep upright with wooden struts under body, Fedenka like live cow. She certainly take plenty space in shop, head towards counter, ass facing front door.
“Fedenka good Russian peasant,” say Grimka, as he leave. “Whenever she see devil, she sh*t in his face.”
Fedenka got bad post mortem wind. Fierce and hot. As my assistant Yuri assemble butchery equipment, Fedenka release ass-blast that displace surrounding air, creating simultaneous vacuum and backdraft. This suck shop radio I adjusting out of my hand into Fedenka colon and then, despite my lunge for door handle, I follow too, feet first, and become lodge inside cow. Completely conceal, but able see through now tightened anal aperture. Hot. Decomposition smell. Yuri try rescue me, prizing open ass with soup ladle, when shop bell ring.
“Hey!” say voice. “That’s no way to treat a lady. What you doing?”
“Don’t tell him Yuri,” I whisper to Yuri, who leaning close to cow. “Too embarrass.”
“I’m retrieving pie,” say Yuri.
My foot kick radio and volume increase. Crooner sing > http://bit.ly/CnTmi Voice join in.
“If she moon in your eye
While you search for some pie
You’re a moron.
Hey, hey, you like it, ha?”
Yuri step away from cow and I get look at guest. Recognise immediately. Face like waxwork. Thin plastic skull wig stuck to head. Permanent smiling rictus. Berlusconi.
“Anyway, where’s your boss?” ask Silvio.
“No, real boss. Big Oleg. Oligarch. I meet him here. You still fiddling with lady’s ass? Hey, belissima, how you doing, I treat you better than this hick, eh?” I squirm inside cow as former Prime Minister paw across Fedenka flanks, rump, and even, underneath me, cup her udders.
“Hey, she still got some frisk. Anyway, Oleg got proposition for me,” he continue. “So stupid homosexual bloodless feminist Freemason conspiracy of EU stop me be Prime Minister. Idiots! I would have sorted out Greece for them. We Italians always know what to do with those useless philosopher bumboys. And I got the look for it. Here.” He pull off plastic wig and he bald like Caesar or more recent Italian leader.
“Everyone know best politics duce is duce who control press,” he continue, replacing wig. “Politics is big family, press is big family. I traditional family man. So I say marry them together. No Montague and Capulet feuding sh*t. One big happy family! Rich boss man at head, he call shots, make decisions, take responsibilities off shoulders of people, think for them. In exchange: immunity from prosecution! Just like in Russia. I love it here.
“Santa Maria, even English understand this! That dull four-eyes politician Tom Watson on the money when he call that dull four-eyes James ‘no I can’t remember anything other than where I was when I was definitely not seeing incriminating material’ Murdoch ‘a Mafia boss’. But English such big Oscar Wilde loving public school pansy poncebottoms they not go whole way and make people who control media their leaders. Instead politicians just make sure they and press people all good friends, off-the-record meetings, employing each others people, pathetic hypocritical stuck up prostate prodders who no idea how to give their women a big f – ”
“Anyway,” interrupt Yuri. “Why Oleg want see you here?”
“We been discuss proposition. I get idea when we do gas pipelines from Russia into Italy. I love it. Kickback city! Well I say, Oleg, you big corned beef magnate. Now this is foodstuff not so beloved in my country. Not yet anyway. But I control press. And middle classes who run trattorias and bars and shops love me. Why? Because I tax evader like them and turn blind eye. So everyone adore corned beef soon.
“So. We gonna get past interfering Eurotwats. Liquefy corned beef into slurry and pump it underground into Italy. Secret. Then reconstitute. Cheap food! We flood market. 69 varieties. I front campaign. Hey viewers this beef taste just like the beef your wife keep downstairs behind curtain. Ha! And then: we switch off pipeline. Inflation, worsening recession, possibility of default, Eurozone in crisis. Then Italy welcome me back as hero who can save single currency.”
“Big Oleg got backers. Far Eastern backers, you know what I’m saying? They will buy up all the stinking Euro debt. I’ll be new Marco Polo. Bring China to Italy. I will save the Euro by making it the Yuan. Just like they doing with the Dollar. Chinese get Europe, I get Italy, Oleg get corned beef profits. My greatest come back since Carolina showed me that position where the man is behind the….”
Meanwhile I itch get out. Only way Oleg supply sufficient beef to feed Italy is ransack Russian supplies. Shortages. Price hikes. Our market not stand for this. Our people not stand for it.
“…and then lick it off.”
“But why you meeting him here?” ask Yuri.
“Well, Oleg and me make preparations for months now. In case cocksucking Eurofruits push me out. He start dig pipeline already, you see. At night, when no one around. And he think right here is best place to start. Look.” I watch in horror as he remove section of linoleum from floor and underneath is trapdoor. He open. I stretch buttock, enlarge hole and see another in floor. Yuri drop chop in it. After ten seconds there tiny splash. Now I understand why we got subsidence.
Crooner change on radio and Silvio join in > http://bit.ly/m1Dbpx
“My beef gonna fly down here.
You gonna VOOOOOOOOLARE!
In this HOOOOLARE
So you gonna have to move out.”
“But I like it here. Pavel like it here. His wife like it here.”
“His wife? Oh, she forget about him when I show her good time. How old is she?”
“Same as him I think. About forty-seven.”
“Shame. Too old for me by about 30 years. Still, switch off light, wear gloves, make sure her mouth too busy to talk much. Hey what’s that noise inside the cow? She’s a beauty. Hey maybe we liquefy you first, bambina.” He slap side of Fedenka. Radio change channel > http://bit.ly/uVxFkB
“Hey, what sort of cow is this?” ask Silvio.
“Angeln, I think” say Yuri.
“Ha! Another unf*ckable German lard-arse.”
So far our guest insult women, including my wife, gays, Europeans, British, Germans, Italians, global beef market. But now, worst of all, he insult my produce. I try crawl out and confront him. But as do, something build up behind me. Rumbling. More gas. And behind that something else. Something linked to decomposition.
“Hey what’s going on in there,” say Silvio, and I see him stare up Fedenka ass. Then I propel forward and as I do my foot turn dial on radio. Classical station > http://bit.ly/vssN5I My head emerge from Fedenka ass, just as huge musical greeting heard:
Silvio recoil in horror from my head.
“No, impossible! Mercy! Night and day, I laboured, well, night and day my people laboured for me, in truth, and yes, there been bambinas, a thousand and three in Spain of all places, but they all consenting adults, near enough, and pretty well paid, but, but…and to be honest, I don’t remember inviting you to dinner.” Yuri cower in corner. “Ah boss, boss,” he moan. “And anyway,” say Silvio, “Who’d eat any of the sh*t in this shop.” Gas build up propel me forward. My arms emerge and stretch towards Silvio, trying grab him. He move back towards hole.
“No,” cry Silvio, suddenly bold. “I’m not answering your accusations. Any of you! No. I won’t take your hand. Do your worst!”
“Respondi mi!” cry operatic voice.
“No. No apology. No explanation. After all, you all love a villain.” His smile extend as far as his surgery tightened face allow. I pushed further out towards him. Yuri kneeling, muttering prayers.
“Pentiti!” demand voice.
“No!” cry Silvio.
Pressure behind me unbearable. Then there huge blast. I am fired out of Fedenka ass. My head impact crown of Berlusconi’s. His wig come off. I spin and legs twine around cross beam on ceiling. I look down and glimpse what under wig. Cranium transparent. Inside is small Berlusconi sitting pumping his Ivan, looking at one his own TV channels, watching image of himself, pumping his Ivan and watching himself on TV, over and over, each Berlusconi in turn looking more and more like hellish imp. Then image gone. Silvio engulfed as gas blast that propel me replaced by huge brownish black slurry bursting out of Fedenka ass in river of liquified decomposition.
“AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!” cry Silvio, hit by dark torrent of cow innards, and fall backward into hole. Explosion. Fire. Then nothing. Silence.
We look into hole. Nothing. Then we close up hatch and replace linoleum. And clean up what left of Fedenka.
We decide pretend it never happen. Better that way.