When Yeltsin Met Pinkie

by Misha Palominov

Rating: teen
Tags: Human, Comedy
Length: 14336

After Russia's Boris Yeltsin finds three colorful ponies in the office of his country dacha, he's convinved that it's an attempt by his political rivals to drive him insane.

The Russian president was having a pretty rough year. His approval ratings were in the toilet, he nearly lost an election to the communists, he was recovering from a series of heart attacks, and his love of vodka wasn't doing him any favors. But Boris Yeltsin's life took another strange turn when he awoke one morning to find Pinkie Pie, Fluttershy, and Twilight Sparkle sitting in the office of his dacha. A frightened and confused Yeltsin immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion, becoming extremely certain that it was all a heinous trick coordinated by Gennady Zyuganov, his political rival from the Communist Party. But as the morning went on, Yeltsin would abandon this theory as he took a few important lessons in friendship and magic.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2013-09-28 19:03:24 UTC

Unexpected Guests at the Presidential Dacha

The warm, summer nights were as beautiful in the suburbs outside of Moscow as they were in the center of the sprawling city itself. But some people would argue that you couldn’t actually enjoy the escape of summer unless you escaped Moscow proper, for it was too fast-paced, noisy, and crowded. That’s half of the reason why Boris Nikolayevich Yeltsin, President of the Russian Federation, was staying in his dacha at Barvikha village – to escape for a while.

Yeltsin’s recent years in office hadn’t been easy ones. The economic condition of the Russian Federation was looking worse and worse as the GDP continued to fall. The proposed liberal economic reforms were faltering. The president’s affinity for drinking didn’t make him look any better in the public eye. Duma elections of 1995 saw a majority of seats won by the Communist Party of the Russian Federation as people began to lose faith in Yeltsin and his political allies. By the end of his first term, his approval ratings had plummeted.

The situation was worsened by Yeltsin’s poor state of health. A series of heart attacks between 1994 and mid-1996 left their mark on the weary man. He had been hospitalized twice in 1995 for myocardial ischemia, a serious condition that restricts oxygen flow to the muscles of the heart. But Boris Yeltsin fought his way through the adversity, campaigning to win a second term as president of the Russian Federation

The ’96 presidential election had ended just a week prior, and Yeltsin had managed to scrape together a victory over Gennady Zyuganov, his opponent from the Communist Party. But it had been an uphill battle all the way. Yeltsin again found himself drained from the long fight. So he was now living at Gorki-9, the presidential dacha at the Barvikha Sanatorium, outside of the hustle and bustle of Moscow, taking one day at a time in the wake of the campaign and his devastating health problems, allowing life to settle back down.

But what Boris Yeltsin didn’t know was that his life would soon be turned upside-down again. And this time, there would be ponies.

*   *   *

Location: Горки-9 Presidential Dacha, Barvikha, Moscow Oblast, Russian Federation

Date: July 10th, 1996

Time: 12:30 AM

It was a tranquil morning. Every window of the president’s dacha was dark, and Boris Yeltsin was sleeping in his cozy room on the second story. The interior of the house was quiet, save for the ticking of the clocks and Yeltsin’s obnoxious snoring. It seemed that everything was leading into another normal day at Gorki-9.

In the office that separated the president’s bedroom from the rest of the house, the books sat on their shelves, the bottles of liquor rested on the server, and the portrait of Alexander Pushkin that hung on the wall watched over the dark room with a perpetual gaze. The room had seen a number of distinguished guests over the years, but on this particular morning, it was about to receive its first-ever unguligrade visitors.

Following a bright flash studded with little purple twinkles, Pinkie Pie, Fluttershy, and Twilight Sparkle appeared at the very center of Yeltsin’s office. They looked around, barely able to discern the dark room in which they had just arrived, and it became immediately apparent that they didn’t end up where they had intended to be.

“Hey!” Pinkie exclaimed, head turning this way and that, “this doesn’t look like Manehattan!”

“Where are we, Twilight?” asked Fluttersky, barely able to see her friends in the darkness despite their proximity. Twilight Sparkle put a hoof to her head.

“I have no idea,” she mumbled. “Something went wrong with that spell. I still haven’t quite mastered such long-distance teleportation yet, I guess. Though I thought going for Manehattan wouldn’t be that difficult.” Fluttershy and Pinkie heard her plop down on the floor and groan. “Sorry, girls,” she continued. “I’ll take us back home after I take a few minutes to rest. That took a lot out of me. I have a massive headache.”

At the same time, in the neighboring room, President Yeltsin had been tossing and turning in bed. After waking himself up with a throaty snort, he sleepily opened one eye and peered at his clock, which showed 12:35 AM. He moaned and turned over.

“Why do I keep waking up?” he mumbled. Yeltsin beat his pillow a couple of times and tried to fall asleep again, but gave up after only a minute or two. He sat up in bed, yawned, and scratched his chest. “Damn it…” he grunted.

The president slowly got to his feet and wobbled over to the window, where he opened the blinds and peered outside into the black of night that surrounded Barvikha. Save for a few watchmen, everyone was slumbering. This had been the fourth time he’d woken up since he hit the sack the previous day. He scratched his head and yawned, wishing he could just lay back down and stay asleep. Suddenly, he had an idea.

“Kasha,” he muttered. “I still have some kasha left over from yesterday. I’ll eat the rest of that, and it’ll put me right back to sleep.” Yeltsin turned from the window and took a step, stubbing his toe on an end table.

“God damn it!” he seethed. “Who the hell put that thing over there?” He carefully stepped the rest of the way across his dark bedroom toward the door to his office. It was time to satisfy the midnight craving for porridge.

On the other side of the door, the ponies were still sitting and talking.

“You know, Twilight, we don’t have to leave so soon,” Pinkie Pie said. “We should do some looking around and see where we ended up! And hey, we might actually be in Manehattan already! What if you just teleported us into somebody’s basement or something?”

“We’re not in Manehattan, Pinkie,” Twilight responded, caressing her horn as she rested on the floor. “I definitely felt something go wrong with that spell as we were coming over here. It shouldn’t have been as exhausting as it was.”

“Girls…” Fluttershy stuttered. “Did either of you just hear something?” The three ponies sat in silence in the dark room, holding their breath as they listened for noise.

They heard a series of thumps – footsteps – getting gradually louder. They weren’t listening to a regular stride. Whoever was walking was moving very slowly, and his path was full of missteps. Then, the three ponies heard the jiggling of a doorknob, and a slow creak.

“What was that? What was that!?” Fluttershy whispered shrilly.

The flick of a switch was heard as the lights of the office came on. Fluttershy hid behind Twilight Sparkle and Pinkie Pie as the three ponies stared up at the figure that appeared in the doorway before them while their eyes slowly adjusted to the light.

The man in the office was squinting in the lamplight as well, putting a hand up to his forehead so he could see. He was a tall, grey-haired, somewhat portly fellow, dressed in pajamas that were covered with little pictures of a rabbit and a wolf, the two lovable characters from a popular Russian children’s cartoon, “Nu, pogodi!” The first president of the Russian Federation, in all his sleepy, lethargic glory, staggered into the office, right past the wide-eyed ponies in the middle of the room, and out the second door that led to the staircase.

Twilight’s eyelid twitched. Fluttershy looked like she was going to jump right out of her skin. Pinkie Pie seemed thoroughly entertained.

“Humans,” Twilight mumbled. “Uh oh. I really messed this one up. I took us out of Equestria entirely… Ugh, how many times is this going to happen?”

“Oh no… Oh no…” Fluttershy squeaked, unable to sit still. “I remember the last time we ended up among the humans… I don’t want to have to go through all this again!” Fluttershy grabbed and shook Twilight by the shoulders. “You gotta take us home, Twilight! Who knows what could happen!”

“Calm down, Fluttershy!” Twilight said, grabbing hold of the hyperventilating pegasus. “We’ll get out of here. I just need some more time to rest and get the magic flowing again. I think we’re okay for now, because that guy didn’t seem to notice us.”

Pinkie Pie, meanwhile, was staring at the doorway through which Yeltsin had passed. She looked around the office, and then said to her two friends,

“That guy looked kinda funny.”

Boris Yeltsin, meanwhile, stumbled down the stairs, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Coming down from the final step, he turned and stubbed his toe again, this time on a chair in the vestibule.

“Augh! Blyad’!” he growled, walking off the pain. “How much does a man need to go through to eat his goddamned kasha?”

He pressed onward into the kitchen, flipped on the lights, and opened the refrigerator. Among the vegetables, bottles, and half-eaten leftovers was a bowl filled with what was left of the previous morning’s kasha. The sleepy president grabbed the bowl and scanned the shelves on the refrigerator door for blueberry jam, but it was nowhere to be found.

“What the hell is this? I’m out of jam?” he grumbled, looking for an appropriate substitute. But there wasn’t anything else on the refrigerator door other than ketchup, tartar sauce, and sour cream. “Mmh. Tartar sauce probably goes pretty well with kasha.”

Humming the song Million Scarlet Roses as he went along, Boris Yeltsin put the bowl on his countertop, grabbed and opened the tartar sauce, and started pouring it on the cold porridge. He of course was doing most of the work with his right hand, for he had lost the thumb and index finger of his left in his younger days. He fished around in a drawer, took out a soup spoon, stuck it in the kasha, and started to eat.

“Hey,” he said, almost incomprehensibly, with his mouth full of porridge and tartar sauce, “this is actually really good. And to think, I’ve been putting jam on it like a moron for the last twenty years.”

Pleased with his new concoction, President Yeltsin carried the bowl to the door, eating as he went, flipped the light switch, and staggered back toward the staircase. Ascending one step at a time, he made his way back up the stairs.

In the office on the second floor, Pinkie Pie had been hopping around, looking at the portraits on the walls, the books on the shelves, the furniture, and the things strewn about Yeltsin’s desk and end tables.

“This place looks neat! Where do you think we are in the human world, Twilight?” Pinkie Pie asked. Twilight looked around at the décor and the furniture. Twilight Sparkle shook her head.

“I’m not sure, Pinkie, and I don’t think we should stick around any longer than we have to,” Twilight answered, holding her forehead again. “But I still feel way too lightheaded to take us back yet.”

“But what are we going to do while we wait?” Fluttershy asked, staring at the doorway where Yeltsin had left earlier. “We can’t just sit around here like this… What if that guy in the pajamas comes back?”

“Well, he didn’t notice us the first time,” Twilight said with an optimistic smile. That answer wasn’t good enough for Fluttershy.

“Girls, we need to get out of here!” Fluttershy panicked. “We’re sitting ducks!”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to just start moving around, Fluttershy,” Twilight reasoned. “We don’t know who else is walking around in any of these other rooms. What happens if we run into somebody that’s a little more observant than the guy we saw before? Besides, I shouldn’t need that much more time. We’ll be back in Equestria before you know it!”

Fluttershy still wasn’t convinced and was about to say something more, but froze along with Twilight and Pinkie before she could utter a single word. Through the doorway to the rest of the house, the ponies could hear someone singing a song, and it was getting louder. Once again, Boris Yeltsin entered his office, still mumbling the words to Million Scarlet Roses, off-key, occasionally stopping to eat another spoonful of tartar-sauce-smothered-kasha. He again walked right past the three colorful ponies at the center of the room, but this time to his desk, on which he placed the bowl. The president reached over and grabbed the previous day’s newspaper that was sitting on the table by the window, and then then let himself fall into his desk chair. Twilight, Pinkie, and Fluttershy stood their ground at the center of the office, unsure if they should try to sneak away or just remain still to avoid attracting the man’s attention.

Yeltsin spread the paper out on his desk and began reading through the front page articles, eating spoonful after spoonful of his disturbing choice of midnight snack.

“Four-alarm fire at Arbatskoye… Recalling forty-thousand Volga automobiles due to lack of brake pedal… Leading cause of death in pensioners now believed to be bathtubs…” Yeltsin said aloud as he read the headlines. “Same old bullshit.” He was about to spoon another glob of the kasha into his mouth, but he stopped, letting the spoon hang in the air. Something just didn’t seem quite right. He carefully lowered the spoon back into the bowl and slowly looked up from the newspaper to the center of his study.

There were three little ponies standing in the middle of the office – one light gold, one pink, and one light purple – staring back at the Russian president. They couldn’t have been very much more than three feet tall. He didn’t know how long they had been there, and he didn’t know how he could have missed them earlier. They were watching him with nervous expressions. Well, two of them looked nervous. The pink one with the poofy mane and tail had a gigantic smile plastered on her face.

Yeltsin’s mouth was agape. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, but the ponies were still there.

“Hiya!” Pinkie Pie called to the shocked Russian president, waving to him excitedly. Twilight put her hoof to her face and shook her head.

Boris Yeltsin stared speechlessly at the colorful animals before him for a few seconds more. He then slowly turned to look at the many bottles of liquor on the server by the wall at his left. Then his gaze returned to the ponies. The pink one waved again. He mumbled aloud,

“I need to lay off the Svedka. I’m seein’ shit.”

Boris Yeltsin Has a Conniption

Location: Горки-9 Presidential Dacha, Barvikha, Moscow Oblast, Russian Federation

Date: July 10th, 1996

Time: 12:50 AM

Boris Yeltsin blinked again and again, slowly and deliberately. And every single time he opened his eyes, the ponies were still there, sitting in the office. Worse, one of them had just spoken, and Yeltsin started to think that he was losing his mind.

The president again looked at the server full of liquor bottles. Could it have been the drink doing this to him? No, it couldn’t, for Yeltsin remembered that he hadn’t drank during the previous day, for he had spent much of the afternoon recovering from the massive hangover he had from drinking the day before that.

Yeltsin’s gaze returned to the ponies. The pink one was waving at the president again, and the golden one was hiding behind the light purple one. Yeltsin slowly raised his right hand and waved back.

“Privyet,” the president said with wide eyes.

“My name’s Pinkie Pie! What’s your name?” asked the little pink pony with the poofy hair.

It was talking again… It had answered him. Yeltsin had never experienced anything this wild, even during his drunken stupors. He didn’t want to believe that he was seeing three colorful, cute, cuddly ponies that were talking right to him, but there they were, plain as day. Boris Yeltsin peered into the bowl of half-eaten kasha and tartar sauce on the desk.

“Maybe it’s the kasha,” the president mumbled aloud, slowly raising his head. “It must be.” He unsteadily rose to his feet as his desk chair rolled back. With his right hand, he pointed at the three ponies. “You… you’re just my imagination from the leftover kasha.”

“No, silly!” Pinkie Pie laughed, hopping over to Yeltsin. “I’m Pinkie Pie!”

“Pinkie!” Twilight and Fluttershy squeaked in unison. “What’re you doing?”

“Who are you?” Pinkie Pie asked, hopping onto the president’s desk. Yeltsin, mouth agape, stared at the pink pony. She smiled at him, cocking her head to one side. She certainly looked like a pony, but she wasn’t like any of the horses or ponies that Yeltsin had ever seen in his life. And on top of it all, she was talking. Since when did ponies talk?

“Boris Nikolayevich…” the president responded after another few seconds of staring in shock.

“Hah! That’s a funny name!” Pinkie sang as she jumped off the desk and started hopping around Yeltsin and his desk in circles. The president watched her skip along, happy and carefree, as her mane and tail bounced around.

Yeltsin was about to have a mental breakdown. His heart was pounding ferociously, which was dangerous for a man in his condition. With every hop that the little pink pony took, Yeltsin felt himself going farther and farther off the deep end.

“How did you get in here?” Yeltsin stammered. “How did you slip past the guards? What… what are you?”

“You sure ask a lot of questions!” Pinkie said, bouncing along. “It’s like you’ve never seen ponies before!”

Meanwhile, Fluttershy was still cowering behind Twilight at the office’s center.

“What’s she doing?” Fluttershy asked.

“Pinkie’s just being Pinkie… Trying to befriend everyone she sees,” Twilight sighed.

“I have a bad feeling about all this, Twilight. Are you strong enough to get us back to Ponyville yet?” Twilight Sparkle’s horn glowed bright magenta, but in seconds the aura fizzled out.

“Not yet.” Twilight moaned as the two ponies watched their friend Pinkie Pie prance around the desk.

“Well,” Pinkie began, “we’re ponies from a place called Ponyville! Those are my two friends Twilight Sparkle and Fluttershy! Twilight tried to teleport us to a big city called Manehattan, but the spell she used went all kooky and we poofed in here!"

Yeltsin watched the pink ball of sunshine dance around, occasionally glancing at the pegasus and unicorn.

“Manehattan?” Yeltsin asked with a blank expression. “A spell? Ponyville?”

“Yup!” Pinkie sang, stopping in front of the desk and looking right at Yeltsin. “I know everypony in Ponyville! It’s one of the neatest places in Equestria!” Pinkie paused. “Have you never heard of Ponyville before?” Yeltsin vacantly shook his head. “Really? Wow, I’ve met a whole bunch of humans that knew about Ponyville. Sounds like you don’t get out too much, huh?”

“I’ve seen strange things in this country,” Yeltsin mumbled, “But never anything like this. This really takes the cake.”

“Cake!” Pinkie squealed as her eyes lit up. She started dancing around the room again. “I love cake! I work at a bakery in Ponyville called Sugarcube Corner. That’s where Mr. and Mrs. Cake make the most amazing cakes and cookies and pastries in Equestria!” Pinkie Pie suddenly stopped at the left side of Yeltsin’s desk and looked into the bowl of kasha and tartar sauce. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing at the bowl. “Is it pudding?”

Yeltsin slowly looked down at the bowl.

“Um, no,” he told the little pink pony. “That’s kasha. Kasha and tartar sauce.”

“Hmm. Kasha? I never ate kasha before. Can I try some? Can I? Please?” Pinkie Pie asked, hopping up and down. Yeltsin nodded weakly, and watched as Pinkie Pie started eating right out of the bowl, knocking the spoon onto the desk.

When Yeltsin heard the clank of the spoon on the wood, he started trembling. At first, it was just his right hand, but it soon spread through his entire body as his chest heaved and his eyes grew wide. Now, the pony had touched and moved the bowl, and caused the spoon to make an audible noise as it hit the desk. And it was at that point that Boris Yeltsin knew that the ponies weren’t figments of his imagination from liquor or spoiled kasha. They were as real and tangible as any other object in that office.

“Eww,” Pinkie Pie complained, scrunching her nose in discontent. “I thought it was going to taste like pudding. This stuff is gross!” Pinkie pushed the bowl away and looked up to find a sweating, trembling Yeltsin with a wild look in his eyes. The man was on the verge of a mental breakdown.

“Hey, Mr. Boris, you don’t look so good,” Pinkie Pie said to the president.

Yeltsin started giggling. The giggling gradually grew into hearty, boisterous laughter, and the laughter eventually became shrieks and shouts as the president ran out from behind his desk and thundered unsteadily towards the door to his bedroom, hands flailing about, going as fast as his flaccid girth would permit. Twilight jumped out of the way as Fluttershy yelped and flew up to the ceiling, both clearing the path of the crazed, pajama-wearing Russian president before he plowed them down. Yeltsin threw open the door to his bedroom, sprinted inside, and slammed the door shut behind him. The three ponies waited in silence for a few seconds, trying to take in everything that had just transpired.

“What made him do that?” asked Fluttershy, gliding down and landing on the floor next to Twilight. Pinkie looked at the bowl of kasha on the desk, then said,

“Hmm. Maybe it’s because I ate too much of his not-pudding.”

Meanwhile, in the bedroom, Yeltsin had already flipped on the lights and dragged a chest of drawers in front of the door. He was hauling over an end-table to supplement it. He then added another end-table, his nightstand, and two chairs to complete the barricade. The Russian president’s chest was heaving as he foamed at the mouth, eyes wildly darting this way and that.

“My gun… where did I put my gun?” Yeltsin yanked open the drawer of the nightstand he had used in the door barricade and reached inside. “Aha!” he cried, grabbing what he thought was the Makarov he kept in his bedroom for safety. But when he pulled his hand back out of the drawer, he found himself holding a stale banana.

“Shit, I must have put the gun in the refrigerator by mistake!” he seethed, throwing the banana to the floor. He began pacing, back and forth, as the floorboards creaked beneath his feet.

“Blyad’,” he hissed. “Blyad’, blyad’, BLYAD’! Is there no relent in this world? I had the year from hell, and now this bullshit!” He ran his hands through his hair, pacing more furiously now than before. “Little ponies. Little talking ponies. And they’re not my imagination. I heard them talk! I saw them touch the kasha! And I thought Perestroika was bad back in the day. If only I’d have seen this coming. But who in his right mind could have expected colorful little talking ponies to just appear one day in his dacha?”

He turned again, and looked at his phone and intercom by the bed. “I’ll call the patrols. The militsiya and the watchmen will take care of them,” he mumbled, taking the first few strides to the phone. But as soon as the idea came to him, he stopped. “But what if I am imagining it all? What happens when I call the guards and tell them that I want them to come up here and get rid of the ponies, and it really is all in my mind? I’d be ruined.” He turned again and started to pace.

He saw the ponies touch and move things in the office. He heard them talk. They answered him. But at the same time, it still seemed impossible, and he couldn’t write off the possibility that it was somehow all in his mind.

“Perhaps this is some kind of joke,” he went on aloud. “Maybe someone set up some elaborate joke. Maybe the ponies are just actors in expertly-designed costumes. Or maybe they’re animatronic. But who would have gone through the trouble of staging such an outlandish setup?”

Back in the office, the three ponies were still trying to decide what their next move would be. Twilight was still lightheaded and without sufficient magical energy to take the three ponies back to Ponyville.

“We have to get out of here, Twilight!” Fluttershy panicked. “That Boris guy is crazy, and he’s probably going to go from bad to worse!”

“Where are we going to go, Fluttershy?” Twilight rebutted. “Remember what he asked Pinkie? About how we got in past the guards? There are other people around here somewhere, and they’re apparently guarding this guy, who must be a VIP or something. It’s probably best that we just stay put. Whatever Pinkie did to scare that guy off… well, it bought us some more time alone in here.”

“Next time, Twilight, unless you know you’ve mastered the long-distance teleport spells… can we just take the train?”

Yeltsin was still turning over in his head the possibility that the ponies were some elaborate setup.

“It’s a reasonable explanation,” Yeltsin argued to himself. “Somebody is setting me up. But who? And why ponies?” He stroked his chin as he turned on his heels and stormed over to the other side of the room. As he approached the west wall of the bedroom, his eyes fell on the dartboard hanging on the wall. Well, he was paying more attention to the photograph that was taped over the face of the dartboard. It had two darts, a knife, and a small hatchet sticking out of it. The photo was a head-and-shoulders shot of Yeltsin’s political rival from the Communist Party of the Russian Federation. And as Yeltsin stared at the face in the photograph, he suddenly put together what was going on in his dacha that morning.

“Of course… Zyuganov,” Yeltsin hissed through gritted teeth. “This is the work of Gennady Zyuganov!” He balled his hands into fists of rage as he stared at the photograph on the dartboard. It suddenly all made sense to the hysterical Russian president. And as the stolid face of Gennady Zyuganov glared back at him from the wall, Yeltsin couldn’t believe that he hadn’t figured it out sooner. He began to pace again.

“That’s it… it all makes perfect sense to me now!” Yeltsin announced to the empty room, emphasizing his words by holding up the index finger of his right hand as if he were giving some grand speech. “Zyuganov and the communists are naturally upset about our campaign’s success. They couldn’t believe that I worked my way back up from nothing and won the election.” A smile came to Yeltsin’s beaming face.

“Zyuganov thought he would just waltz on in and steal the presidency, but he lost. Again. So he put together this elaborate scheme,” Yeltsin went on, moving about the room as his lecture continued. “He set all of this up to take advantage of my poor health… to make me believe I had lost my mind. He’s trying to drive me completely insane so that I’ll be booted out of office before I begin my next term…”

Yeltsin was angry, but at the same time was getting more and more excited by the minute. He had figured out Zyuganov’s clever subterfuge, and was going to strike it down.

“And the pensioners!” the president continued with a psychotic gleam in his eyes. “I bet those lousy pensioners are in on this, too… The pensioners that are loyal to Zyuganov and the communists…” Yeltsin turned to look at the barricade he had thrown together at the bedroom door. “Those little ponies out there… are simply actors in costumes, working on behalf of the pensioners. Or maybe… maybe the actors themselves are the pensioners!”

With new-found strength, Yeltsin stormed over to the barricade and threw the two chairs aside.

“Zyuganov, you lousy bastard… Thought you could fool Boris Nikolayevich Yeltsin, huh?”

Boris Yeltsin then took the end tables and shoved them away.

“But I saw right through the clever scheme. It is the pensioners! The pensioners, loyal to Zyuganov and the communists…”

The nightstand was kicked aside, and the chest of drawers was tipped over, clearing the doorframe.

“You think you can restore the Soviet Union, Zyuganov? You think you can take me down and again empower the Party? Not on my watch, dirty dog.”

Yeltsin threw open the door to the office, again scaring Fluttershy, who once more hid behind Twilight.

“Hi again!” Pinkie Pie sang, waving pleasantly at the seething politician.

“Now I understand EVERYTHING!” Boris Yeltsin roared. “You three are working for the Party!”

Twilight and Fluttershy were now holding onto one another, trembling beneath Yeltsin’s booming voice. Pinkie Pie practically exploded with excitement.

“YES!” Pinkie cried, “I do, I do, I DO! I take the party with me wherever I go!”

The situation was even better than Yeltsin could have hoped. The foolish actor in the pink pony costume had openly admitted her affiliation to the Party!

“AHA!” Yeltsin bellowed. “So I was right, servants of Zyuganov! I’ve put together your clever scheme. What do you have to say for yourselves?”

“I say,” Pinkie squealed with delight, “it’s time to fire up the PARTY CANNON!”

Within the blink of an eye, the pink pony whipped out a little blue cannon with a floral design on the wheels. She was glowing with excitement as she grinned and aimed the cannon right at an awestruck Boris Yeltsin. The president felt his heart skip a beat.

“Pinkie! Stop!” Fluttershy shrieked. “You’ll only make him angrier!”

“Wh- where the hell did that thing come from!?” Yeltsin cried.

“I always take my party cannon with me!” Pinkie Pie announced with pride. The Russian president, frozen on the spot upon which he was standing, stared into the aperture of the cannon and shook his head.

“So this is how it ends,” he mumbled solemnly, trying to accept his bizarre fate. “They all said the drink would kill me, and I told them they were wrong. And in the end I was right. But to think... to fall at the feet of a… communist pensioner in a pony costume… There is no justice in this world.”

“FIRE!” Pinkie screamed.

“Pinkie! NO!” Twilight and Fluttershy beseeched. But it was too late. The cannon had already fired.

Yeltsin's Reaction to Friendship and Magic

Location: Горки-9 Presidential Dacha, Barvikha, Moscow Oblast, Russian Federation

Date: July 10th, 1996

Time: 1:15 AM

Pinkie Pie thought that she was going to cover the room with the usual shower of confetti, balloons, and streamers. But when the party cannon blasted, a single custard pie shot out of its bore and hit Boris Yeltsin squarely in the face.

“Augh, blyad’!” Yeltsin spat through the custard, staggering back and falling on the floor. That was not the kind of shock that a man with a heart condition needed. “What the hell is this shit?”

“Oopsie…” Pinkie said, looking down at the party cannon. “I guess I forgot that I still had a pie in there from when Mr. and Mrs. Cake sponsored the Ponyville Pie-Throwing Contest.”

“Pinkie!” Twilight yelled. “What did you do that for!?”

“Hey, how was I supposed to remember that the next shot was a pie? I put it in there a week and a half ago!” Pinkie said in her own defense.

“Twilight, quick! Take us back to Ponyville!” Fluttershy said frantically, hovering beside the unicorn. “Before Boris what’s-his-name goes nuts again!”

Twilight stood up and concentrated. Her horn again glowed a brilliant magenta, and an aura formed around her entire body. But, like before, it only lasted for a few seconds, and the magic fizzled out.

“Drat,” Twilight sighed, dropping to the ground. “I still need some more time.”

“Let’s take our chances with the guards!” Fluttershy cried. “We need to get out of here!”

“Aw, no we don’t,” Pinkie Pie said calmly. “Mr. Boris isn’t mad. Look!”

Fluttershy and Twilight weakly turned toward Yeltsin, afraid of what they were about to see. But to their shock, the Russian president wasn’t fired up in another fit of insane rage. Instead, he was sitting upright, strangely content, scraping globs of custard off his cheeks and eating it right out of his hand.

“My God,” Yeltsin gurgled, his mouth filled with pie. “This is the most delicious custard I’ve tasted in my entire life.” In the blink of an eye, crackpot Yeltsin was calm.

“Yeah, isn’t it great?” Pinkie said “It’s Mrs. Cake’s super-secret recipe! I don’t know anyplace else that makes better custard pie than Sugarcube Corner!”

“This is fantastic… That Mrs. Cake you keep talking about deserves a goddamned gramota for this stuff. Where in Moscow is this… Sugarcube Corner?” asked Yeltsin, scraping more custard off of his chin.

“Mosca-what?” asked Pinkie. “I already told you, silly! Sugarcube Corner is back home in Ponyville!”

The little pink pony had brought up that Ponyville place again, and as Yeltsin sat, thought, and ate the sweet custard that was caked on his face, he began to doubt his former theory. If these little ponies were good-for-nothing pensioners loyal to Gennady Zyuganov that were trying to drive him wild, then why would they still be playing up the part if he had already figured out the whole scheme?

Yeltsin had removed most of the custard from his eyes now, and he turned to look at Twilight and Fluttershy. The pegasus hovered in the air as she looked back at him with a worried expression. She was flying. Those wings were actually keeping her airborne. And the unicorn… her horn kept glowing. She strained and strained to do… something… but her horn never glowed for more than a few seconds.

How could they be costumes? How could someone have devised a pony costume with wings that can sufficiently keep someone airborne? And that glowing horn… it wasn’t some cheap piece of light-up plastic. It had some sort of aura. Yeltsin could feel some kind of strange disturbance in the air about him every time it shined. The president, seated on the floor of his office in custard-covered pajamas, could only shake his head and lick more of the pie filling off his fingers. And the custard… it was like nothing he had ever tasted before. It was as if the very pastry had been crafted with ingredients from an entirely different world.

“So,” Yeltsin said to the ponies. “You’re not pensioners?”

Oh, is this guy is absolutely clueless, Twilight thought to herself.

“Of course not! We’re ponies!” Pinkie laughed.

“And you’re not working for Zyuganov?” he asked.

“Nope!” Pinkie answered. “I’ve never even heard of this Zooganzo guy.”

So it finally seemed to Yeltsin that these little ponies truly had nothing to do with Zyuganov or the communist party. But at the same time, he still couldn’t quite wrap his head around the idea of little talking ponies. He sat there for a few more seconds, watching them.

Suddenly, a creak was heard through the open door of the stairwell, followed by two sets of heavy, rushing footsteps.

“Boris Nikolayevich! Are you okay?” came a voice from the stairwell.

“Oh, blyad’! The guards!” Yeltsin gasped. He jerkily climbed back to his feet, looking this way and that, stopping to face the door to his bedroom. “Quick, you three hide in here. If anyone sees you, we’ll all be in deep shit!”

Pinkie Pie wheeled the party cannon through the doorway as Fluttershy grabbed Twilight Sparkle and flew in behind her. Yeltsin shut the door and turned around. A few seconds later, two senior sergeant militsiya officers with their lustrous badges stormed through the door to the office bearing flashlights and pistols at the ready. But they stopped after the passed beneath the doorframe, eyes wide with suspicion as they gawked at the portly man in the themed pajamas, smeared with custard pie.

“Boris Nikolayevich…” one of them began. “What the hell happened in here? We… we heard all this banging and crashing, and… Sir, what’s that stuff all over your face?”

“Pie,” Yeltsin said nonchalantly. The officers exchanged very confused glances. “Custard pie.”

“But what was all that noise? It sounded like the whole house was coming down! And then we thought we heard a gunshot!” said the second officer.

“That’s outrageous!” Yeltsin continued nervously. “No, I just… decided I wanted a midnight snack. So I um. I went downstairs to get some pie. And then I came back up here.”

Yeltsin fished around into the depths of his mind for something to explain the sounds of the furniture being tossed around and the firing of the party cannon.

“And when I came back up here,” Yeltsin added, “I had a toe spasm. Yes. A very, very, very, very severe toe spasm. And I fell down. And that’s what all the commotion was.”

One officer leaned toward the other and whispered,

“I think he’s been drinking again.”

“Well I think he’s finally gone off the deep end,” the other one whispered back.

“Listen, everything is fine,” Yeltsin said, moving to the officers and shooing them back out to the stairwell. “I dropped the pie and made a little mess, but that’s all. If there was a real problem, I’d have called over the intercom. You two should get back to patrol duty.”

“But what about the toe spasm? Should we call a nurse from the sanatorium?”

“No! I walked it off! I mean, I crawled it off. And I was beating at the ground, too, because it was a real doozy. Whatever I did, I got rid of it, and I made a lot of noise in the process. Alright men, I appreciate your coming in here to check on things. Your country thanks you. I need to clean the place up. Goodnight!”

Yeltsin slammed the door to the office, leaving the two officers on the stairs.

“He’s lost it, Yuriy,” one of the guards mumbled. “He’s finally lost it. The election must have been too much for him.”

“Hey, can you blame him?” the other responded as they made for the front door of the dacha, holstering their weapons. “You try dealing with the situation in this country, plus almost losing to that asshole Zyuganov, and see if you don’t crack up in the process.”

Boris Yeltsin hurried back to the bedroom door and slowly opened it.

“Alright, they left,” he called inside. Pinkie Pie came hopping out with a carefree grin on her face. Twilight and Fluttershy left the bedroom much more gingerly, watching Yeltsin cautiously.

The Russian president strode over to the windows and peeked out through the curtains, watching for the guards to walk down the footpath.

“I don’t understand how he calmed down so much,” Twilight whispered to Fluttershy.

“Yeah. He must have really liked that pie.”

Yeltsin, still peering out the window, waited another few moments.

“Good. They’re gone,” the president finally sighed as he turned and walked over to the pie tin on the floor by the bedroom door. He picked it up and brought it to his desk and then turned to the server, where he grabbed a few cocktail napkins and started to wipe the rest of the custard off his face and pajamas.

“Damn it. I need something to straighten me out,” Yeltsin muttered as he tossed the cocktail napkins in the trash can by his desk. He reached for a bottle of Putinka on the server, but retracted his hand as soon as he touched it. “Better get the good stuff.” He got down on his knees and opened the small door of the server. Pinkie Pie hopped over to watch him as he drew from his stash a bottle of Georgian Eristoff vodka, with the refulgent symbol of the wolf on the label. He took a glass and uncapped the bottle, but before he poured any, he looked at the tiny cup, shrugged, and simply put the whole bottle on his desk.

“What’s that?” asked Pinkie.

“Nothing for you, little pony. This is all for me. It’s expensive stuff,” Yeltsin grumbled as he plopped into his desk chair before the vodka, pie, and kasha. He thought for a second about what he just said. “I still don’t believe it. I’m talking to a little pink pony,” Yeltsin said in disbelief, taking a swig from the bottle of Eristoff. Pinkie hopped onto Yeltsin’s desk and sat down, watching the president with a big smile on her face.

“What does Pinkie find so interesting about this guy?” Fluttershy asked Twilight as they watched from across the room. “He’s a lunatic.”

“I don’t think anypony will ever really know what makes Pinkie Pie tick,” Twilight said. “But as long as he’s calmed down, we should just take things one step at a time. I’m feeling better now, and I’ll be ready to take us back soon.”

Yeltsin took the spoon out of the bowl of kasha, licked it clean, and proceeded to take a glob of custard from the pie tin.

“But if a little pony wants to talk to me, I shouldn’t be rude. So tell me. What’s this place you keep talking about, pink pony?” Yeltsin asked out of sincere interest. “What is this Ponyville?”

“Ponyville is the town where I live! And Fluttershy and Twilight live there, too! It’s super-neat!” Pinkie Pie began. “There are all kinds of different places to live in Equestria, but Ponyville will always be number one for me!”

“So then this… Equestria… It is your country?” Boris Yeltsin asked, following his question with another small gulp of vodka.

“Equestria is a huge kingdom that stretches from the Frozen North all the way to the Badlands down south! All the big cities are over in the east except for Canterlot, where the princesses live!” Yeltsin looked like he was about to break out laughing. Surely this was the stuff of fairytales. Kingdoms, princesses, and talking animals. He didn’t want to believe it all, but at the same time he found himself buying into everything with fascination.

“Well how about that. It sounds a lot like our Russia,” Yeltsin said, pointing to the map that hung on the wall behind his desk. It was dated, and Russia was still labeled as the RSFSR of the Soviet Union. “Our motherland is the largest country on earth, little pony. It spans from the arctic plains up north to the warm regions by the Caucasus and the Black Sea. Much of the population is over here in the western oblasts. But there are bigger cities in the east as well.” Yeltsin continued to eat the delicious custard as Pinkie hopped off the desk to look at the map.

“We had princes and princesses, too. And kings and queens. A long time ago,” Yeltsin added.

“Really?” Pinkie asked, turning back around to face Yeltsin.

“Sure we did. But not anymore.”

“Why not?”

“They were ousted in a revolution and slaughtered by the revolutionaries,” Yeltsin said nonchalantly without so much as a flinch, dipping back into the custard pie with his spoon. Pinkie’s mouth hit the floor. Twilight and Fluttershy were equally as disturbed on the other side of the room.

“That’s horrible!” Pinkie moaned.

“Eh, that’s just how life works sometimes,” Yeltsin sputtered through a mouthful of custard. “One minute you’re the tsar and you’re on top of the world. The next minute, you’re kidnapped by revolutionaries and put to death.” He started laughing, but then he frowned, staring bitterly ahead at nothing in particular. “It’s almost like what happened to me. One day, I’m the hero that’s going to bring democracy to the new Russia. The next day, everyone writes me off and gets ready to vote for that scumbag, Zyuganov. Especially the pensioners.”

“But… but…” Pinkie stuttered with wide eyes. “If there are no kings or queens or princes or princesses… what do you have instead?”

“A president,” Yeltsin said with a smirk.

“Who’s that?” Pinkie asked. Yeltsin raised an eyebrow.

“Me.” Pinkie was beside herself.

“Wow! So you’re like a kooky version of Princess Celestia that wears funny clothes and likes pie!” This outburst then prompted Yeltsin to ask about the monarchy.

So Pinkie told the president about the princess and Canterlot. Yeltsin then told Pinkie about himself and Moscow. Pinkie went on about Sweet Apple Acres, and Boris Yeltsin informed the little pony about the Soviet kolhoz system. Pinkie spoke of Fillydelphia and Manehattan. Yeltsin talked about Saint Petersburg and Vladivostok. Pinkie explained the situation with Discord and King Sombra. Boris Yeltsin went on a tirade about the August Coup, the communists, Gennady Zyuganov, and even the Right Cause. The two of them were talking for over an hour as Twilight and Fluttershy listened in silence.

But as Yeltsin carried on, he continued to eat the week-and-a-half-old pie and drink the Eristoff. He had polished off almost half the bottle, and now he was unsteadily walking about the room, waving his hands as he talked, with Pinkie prancing along behind him.

“The last five years were a nightmare,” Yeltsin gargled, double-stepping and regaining his balance. “It’s all because of those pensioners, and Zyuganov.” The president paused, and then added, “And Tajikistan.” He turned around to face Pinkie Pie. “And I thought that you and your little friends were pensioners, trying to drive me crazy...”

“Why would we want to drive you crazy?” Pinkie Pie giggled.

“Yeah, he’s crazy enough by himself,” an irritated Twilight grumbled from beside the president’s bookshelves, where she was now resting with Fluttershy.

“I really thought you were here on behalf of Zyuganov…” Yeltsin blathered on. “But how could that be? You’re happy little ponies. You gave me pie. Zyuganov wouldn’t have given me pie. He doesn’t have a heart.”

Yetsin staggered over to an armchair and fell back onto the cushion as Pinkie Pie hopped over and joined him.

“This Mr. Zooganzo guy doesn’t seem very nice,” Pinkie said to the plastered president.

“He’s not,” Yeltsin mumbled. “And to think… I accused you of working for him… How could I have been so insulting?” He sat up in the chair, and looked right into Pinkie’s eyes. “I’m sorry, little pink pony. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings… But you have to understand, I don’t know what to think about anything anymore. So much has been falling apart over the last few years… Everyone is blaming me for everything… And sometimes I just want to hide in a little room, away from the rest of the world, and…”

“And?” Pinkie asked.

“And… and…”

Boris Yeltsin buried his face in his hands and started bawling, surprising Twilight and Fluttershy, who until that point were barely paying any attention to Pinkie’s conversation with the president. His sobs and heaves coated with the strong smell of vodka, Yeltsin cried and wept as the stress of the first term took hold.

“Aw, don’t cry, Mr. Boris,” Pinkie told the distressed politician.

“Why shouldn’t I?” Yeltsin sobbed. “The next term will be as bad as the first one! It’ll be another mad scramble to fix the economy and keep the country afloat, all the while losing support to people like Zyuganov. They're all laughing at me. For the public episodes, for the drinking... Let them stand in my shoes for a week and see how well they do. They’ll see that at the end of the day, they’re alone, and that there’s no one they can really trust to help them. A man has no friends in the world of politics. He has his opponents, and he has his allies, but at the end of the day, allies and friends are two different things. And my only friends are the bottles on that goddamned server.”

“Hey, that’s not true,” Pinkie said. “I’m your friend!”

Boris Yeltsin wiped his eyes and stared at Pinkie Pie, still gasping and sniffling through the tears. Even now, the little pink pony was a ball of sunshine as she sat beside Yeltsin’s chair and watched him with her innocent eyes. She wasn’t oblivious to how he felt. She was just… happy. Because that was just Pinkie Pie’s way.

“You… you are?” Yeltsin sniffled.

“I sure am!” Pinkie answered. “We were friends from the moment we met, Mr. Boris. Because when I saw you, I just had this feeling, deep down inside, that you were in need of a friend. And here I am!”

“How, little pony?” Yeltsin asked, slurring the question as the vodka continued to blur his vision and maim his speech. “How are you so happy? Where do you find such joy?”

“I wasn’t always this happy, Mr. Boris,” Pinkie said. “I remember days when I was sad, just like you are right now. When I was a filly, I used to work all day on my parents’ rock farm. And it was really depressing. We’d just work, moving the rocks, and there was no talking and no smiling. Just rocks.” But then Pinkie Pie hopped to her feet, looking up at the light on the ceiling with wide, shiny eyes.

“But then, one day, when I was working in the south field, trying to rotate the rocks over to the east field, I saw a huge blast of color in the sky! It was a gigantic rainbow from a Sonic Rainboom. And it actually got made by a pegasus that would later become one of my best friends!” Pinkie hopped and spun around to face the president again.

“When I saw that rainbow, it was like I was a whole different pony! I never felt joy like that before! And it felt so good, I just wanted to keep smiling forever! And I wanted everyone I knew to smile, too!” Yeltsin wiped his eyes again as he listened to the end of the smiling pony’s story.

“My God… That’s beautiful…” the president gasped. “To know such happiness…”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Boris. Someday, you’ll see your rainbow too! I just know you will! I’d make one for you right now if I could, but only my friend Rainbow Dash can do that, and she’s back home in Ponyville. But I know something that I can give you!” Yeltsin was on the edge of his seat.

“What’s that?” he inquired.

“A big hug!”

In an instant, Pinkie Pie jumped up and gave Boris Yeltsin a long, tight squeeze. At first, Yeltsin’s arms rested limply on the sides of the chair. But as Pinkie continued her embrace, the president brought his hands together around her back and hugged just as hard. Even through the fuzzy, numbing distortion of the vodka, Yeltsin could feel Pinkie’s heart beating for two, or perhaps three, or even four. And Boris Yeltsin felt a happy warmth overcome his entire body that was unlike anything he had ever felt before. All from a single hug from a cuddly little pink pony.

Pinkie Pie dropped back to all fours on the floor before the president and watched him with that big, unfaltering smile. And Yeltsin, marveling over the sensation about him, could do nothing but say,

“Thank you, little pony.”

But Yeltsin soon felt another sensation come over him. It was the disturbance in the air that he had detected before, every time the unicorn’s horn had glowed. He looked over at the bookshelf to find the purple pony surrounded by an aura again, but this time it was pulsating steadily and did not fade away.

“Okay, there’s enough magic flowing again to take us back to Equestria,” Twilight announced. “And It’s about time. I’ve had enough sob-stories for one day.”

“Aww, do we have to leave already?” Pinkie asked Twilight.

“Yes, Pinkie. We’ve stayed around here longer than we should have. I need to get back home and write another letter to the princess explaining all of the stuff that went on and why we didn’t make it to Manehattan.”

Pinkie Pie’s ears drooped as she stared at the floor.

“Well, I guess it’s time to head back to Ponyville,” Pinkie Pie sighed. But just as quickly as she lost the little smile on her face, it came right back. “Bye, Mr. Boris! It’s been fun! I hope you see your rainbow really soon!”

“No, wait!” Yeltsin cried as Pinkie Pie hopped over to Twilight and Fluttershy. He slid off his chair, landing on his knees. He reached out toward the three ponies with his good hand. “Don’t leave!”

But Pinkie Pie kept bouncing along, right over to Twilight sparkle, whose aura continued to shine and expand.

“Please, pink pony!” Yeltsin begged, crawling unsteadily toward Pinkie and her friends. “Stay here for just a little while longer!”

“Hurry, Twilight!” Fluttershy shrieked. “Boris what’s-his-name is going right for us!”

“I’m trying,” Twilight groaned through clinched teeth. Her eyes were closed tight as she concentrated, envisioning her destination. The aura was getting brighter and more powerful as the gap between two entirely different worlds was almost breached.

Yeltsin had climbed to his feet now, and was wobbling across the floor in his drunken stupor, closing in on the three ponies. Fluttershy screamed and grabbed onto Twilight, who strained and strained to build up enough power to meet the demands of the teleportation spell. Yeltsin lumbered closer, respiring heavily as the stench of vodka coated every breath.

“The magic! The happiness!” Yeltsin gasped, as he took a flying leap.

“Got it!” Twilight yelled as a bright light flashed from her horn and eyes. The emission filled the room for a mere instant, and when it subsided, the president saw nothing but purple twinkles and a blank floor before him as his jump ended in a tragic crash with the floorboards. Fortunately, Yeltsin’s girth absorbed most of the shock of the fall, so it took him only seconds to recover as he propped himself up with both of his arms and frantically looked around the room.

“No! They’re gone!” Yeltsin wailed. “The pink pony…The happiness! The friendship!”

The emptiness and rage were building up inside of Boris Yeltsin once again. He climbed to his feet as the room around him seemed to spin. He looked up at the ceiling, and threw his hands up in the air.

“Come back! Please, come back! Or take me with you! Don’t leave me here with the pensioners!”

Pinkie Pie’s lively spirit and warm embrace had given Yeltsin a small taste of the joy that he yearned to find each day, but never could. But one mere hug from the cuddly pink pony was simply not enough. For the pure, unadulterated bliss that stemmed from the magic that was friendship ended up being something like a narcotic for weary, distraught Boris Yeltsin. He immediately found himself craving more. He wanted to eternally lock himself away in a small corner of the world that was filled with ponies and rainbows. He wanted to drift carelessly in the magnificent high of friendship and magic. He needed it, and he needed it now. As the seconds ticked on, the craving grew stronger. Yeltsin became hysterical, yelling and screaming up to the ceiling, calling for the little ponies to return. And as his desperate thirst for the warm embrace of happiness grew and mixed with the inebriation from the Eristoff, the president started to lose control.

Yeltsin ran erratically around the room, pulling books off shelves, kicking over furniture, punching holes in the walls, and tearing down the curtains. He grabbed the pastry tin from his desk, still partly filled with custard, and pied the painting of Alexander Pushkin right in the face. Then he grabbed the bowl of kasha and tartar sauce and chucked it right through the glass of the window, beating his chest and howling like a madman. As Yeltsin looked around the destroyed room, he grew progressively more unstable. He charged forward, plowing right through the door to the stairwell, breaking the lock and doorknob right off. And he thundered down the stairs, heading for the front doors of the dacha.

Boris Yeltsin threw open the doors in the vestibule and stumbled out into the darkness of early morning. Blind with rage and the blur of the vodka, he ran right off the footpath and into the small trees and shrubbery before the house. In the midst of the foliage, Yeltsin’s thin pajama shirt became ensnared on a tree branch. But this didn’t stop the wild man. He pressed onward as the shirt tore right off his body, exposing his massive gut.

“Come back, little ponies! Come back!” Yeltsin shouted into the night as he thundered down the street.

*   *   *

Location: Barvikha Village, Moscow Oblast, Russian Federation

Date: July 10th, 1996

Time: 2:40 AM

Outside, in the peaceful morning air of Barvikha, the two senior sergeants of militsiya that had just a short while ago checked on President Yeltsin were continuing their morning rounds, talking as they walked along with their flashlight beams dancing on the sidewalk.

“I don’t know, Yuriy,” one of them said. “I’m off-duty tomorrow, but I have no plans for the afternoon. I don’t want to waste the free day.”

“Well, you could join Svetlana and I for dinner,” Yuriy offered. “You know how she loves to entertain. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind making some extra borscht and dumplings.”

The first officer came to a dead stop.

“No. No way, Yuriy,” he said, making a sweeping motion with his hands.

“Why not?”

“Because the last time I tried your wife’s borscht, I was on the shitter for a week!”

Yuriy was ready to rebut and defend his wife’s cooking, but he stopped and raised an eyebrow, looking past his counterpart.

“Hey… Pyotor… Do you hear that?”

“What?” Pyotor asked, turning around.

A voice was audible. It was a short distance away, getting louder and louder. From behind the bushes by the corner of the sidewalk, a shirtless Boris Yeltsin ran out into the street, arms flailing wildly.

“Come back, little pink pony!” Boris Yeltsin shouted to the heavens. “Show me the rainbows and the happiness! Let me hand-feed you sugar lumps and hold your cuddly fetlocks!”

The two senior sergeants gawked in disbelief at the half-naked president as he hustled along. Their jaws dropped as they tried to comprehend the bizarre scene.

“Oh… blyad’…” they wheezed in unison.

“A toe spasm, huh? Yeah. Toe spasm – my ass,” Pyotor said to Yuriy. “I was right. He’s gone batshit crazy.”  The officers took off after Boris Yeltsin. Pyotor grabbed the radio on his belt.

“Barvikha-12, this is Sergeant Ivanov. We need two squad cars and an ambulance at Gorki-9, and fast. Over.”

“They’ll dispatch shortly. Over,” informed the voice over the radio.

“Good. And phone ahead to the sanatorium. Make sure the president’s doctor and nurses are ready and waiting when we show up. Over.”

“Copy, Ivanov. What the hell is going on out there?” questioned the voice on the radio.

“Yeltsin’s lost his goddamned mind.”

The Fate of Gennady Zyuganov

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