(Artwork by Philip McNulty)
Here's a small vignette for you all by my twin Patrick McNulty entitled:
The Tragedy of Hedonism
The corridor stretched beyond comprehension as I was led down the dark, despondent hall by two husky goons. They didn't tell me much of the what or the why of their actions. In fact, they didn't even gasp or sigh or moan as they waltzed into my house and marched down the basement to apprehend me. They just did. It was, after all, Stalin's Motherland.
A light bulb on a single string of dim lights down the hall flickered as we approached it. I watched, as it consumed moths and mosquitoes, repressing and extirpating the life of the insects, swallowing them whole in the flashes of darkness. I searched for remnants of them, something that could prove to me that they were once a part of life, but any signs of wings, antennas—even their charged bulbous eyes—were gone. Either lost to the tight, thin air or hidden by the dust and cobwebs coating the cracks in the concrete floor and the musty brick wall.
The large, intimidating guard jabbed me sharply in the back and pointed ahead. I stumbled over my feet as I continued down the tedious hall. I looked back at the other guard. He, too, pointed ahead.
I ran through my mind the events of the days, weeks, even the months before. I internally wondered who I crossed, what I had told people, either in passing or when engaged in deep conversation. I tried remembering to whom I smiled or frowned upon. I questioned what song I sang in the shower last night. My mind could not raise one damned red flag. Nothing about me was unordinary or out of line. Nothing.
An iridescent green glow at the head of the hall made me nervous. We were approaching the conclusion of this path and I immediately wanted to turn back and watch more bugs sizzle in the light behind me. My knees shivered and my legs became instant goo. A darkness slowly enshrouded my vision, a blindness induced by fear or the want for comfort. I shook my head rapidly to regain sight. The green light was brighter, more vibrant, and the large Russian behind me placed his hand on my shoulder and forced me to turn the corner.
The light was blinding, burning my retinas and singeing away all of my sensations but fear.
"Sit down," a deep voice said.
And, when coerced by my new comrades, I did just that.
I squinted in an effort to look through the green light at my mysterious captor. I could not decipher much of the man not two feet in front of me. I caught only a glimpse of a Russian army cap and shoulder pads. Otherwise, I discovered he smoked Herzoginva Flor.
"I imagine you are intrigued as to why you are here," he said. "Well, my friend, the answer is relatively simple and borderline cliché: you have something we want."
I raised my arm over my eyes to shield from the ever-persistent green light.
"Please," he said, "keep both hands on the table."
I did as I was told. My heart pounded.
"I have been told you are a simple man versed only in the pleasures of butchery. Skilled with a knife, unafraid to mutilate the dead, undeterred to wear the blood of your victims on the whites of your sleeves."
"Well," I said, "technically—"
"In times like these," he said, "you know, with the Americans threatening, we could use an assassin with your talent."
"I'm sorry," I said.
"Please, please, do not be so modest, Mr. Konev."
"No, "I said, "it's not that. I'm not Mr. Konev. My name is Konon, the owner of Meats Meats Meats at the corner of Vetoshnyy pereulok."
"Oh, really?" His toned changed and his voice cracked slightly, like a prepubescent school child. "Oh. Then this is an awful mistake."
He waved his hand next to his head and the green light switched off. The room's natural light exposed his face—for the worse, I might add. His face was scarred by deep, inset wrinkles and his eyes bulged like a warped beast from a Kafka story.
"This is most embarrassing," he said. "Clearly…" he paused and chuckled in a most uncomfortable way. "Clearly, you are not him."
He dug into his pockets and rummaged about in a fidgety way.
"Here." He removed a crumbled, seemingly sandy pack of Flor from his pocket and pushed it into my chest. There was one cigarette left. I was curious as to why there was more sand than cigarettes. Nonetheless, it was still a Flor.
"Take this as an apology," he said, forcing the pack more deeply into my chest. Grains of white sand trickled from the open sores of the bottom of the pack and formed a relatively large ant hill in front of my feet. "It's so…" he said, shaking his head, "just so embarrassing."
"Please," I said, "it's alright." I took the unscrupulously handled pack. There was still a perfectly fine Flor remaining. "This is more than enough."
"Perfect." He tapped both of my shoulders twice with his large, bristle hands and smiled. "Let me light that for you, Comrade."
I nodded, and plucked the cigarette from the pack and pursed my lips. He raised a pistol from his hip and shot the end of the cigarette. The bullet must have pierced my neck, or grazed my Adam's apple. I must have impulsively grabbed for my neck as I fell to the floor. To be honest, I didn't even feel the blood on my hands. I just saw it, and sort of rubbed it inquiringly with my thumb into my forefinger.
"Dispose of the body," the man said casually to the two goons who brought me in.
I looked at the cigarette, which was still intact and smoldering. I was surprised at how well it was preserved after receiving a gunshot to its head. I figured my captor must have been a horrible shot.
My eye sight was slowly fading, and everything was become hazy and arbitrary. I couldn't even feel the men's hands under my armpits, couldn't feel my heels sliding in staggered zigzags to the hall where moths had received the same disparaging end. And then, there in front of my face was the swaying, sensual smell of the cigarette smoke.
I raised the cigarette to my lips. Hell, it was still a perfectly fine Flor.
