Yeltsin, Pinkie, and the Long Road to Petersburg

Location: M10 Highway, Yedrovo, Novgorodskaya Oblast, Russian Federation

Date: July 13th, 1996

Time: 1:08 AM

“BORIS!” Twilight shouted, reaching around the car seat and giving the president a hard whack on the head.

“Ehg, huh? What?” the sleepy president groaned as he shot awake. He had drifted across the line into the left lane, and another car was heading right for him. Yeltsin jerked the steering wheel to the right as quickly as he could. The Lada’s tires squealed when the car dove back into the proper lane. Twilight was thrown against her door and then subsequently squashed by the sack of provisions, as well as Fluttershy, that followed suit. The angry motorist leaned on his horn as he blew past the Lada.

“Christ, I hope that wasn’t a cop,” Yeltsin heaved. “Everybody okay?” He shot a quick glance at Pinkie Pie, who was cowering under the blanket in her seat.

“You’re going to get us killed, Boris!” Twilight raged as she shoved the sack away.

“Hey, cut me some slack,” the weary president said defensively as he rubbed his eyes. “I’m drained from the campaigning we did last month. I can’t remember the last time I had decent sleep. And all the stuff that went on at the hospital didn’t help, either.”

“This is the fourth time I had to wake you up!” the unicorn seethed. “Am I gonna have to spend this whole trip keeping you from dozing off?”

“No. I’ll be fine,” was Yeltsin’s response.

Pinkie Pie poked her head out from under the blanket.

“Are you sure, Mr. Boris?” the pink pony asked. “You said that we still had a long way to go.”

“I’ll be fine,” Yeltsin repeated with a yawn. “Just… just tell them to push my meeting with president Clinton off until… next Tuesday…”

Boris Yeltsin’s head began to droop and his eyelids grew heavy.

“Stay awake, Mr. Boris!” Fluttershy called from the back. The president’s head shot back up, but it slowly began to sink again.

“I know, I know,” Yeltsin mumbled. “Because we need to go see Zyuganov. And when I get there… I’m going to… take a dump in his mailbox…”

“Don’t go back to sleep…” Twilight warned as she raised a hoof.

“Look, Zyuganov’s a good guy and all,” Yeltsin blathered on, almost incoherently, as his eyes slowly closed, “and I respect him. It’s just… the pensioners… they’re like a… a plague…”

“Boris…” Twilight said as she pulled her hoof back.

“Okay… Nighty-night, comrade Gorbachev,” Yeltsin mumbled with a smile as his hands slipped off the steering wheel.

Twilight whacked the president once more and he shot awake in a frenzy.

“God damn it!” Yeltsin cringed, grabbing back onto the wheel. The Lada rocked gently as it went along. “Not so hard!”

“Well, it’ll hurt a lot more if I let you start sleeping and then we crash into a tree,” Twilight said matter-of-factly.

The weary president squinted over at a sign on the roadside. The headlamps of the Lada were barely bright enough to allow him to read the word “Yedrovo” that was printed on it.

“Alright. There’s a small town up ahead,” Yeltsin explained. “But it’s on the highway. There’s bound to be some store here that’s open all night. So when I see one, I’ll go in and get something that’ll keep me awake.”

The old red Lada sputtered along the M10 as it came upon Yedrovo, a sleepy town just across the boundary from the Tverskaya Oblast. It was known to travelers almost exclusively due to the fact that a major federal highway ran right through the center. If you blinked when you entered Yedrovo, you probably missed most of the town altogether. As Boris Yeltsin had guessed, the group eventually saw a well-lit store on the side of a road, sitting behind a weathered sign that read “Produkty.” The president pulled off the highway and into the unpaved lot by the side of the shop. There was only one other car by the store - presumably belonging to whoever was working the night shift.

“Okay. I’ll make it as quick as possible. In and out,” Yeltsin explained as he turned the key. “Hide under the blankets. On the floor if you can squeeze down there. And try not to move too much, okay?”

“But we’re alone out here, Mr. Boris,” Pinkie said, glancing out the window.

“Knowing our luck, somebody will show up,” the president sighed, reaching for the door handle. “Hey, it’s probably been a while since you ate something. You three want anything while I’m in there?”

“Cupcakes!” was Pinkie’s immediate response.

“Of course. Cupcakes,” Yeltsin repeated, shaking his head. “I should have figured. What about you?” He turned to the back seat.

“Whatever you bring out is fine with me,” Twilight said.

“Me too, I’m really hungry,” Fluttershy added.

“Okay. Keep yourselves hidden,” Yeltsin said sternly as he climbed out of the car. The president shut the door and took a quick look around. The road was empty, and the few buildings scattered along the highway were dark, save for the lone store.

“Yedrovo. The busiest spot on the map,” Yeltsin remarked sarcastically as he rounded the corner of the store, passing the “24 chasa” sign that hung in the window. When he entered the store, he greeted the middle-aged man that was reading a newspaper behind the counter. The man returned the greeting, but then did a double take when he realised who had walked into his store. Who’d have expected the Russian president to show up in his shop at 1 o’clock in the morning, and in an uneventful place like Yedrovo, on top of it?

A funny smell lingered in the store - it seemed to be a mix of cigarette smoke and old fish. Yeltsin did his best to ignore the strange scent as he perused the shelves. He first looked about for something that his pony friends could eat, eventually taking a number of individually-wrapped medovnik slices, two small chocolate cakes, and three cartons of mors. A line of Baltika bottles on the beer shelf was calling Yeltsin’s name, but he ignored them and made for the counter. He dropped everything in front of the store clerk, who was staring incredulously at the president, still unable to come to terms with the fact that Boris Yeltsin was in his store. His newspaper was resting on the counter now, and Yeltsin saw that it was an issue of Pravda.

“I’ll be right back,” Boris Yeltsin said, turning and going back toward the shelves for something that would keep him awake. Under his breath, he added, “Reading a Pravda. Wonderful. Must be one of Zyuganov’s goddamned pensioners.”

Yeltsin looked about, debating what would best keep him awake for the remainder of the journey. He was about to take a couple bottles of cola from the shelves when another item caught his eye. The shelf-tier above the soda was occupied by a mass of tall black cans labeled “Bogatyr.” The image of an old slavic warrior with a pointed helm was printed on the front. But best of all was the hastily-scribbled sign above the shelf that read “Bogatyr Energy Drink - buy 1, get 1.”

"Nice, a two-fer,” Yeltsin said, nodding contently as he grabbed ten cans of Bogatyr. Cradling the pile of sugary drinks in his arms, he carefully returned to the counter, where he dropped the drinks before the bewildered man by the register.

“Okay, that’s everything,” the president sighed, leaning on the counter.

“Long night ahead?” the cashier asked after a short silence.

“Very long.”

“Are… are you…”

“Yeah, I am. Boris Nikolayevich. President Yeltsin. In the flesh,” Yeltsin said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“What are you doing all the way out here in Yedrovo at this time of night?” the man asked, ringing up the energy drinks.

“It’s a long story,” Yeltsin yawned. “Let’s just say I have a long drive ahead of me.”

The cashier finished up and started putting the president’s stash of midnight snacks into bags while Yeltsin took out his wallet. Though the total cost of the food was pretty low, Yeltsin laid out four 1000-rouble banknotes on the counter.

“Listen to me,” Boris Yeltsin said with a half-smile, leaning toward the cashier. “President Yeltsin was never in this store. He was never in Yedrovo. He was never out during these late hours. He never bought energy drinks. And most importantly, you never saw him. Got it?”

Yeltsin slid the cash across the counter. The other man nodded.

“Got it,” was the cashier’s reply. The man gave Yeltsin the two bags, asking, “So are these all for you?”

“Hah, of course not,” the president laughed. “I couldn’t throw all this stuff down at once. No, it’s for the ponies.”

A lump formed in the president’s throat and his eyelid twitched as his brain screamed and hollered at him for the slip-up. The cashier did a double-take.

“Wait, for the what?” the man asked. Yeltsin tried desperately to think of a way to cover up what he had just revealed.

“Like I said, it’s for the Poles,” Yeltsin replied, trying to keep his cool.

“The… Poles?”

“Yeah, the Poles, do I need to say it again?” Yeltsin said with a nervous laugh. “There are two other guys waiting in the car. They’re Polish. Really nice guys, too, shame you couldn’t meet them. They’re too tired to get out, that’s why I bought all the energy drinks.” Yeltsin was making haste for the door. “Well, thanks a lot. And remember - you never saw me.”

The president left the bewildered cashier alone as he hurried out the door and into the mild night air.

Whole thing almost went tits-up, the president thought. Too damned tired, too damned nervous.

Yeltsin rounded the corner of the store with the two shopping bags, passing the other car that sat in the unpaved lot. Looking down, he saw something that he had not noticed before. On the rear bumper of this car - the one that most probably belonged to the man in the store - was a big, red bumper sticker that read “KPRF” alongside a massive hammer and sickle. The driver was clearly a supporter of the communist party.

“Damn it!” Yeltsin said aloud. “He was a pensioner! And I just gave him four grand!”

But as soon as frustration took hold, it was washed away and replaced by a devious smile. After looking around to ensure that there wasn’t a security camera on the side of the store, Yeltsin lifted his foot and gave the rear bumper a few solid whacks with his heel, leaving three sizable dents in the metal.

“Oops!” the president smirked. “Looks like this month’s pension check is going to the body shop!”

Boris Yeltsin hustled off to the Lada, where Twilight and Fluttershy, heads covered in blankets, were peeking out the rear window.

“What did you do out there?” Twilight asked the president as he climbed back into the car.

“Nothing,” was Yeltsin’s frank reply. He dug into the two bags from the store. “Here, try one of these,” he said as he unwrapped and handed ones of the pieces of medovnik to Pinkie Pie.

“Hey, this isn’t a cupcake,” Pinkie said disappointedly, taking the small slice.

“No, it’s not. It’s better,” Yeltsin insisted. “It’s the food of the gods. And try not to get anything on the seats, okay? For all I know, Gleb is watching and casting his judgement.”

He unwrapped and passed a few more sugary desserts back to Twilight and Fluttershy, keeping only one for himself. Then after removing the caps on the mors cartons and handing them off, Yeltsin started up his clunker and pulled back out of the lot. Pinkie and friends seemed rather satisfied with what Yeltsin had bought from the store.

“Alright, and now to make sure I don’t start sleeping again,” Yeltsin said. Keeping the wheel steady with his knee as the car continued down the road, the president leaned down and reached for the bag on the floor in front of Pinkie’s seat. He took out one of the cans of Bogatyr, pulled the tab, and took a gulp. Despite the inordinate amount of sugar, the energy drink tasted almost soapy and smelled like an old sock.

“Augh, this is absolute pisswater,” Yeltsin winced. “No wonder why they were giving it away. It better keep me awake.” Cringing, the president quickly gulped the rest of the can down and chucked it back into the shopping bag. He then borrowed one of the mors containers to chase his sub-par drink.

“So how much longer until we’re there?” Pinkie asked with a mouth full of honey-soaked medovnik.

“Four hours, give or take,” Yeltsin surmised, glancing in the rear-view mirror as Yedrovo shrank into an indiscernible cluster of reflected light. “I guess I should probably have another one of those stupid Bogatyrs.”

“Can I try one?” Pinkie asked, finishing up the last piece of honey cake.

“Yeah, I guess, if you really want one,” Yeltsin shrugged, “but don’t expect it to taste like all that delicious stuff from Sugarlump Stables, or whatever it is, that bakery you have back home. This stuff tastes like somebody stole it from an outhouse.” Yeltsin looked in the rear-view mirror again. “What about you? Pisswater energy drink for you two?” he asked Fluttershy and Twilight. They quickly refused. “Okay, suit yourselves.”

Yeltsin again let his knee do the steering as he popped the tabs of another two cans of Bogatyr and handed one to Pinkie Pie.

From what she’s told me, she eats sugary stuff all the time, Yeltsin told himself as Pinkie took a gulp. She can handle a Bogatyr or two.

And so the old, rusty Lada - carrying its precious cargo of one head-of-state, three little ponies, and ten energy drinks that were just barely fit for human consumption - bounced along the highway as Yeltsin continued north on the long road to Petersburg.