Dmitry Gorchev

Rescue Plan

Rescue Plan No. 1

People must be exterminated. They have made life unbearable: you can’t find a seat on the Metro, you have to elbow your way through the shops, they have spat sunflower seed husks all over the place.[1. A reference to the Russian and Ukrainian low-class habit of consuming sunflower seeds as snack food outdoors and in public places, spitting the hulls onto the ground]
    People have grabbed all the wonderful goods: you walk into a shop and only find cardboard sausages and lopsided jackets left there. Even the sellers have smelled a rat: now they are deliberately setting exorbitant prices for the things they like themselves so that they aren’t bought.
And what’s worst of all, they won’t leave you alone.
    You lock yourself in your flat—no chan­ce: they start phoning you, the bastards! They ring your doorbell, call your number, at 5 a.m., forty-eight times. “Speaking!!! Hello!!!”—“How have you been?” they ask. Exterminate – all of them. To run away from people you first have to spend half an hour on the metro, elbowing your way to the escalator, then two hours on the suburban train, listening to the peddlers with their “magic plastic ropes” and yet another hour in the forest, gnawing your way through the tangled weeds to the darkest thicket—and, finally, get into a clearing. Only to find someone’s shit right in the middle of it. And an empty Coke bottle.
    A desert, Mount Everest, Antarctica, the Moon — you will find refuge nowhere. Some­one will pop up asking, “May I take your bottle when you have finished your drink?”[2. A reference to the post-Soviet times when drinking beer outdoors was legal and many homeless people made their living by collecting empty bottles in public places and taking them to the recycling points for a small reward.] or “How are you?”
    To start with, we must give a Kalashnikov to everyone who wants one—and tell them they can get away with anything.
    Just a day later you will find half of all bosses, sons-in-law, mothers-in-law and country cousins rotting in the windbreaks.[3. In Russia windbreaks along railways are notorious for murders and rapes committed there.] Drown the trams, fill in the Metro—people have no business bumming around, let them stay at home and discipline their kids properly to stop them drawing dicks on every single wall.
Turn off the running water. When asked, “Where is the water?” answer “It has been drunk. You know by whom[4. A reference to the mockingly anti-Semitic popular rhyme by C. Belyaev “If there is no water in the tap –the water has been drunk by the Jews”.]”.
    Blow up the bathhouses, blame the Che­chens. Turn off the electricity, blame the Ukrainians.
    A week later, gather all the survivors in a square and make them count off by fours. The firsts and seconds are to be shot on the spot, the thirds and fourths—to be declared “fucking shit” and “superhumans” respectively.
“Fucking shit” is to be housed in barracks and fed on worm-eaten peas. “Superhumans” are to be housed in the Kremlin and the Hermitage and fed solely on oysters. Don’t let them out to use the toilet. Every Friday hold a lottery for the superhumans. The winners are to be exterminated.
    Establish a dictatorship. Appoint the dictator on Mondays—from the ranks of the fuck­ing shit. Shoot him on Sunday evening. Between Sunday evening and Monday morning it is total anarchy. Everyone fucks everyone. Those who are not being fucked are to be exterminated. At 6 a.m. everyone goes to work.
    One year later put the remaining people onto a barge and sink it.[5.  A reference to the so-called “Death Barges” used during the Civil War in Russia (1918-19) as floating prisons that could be sunk as a quick way of mass execution.]
Go to the forest clearing—if shit is there again, repeat all the above.

Rescue Plan No. 2

Before rescuing the population, it is necessary to sort it out.
    To do so, a corridor is made—with, let’s say, fifty doors. The doors open by either pushing or pulling—at random. They should be labelled “Push” and “Pull”— also at random.
    Those who never guessed correctly should be sent to the left, those who have guess­­ed them all—to the right. The rest should be given padded jackets[6. The usual uniform in Siberian Labour camps.] and sent to the Labour Camp.
    Those who didn’t make a single right guess are appointed to come up with thoughts on what should be done to do everybody good. And those who guessed everything right will make those in padded jackets bring those ideas to life.

    They could, for instance, build a fence from the Pacific to the Atlantic, with the FUCK word written on its every plank so that no letter would be like any other letter on the whole fence.
    Well, many funny things can be made up.

Rescue Plan No. 3

For the New Orthodox Order to be established finally and completely, we must do the following:
    Install cast-iron pillars, some 300 meters high, at both poles. We’ve got a fucking lot of cast-iron and we have no use for it. Mount jet engines from the Proton rockets—some 100 or 200 of them or, better, 1000—at the top of each pillar, for the engines to blow the Northern and Southern poles in opposite directions. We’ve got plenty of kerosene to spare too, and Europe can go without: it won’t need it soon anyway. In some ten or twenty years the Earth will change its axial tilt, and america will find itself on the Dark Side of the Earth, while europe will be washed away by typhoons and tsunamis as a result of antarctica’s meltdown. A pleasant mild climate—like the one they now have on the seychelles—will settle in Russia, while the Taliban will find itself in the permafrost zone.
    If an Orthodox feels a sudden craving for the good old winter and a ride on a troika sled with bells he can go to africa. The climate in africa will be like the one they now have in siberia, so the negroes will learn how to mould meat dumplings, shoot squirrels in the eye and beat pine nuts off the cedars with wooden mallets—they might do that really well. There is some sympathy for australia—it, actually, hasn’t done anybody any harm, but it hasn’t done anybody any good either, so, fuck it.
    In the future such pillars must be installed at opposite points on the equator to slow down the speed of the Earth’s rotation to about half its present speed, because the current day length was probably set by the impatient Judeo-masons who want to have Hanukkah more often. While an Orthodox doesn’t want it more often, he needs the New Year twice as long. Besides, nowadays, hardly has an Orthodox forced his eyes open and nearly set himself up to do some work, than it is already evening and he has to drink vodka. That’s why the Judeo-masons always have the upper hand so far.
    The people who find themselves on the Dark Side of the Earth will certainly start begging to be let back right away, and we will let them in, as we are, actually, not as bad as that. We will send them to dig up zircon from the melted Antarctic mines. We have no fucking need for zircon: the main thing about it is that it’s deadly toxic and mining it is very unpleasant. And when our former compatriots spew hamburgers and coca-cola out of their mouths[7. So then because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spue thee out of my mouth. Revelation 3:16. King James Bible], we might let them live somewhere with lots of mosquitoes.

Rescue Plan No. 4

Allow free emigration. No paperwork is needed. On no condition let anyone back—ever. Nobody gives a fuck whether you are a Nobel Prize winner or just want to kiss the concrete runway in Sheremetevo-2: you should have thought of that first.
    As for trips abroad, let people out without papers—wherever they let them in. If someone is not back in three days, consider it as AWOL and shoot them on return.
    Let in anyone who wants it, upon first application,—except for those who have freely emigrated: negroes, Papuans—whoever. The only test: the person should demonstrate an ability to tell the customs officer to fuck off clearly. Going back is forbidden.
    The President must be appointed for life – once and forever. If the President is bad, wait a bit: he might improve. Then shoot him.
    Church must be finally separated from state. If anybody notices the president making a sign of the cross or taking the name of the Lord our God, fucking shoot him immediately.
    Upon the whole, the more you shoot—the better. Have fewer shootings between morning and evening: it’s better to shoot them at night, when man is weak, when he is waiting for a knock on the door.
    And above all, nobody should bullshit: no bullshitting at all.

From: Dmitry Gorchev “Wildlife of Gondwana”
Translated by Arina Volgina

From Spring 2016 issue

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