When Yeltsin Met Pinkie

Significant efforts were made by political elites and law enforcement to prevent news of the July 10th incident from spreading beyond the limits of Barvikha Village.  The actions were of course taken in order to protect Yeltsin’s reputation. Unfortunately, the measures were futile and failed before they had even begun.

Several nurses, two secretaries, and a physician employed at the sanatorium were supporters of Gennady Zyuganov and the communists. When Yeltsin was received at the hospital in his delirium, these people had taken it upon themselves to document, with intense detail, the reports from the militsiya, Yeltsin’s ramblings about ponies, and the nature of the care he was receiving, among other information. They even managed to snap a few pictures of the scene. Around noon on the 10th of July, these employees met secretly in an unused room on the ward. It was agreed upon that the compiled information would be driven into the city proper and hand-delivered to the headquarters of the communist party. It was received that afternoon.

Following Yeltsin’s decree on August 22nd of 1991, Pravda, the official newspaper of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, had been seized by the state. It was completely shut down, though its team of editors and journalists immediately founded a new newspaper by the same name shortly thereafter. In a few short months, the editor eventually sold the new Pravda to two Greek entrepreneurs. The newspaper was failing, and the Communist Party of the Russian Federation had no jurisdiction over what was being published on its pages. The staff, however, had remained loyal to the communists all the while, through and including that fateful day of July 10th, 1996.

When the Party received the leaked information from the hospital, it seemed that they finally had something that could end Yeltsin’s political career once and for all. Zyuganov and his constituents immediately took the reports from the hospital to the offices of the new Pravda newspaper. They effortlessly convinced the journalists and editors to rush the writing and printing of a secret edition of the paper with Yeltsin’s episode as the front-page story, and to hide these actions from the new owners of Pravda.

One day later, Zyuganov and his counterparts found themselves waiting at the headquarters of the communist party for the delivery of the first printed copies of the secret Pravda publication. If everything went as planned, it wouldn’t only mean the revival of the failing newspaper. It had the potential to give the communist party control of the Russian Federation.

*   *   *

Location: Offices of the Communist Party of the Russian Federation, Moscow City, Moscow Oblast, Russian Federation

Date: July 11th, 1996

Time: 4:40 PM

It seemed that the future again looked bright for the communists as Gennady Zyuganov smiled triumphantly, scanning the front page of the secret publication. Two influential party members, Yegor Ligachev and Vladimir Ulas, were also present in Zyuganov’s office, each reading their own copy of the gazette that had just been dropped off by Valeriya Boldireva, one of Zyuganov’s campaign managers.

The front page began with the bold-lettered title, Pravda, across the top, with a small quote in the upper-right hand corner that remained unchanged from the very first edition of the newspaper in 1912: “Workers of all countries, unite!” Below the bold lettering were two pictures of the Order of Lenin.

But the remainder of the page was filled with the article for which Zyuganov and his comrades had been waiting. Yeltsin Convinced He Saw, Befriended Colorful Talking Ponies in Dacha Office, read the massive headline, with a smaller line of text beneath it: “President Believed to Be Certifiably Insane.” Below these two headlines was a photo that had been taken by one of the nurses, showing a shirtless, wide-eyed Yeltsin with his arms flailing about, surrounded by hospital staff. The article described Yeltsin’s admittance to the hospital, his delirium, the report from the militsiya, and Yeltsin’s unrelenting insistence that little, magic-capable, talking ponies had appeared in his office. It also went on to explain that key politicians and the oligarchs had attempted to hide this story from the public eye, taking a number of solid whacks at Yeltsin’s administration while glorifying the Communist Party of the Russian Federation and its supporters at the sanatorium for presenting to the people such important information regarding the man that controlled their nation.

Zyuganov’s face lit up with delight as he laughed at the front page.

“Brilliant!” he cheered. “Oh, this is absolutely brilliant, comrades! This is the kind of turn-around for which we’ve all been waiting. This is the gaffe that’s going to spell out the end for that moron, Yeltsin.” He tucked the paper under his arm and turned to Ulas, Ligachev, and Boldireva. “And who’d have thought, in a million years,” Zyuganov continued, “that it would all stem from a psychotic episode about talking ponies?”

The entire group laughed as Zyuganov rested his copy of the gazette on the desk and stepped over to the table by the window, where four empty wine glasses stood patiently beside a bottle of Sovietskoye Shampanskoye, the classic champagne from Belarus. It was Zyuganov’s celebratory drink of choice. Even though the sun was creeping into its evening descent, its bright rays filled the office, delivering a magnificent shine to the bottle and the crystal glasses.

“This is a day to remember, comrades,” Zyuganov said to his constituents as he undid the wrapping and uncorked the bottle. “For today, we’ve witnessed the beginning of the end of Yeltsin’s Russian Federation. Today, we’re closer than ever before to the restoration of the glorious Soviet Union.”

The champagne was poured, and Zyuganov handed the glasses to Ulas, Ligachev, and Boldireva. Zyganov looked with pride upon the bright red banner of the Communist Labor Collective that hung on the wall behind his desk, and then turned to his comrades, asking,

“And who shall begin our toast?”

“If I may, comrade Zyuganov,” Ligachev responded, raising his glass. “Here’s to the rebirth of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, a nation of everlasting glory, and to her people, united and free.”

“And to our comrades at the Barvikha Sanatorium,” Ulas began, raising his glass, “for without their loyalty and their efforts, this day of glory would never have dawned. They do Lenin’s work.”

“And to Vladimir Ilyich,” Valeriya Boldireva said proudly, holding her glass high as she turned to the portrait of Lenin on the far wall of Zyuganov’s office. The three men did the same. “No one, ever, shall forget the name Lenin. For Lenin is always with us, in every task, and in every beautiful day. He is as alive now as he was during the stormy days of 1917.”

“And to Great October,” Zyuganov concluded, raising the fourth and final glass. “To the revolution that changed the entire world. But there is a new October, and it is blossoming before our very eyes, comrades. We’re living it. We’re leading it. Now, we are the revolutionaries. So raise your glasses to us, and to the new October.”

The glasses of bubbling champagne came together and clinked exquisitely. The Party members drank the strong yet refreshing Belorussian specialty, and stared dreamily off into various corners of the room as visions of grandeur filled their spirited minds.

Zyuganov could already see Red Square teeming with the joyous masses as the Red Army marched along, saluting the waving flags of the reestablished Soviet Union.  He could see the reunification with the former SSRs, as their people paraded down the streets. He could hear the Hymn of the USSR radiating from every corner of the Motherland, drowning out the grotesque uproar of the capitalist west. And who was presiding over the celebration? Gennady Andreyevich Zyuganov, the new premier of the Soviet Union and savior of the Soviet people.

But such greatness was still a long way off. The new revolution was just beginning. The matter at hand was the ejection of Boris Yeltsin from the Kremlin.

“It’s time to finish preparations for tomorrow’s mass circulation,” Zyuganov said, taking the wine glasses from his constituents and placing them on the table. “You’ve arranged everything with the distributors?” Zyuganov asked Boldireva.

“Of course, comrade Zyuganov,” responded the campaign manager. “Everything is squared away. The rest of the printing will begin once I return to the Pravda offices with your approval.”

“You’ve had my approval from the minute I saw that front page, comrade Boldireva.”

“Then I won’t wait any longer. I’ll head back to the presses and give them the green light. I’d give them a call, but…” Boldireva’s voice trailed off. “You know. In case anyone is listening.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll be on my way, comrades.” Valeriya Boldireva said to Zyuganov, Ulas, and Ligachev, who bid her farewell. She closed the briefcase and turned on her heels, walking swiftly through the door of Zyuganov’s office and down the hall.

Zyuganov slowly approached the picture of Yeltsin that was taped to a corkboard on his wall. There were knives and hatchets sticking out of it from the instances in which Zyuganov had used it to pass idle time. All was then quiet as Zyuganov locked eyes with the photo. As he stared Yeltsin down, his blood began to boil as he recalled the communist party’s loss just days ago in the 1996 presidential election. But fortunately for Zyuganov, it seemed that the ’96 election would be the last time that his party knew defeat.

“Enjoy this evening, comrade Yeltsin,” he said to the picture with a grimace. “It will be one of the last days you get to call yourself president.”

Valeriya Boldierva, meanwhile, was finishing business with the secretary, Yevgeniy, in the vestibule. She left with him several documents regarding the plans for the next day and a list of names of the distributors and agitators. Boldireva thanked the secretary for his help, picked up her briefcase, and headed out the open door that connected the party offices with the remainder of the building in which it was located.

Yevgeniy took a seat behind his desk and began looking through the protocol and list of agitators, but he didn’t manage to read very much. Seconds after he sat down, he dropped the documents and jumped out of his chair as he heard Valeriya Boldireva scream. An explosive bang followed her outburst that shook the floor on which Yevgeniy was standing. Wide-eyed, he dashed around the corner of his desk.

“Comrade Boldireva! Are you alright?” he shouted as he bolted through the door and into the hallway. Halfway down the corridor, he saw Boldireva sprawled out on the ground.

“Shit!” he cursed as he began to run toward her. But he stopped short after only a few steps. Something else had caught his eye at the far end of the hallway.

“What the…” he muttered aloud. Another massive bang followed, shaking the entire hallway, and Yevgeniy was blasted off his feet before he even knew what hit him.

Zyuganov, Ligachev, and Ulas rushed into the vestibule of the party headquarters in response to the sudden commotion.

“What the hell just happened?” Zyuganov shouted as he and his counterparts looked about the room with confused stares.

“Where’s Boldireva?” Ligachev asked. “And where’s Yevgeniy?”

“I want to know what made all that goddamned noise,” Ulas muttered, striding over to the open doorway that led out of the party offices. He passed through the doorframe and disappeared from view. Zyuganov and Ligachev were ready to follow him out, until they heard him shout from the hallway,

“Oh, blyad’!”

Another explosive bang shook the ground as Ulas was blasted backwards, landing in a crumpled heap before the doorway. Zyuganov and Ligachev turned white as ghosts.

“Shit! We’re under attack!” Ligachev cried as he and Zyuganov turned and raced back toward the private offices. The two black-suited communists hurried down the corridor, afraid to look back, even for a split second. Zyuganov hung a quick right and dashed into a conference room, slamming and locking the door behind him. Ligachev, meanwhile, sprinted off toward Zyuganov’s office.

Gennady Zyuganov locked the door and propped a wooden chair diagonally beneath the doorknob. He then ducked beneath the long table at the center of the room. Zyuganov sat motionless, breathing quickly but quietly, as he tried to piece together in his mind what was happening. Someone was storming the party offices. He watched Vladimir Ulas get taken down before his very eyes, and guessed that Valeriya and Yevgeniy had met a similar fate. But the weapon that had been used sounded like no gun Zyganov had ever heard before, even during his years in the Red Army. What could have made such a strange, thunderous bang? And who was behind the attack? Zyuganov’s first guess was a hired assassin working for Yeltsin or the oligarchs. But that didn’t make any sense, because there would have been no motive. Yeltsin had just defeated Zyuganov in the election, preventing the communist party from entering the presidency. But what if, somehow, the administration found out about the secret Pravda publication? Perhaps the scheme at Barvikha had been discovered. But what if it had nothing to do with Yeltsin? It could very well have been someone working for the conservative extremists from the Right Cause, or even disgruntled members of the Yabloko party. But why would they attack in the evening, after most of the Party’s staff had already gone home for the day, and not during a busier time? Had it not been for the last-minute approval of the newspaper, Zyuganov wouldn’t even have gone to the offices that day.

Sweat drenched the collar and cuffs of Zyuganov’s shirt as he waited beneath the conference room table. His hands were trembling uncontrollably as he feared that he was only seconds or minutes away from an untimely demise.

The politician held his breath, listening carefully for sounds from the hallway. He heard strange footsteps. They were not heavy, but at the same time were strangely rapid. To Zyuganov, it sounded not like one person running, but as if two people were calmly walking.

Shit. There must be two of them, Zyuganov thought, still listening attentively.

The footsteps proceeded down the hall in a slow, calculated manner. They stopped, then picked back up, then stopped again, and then continued again. When they paused before the door of the conference room, Gennady Zyuganov felt his heart sink.

But rather than hearing the jiggling of the doorknob, as Zyuganov was expecting, the footsteps picked back up and continue down the hall in the direction of his office. But he heard something else along with them now, as if something was being dragged or pushed along. He couldn’t make out what the object was, but continued listening as the footsteps grew softer.

Zyuganov crawled out from beneath the conference table and tiptoed over to the door. He put his ear to the wood and listened for more sounds from the hallway. For a few seconds, he could hear nothing, but then, a door slowly creaked open. Two heavy thumps on the floor were heard, immediately followed by another strange, thunderous bang. The thumps were heard again as what sounded like a struggle was playing out somewhere down the hallway. But a second ground-shaking bang sounded, and all was again quiet, save for the calm footsteps of the two perpetrators as they came back down the hallway. Zyuganov tiptoed back over to the table and once again hid beneath it.

“What the hell are they using that makes such a loud noise?” Zyuganov whispered aloud. “The whole damned building shakes every time I hear it!”

The two perpetrators continued toward the vestibule, passing the door to the conference room in which Gennady Zyuganov was hiding. They didn’t stop. They simply pressed onward until the footsteps were too quiet to be heard. The nervous communist again snuck out from his hiding spot and listened at the door, but could hear nothing but the unsettling silence that pervaded every inch of the party offices.

This could be my chance to get the hell out of here, Zyuganov thought to himself as he debated his next move. If the two of them are up front, I might be able to sneak into my office. I could climb down through the window… if I can find a rope or something that’ll get me down four stories…

Zyuganov figured that it was the best option he had. He couldn’t head for the front door, through the vestibule where those two goons had just gone. But he also couldn’t simply stay in the conference room where there was no chance of escape.

Slowly, he took the chair away, turned the doorknob and pushed the door open, afraid of what he might hear or see coming down the corridor at him. But nothing happened. He peeked around the doorframe toward the vestibule, and saw no one.

So far, so good, Zyuganov thought to himself as he slipped through the half-opened door and tiptoed off toward his office. He looked over his shoulder, relieved to find that he was still alone. The politician crept down the hallway and snuck through the open door to his office, immediately heading to the window at his left. Looking at the ground through the glass, he shook his head.

“Chyort. No way in hell I’m jumping that,” Zyuganov muttered. “I need a cord. Or a rope. Or something.” He thought for a moment about his new plan of action, wondering if he shouldn’t just risk going through the vestibule. Slowly, he turned around, but froze on the spot as his blood ran cold.

“Great Lenin’s Ghost…” he breathed.

There, sitting motionless on the floor with his back against the east wall, was Yegor Ligachev. Resting beneath his limp hand was a hatchet that he had presumably taken from the picture of Yeltsin on the wall to defend himself. There was something smeared over Ligachev’s entire face and the shoulders of his suit. But it wasn’t blood, for it was a color somewhere between tan and white, studded with yellow chunks. The portrait of Lenin that hung on the wall above the unconscious politician was also covered in the strange goop, right over the face.

“Comrade Ligachev…” Gennady Zyuganov breathed. “Can you hear me?” He crept over to his fallen friend and tried to shake him awake, but it did no good. Ligachev was out like a light. Zyuganov stood helplessly before his counterpart, trying to piece together what was going on. He noticed two round objects on the floor beside Ligachev, and picked one of them up.

It was a pastry tin, and it was filled with thick custard.

Zyuganov’s brow wrinkled in confusion as he took a good, long look at the painting of Lenin and his comrade Ligachev, and then at the pie tin in his quivering hands.

“My God… it’s pie,” he said aloud, growing more frantic by the second. “They knocked him out with a fucking custard pie! But how? And WHY?” He let the pie tin drop to the floor, slowly backing away from the body.

“This can’t be Yeltsin’s supporters or the Right Cause… What kind of lunatic would barge in here and start throwing pies? Hell, even those half-wits with the Yabloko party aren’t idiotic enough to do something like this,” Zyganov stammered as he continued to step back toward the door to the office. “And why, of all days, did it have to be today? Everything was going so damned well for once, and-”

Zyuganov stopped as his leg struck something in the doorframe that almost caused him to trip and topple to the floor. He angrily turned around after regaining his balance.

“What are you, blind? Don’t stand right in the middle of the fucking doorway when a guy’s trying to…”

Zyuganov fell silent as he looked upon the object over which he had nearly tripped. It was a little blue cannon, with floral designs on its wheels. And standing behind the cannon, grasping it with her front hooves, was a little pink pony, no more than three feet tall, with a poofy mane and tail.

The color again faded from Zyuganov’s face as he took several steps back, eyes locked with those of the little pony.

“Hello, Mr. Zooganzo,” Pinkie Pie said with a devious smile. “I’ve been looking for you.” Zyuganov said nothing as he stared in disbelief at the little pink animal before him. She was talking to him. And though she had botched his surname, it was apparent that she knew who he was.

“Who… who are you? What are you?” Zyganov yelled as his heart raced and beads of sweat continued to form on is brow.

“My name is Pinkie Pie,” the little pony said to the communist, “and we need to have a little talk.”

Zyuganov stared into the dark bore of the cannon that was aimed right at him.

“Alright. Fine. We can talk,” he said quickly, nervously nodding and taking another step back.

“A little birdie told me that you’ve been very naughty,” Pinkie Pie began with a cross expression, inching forward slightly with the party cannon. “You went and made my friend Mr. Boris cry. Now, was that a very nice thing to do?”

Mr. Boris? Zyuganov thought. Who the hell is Mr. Boris?

“Well?” Pinkie Pie asked Zyuganov, who still hadn’t answered her question. “WAS IT?” the pony shouted, shoving the cannon forward again and startling Zyuganov, who stumbled and fell backward in shock. Unable to find the strength to stand, he could only sit up and slide himself away from the pony with his hands and feet.

“What are you talking about?” Zyuganov cried hysterically. “Who’s Mr. Boris?”

“Don’t play dumb, Zooganzo,” Pinkie grumbled as her eyes narrowed. “You know exactly who I mean. Mr. Boris, the president.”

“Mr. Boris, the president?” Zyuganov’s eyes were ready to pop out of their sockets. “Boris Yeltsin? But then… That could only mean that you…” Gennady Zyuganov had now put two and two together, and he found that it equaled something far worse than four.

“You made him cry, Zooganzo,” Pinkie growled. “I don’t like it when people make my friends cry.”

Gennady Zyuganov’s mind was slowly tearing itself in two as he thought back to Yeltsin’s wild claims about talking ponies in the article of the secret Pravda publication.

“No…” he stuttered, again sliding himself backwards on the floor, away from the crazed pink pony. “This can’t be happening. It just can’t be… You… You’re a figment of Yeltsin’s imagination… You can’t be real…”

“Oh, I’m real, alright,” Pinkie laughed. “I’m as real as you are. And I’m going to make you pay for what you did to President Boris.” She started wheeling the cannon forward again. Zyuganov tried to slide back once more, but he bumped into his desk and could go no further.

“You’re going to make me pay?” Zyuganov cried. “Boris Yeltsin should be the one to pay for all the irreparable damage he’s done to this country! That moron threw Russia into a ditch that gets deeper and deeper every goddamned day! All the while, I’ve been over here trying to restore the glory of the Soviet Union!”

Just then, Zyuganov heard a dazed-sounding moan at his left. He and Pinkie both turned and looked at Ligachev. Still sitting on the floor, the pie-covered man had slowly woken up over the course of the conversation. Ligachev tried to wipe the custard from his eyes.

“What’s all this, a fucking cream puff?” Ligachev spat.

“QUIET!” Pinkie hollered, spinning the cannon to face the dazed communist. With a magnificent kaboom, another pie was fired from the bore, smacking Ligachev squarely in the face. The man was thrown against the wall and then fell onto his side. Once again, Ligachev was out cold. Gennady Zyuganov was trembling uncontrollably as he watched the scene. Pinkie Pie slowly turned the cannon back toward the hysterical politician.

“How did you… Why did…  But he…” Zyuganov faltered. “I think I need new pants.”

“Cream puffs?” Pinkie chortled as she shot a quick glance at Ligachev. “That’s cute. No, these aren’t cream puffs. They’re a very special kind of pie. It’s Sugarcube Corner’s signature custard dessert… with a twist.” Pinkie paused, grinning deviously at Gennady Zyuganov. “It’s made with a very, very, VERY heavy cream. You need a pretty hefty dose of unicorn magic to get the cream to turn out just right.”

Zyuganov began sliding over to his right, trying to push himself away from Licaghev and the pony with the cannon. But with every inch he moved, Pinkie brought the cannon an inch closer to him.

“The magic in the pie doesn’t only make the cream heavy in consistency and taste,” Pinkie explained. “While these pies weigh as much as a normal pie, they have the ability to gain momentum like an object with fifty times the pie’s actual mass.” Pinkie paused and thought for a second, scratching her head with her hoof. “Hmm. I think that’s what Twilight said. I don’t really remember.” She narrowed her eyes again and stared Zyuganov down. “I call it… Block Party Surprise.”

“Block Party Surprise?” Zyuganov whimpered.

“Yup,” Pinkie Pie said deviously. “You wanna know what the surprise is?”

Gennady Zyuganov shook his head no.

“When one of these babies flies out of a party cannon… Whoever’s on the receiving end will feel like he’s been beaned with a cinderblock.”

Zyuganov’s legs were still too weak to stand. All he could do was continue to slide himself to the right across the floor of his office until his back was pressed up against the west wall. As Pinkie Pie closed in, the man’s frantic gaze shot back and forth between the cannon-bearing pony and the custard-covered painting of Lenin on the far wall.

Now, Zyuganov knew that he needed new pants.

“I’m sorry!” he shouted hysterically as he convulsed in sheer terror. “I’m sorry I made Yeltsin cry! Please, don’t hurt me!”

Unfortunately for Gennady Zyuganov, it was too late for apologies. Not even the will of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, the Great Leader, could save him now.

“Nighty-night, Mr. Zooganzo,” Pinkie Pie sneered.

Just a short while ago, Gennady Zyuganov had seen himself as the savior of the USSR. But as Pinkie’s cannon shook the offices of the communist party with another staggering kaboom, the last thing Zyuganov saw before being knocked unconscious was a generous serving of sweet, thick, and painful custard.

The End