The Butcher, the Baker, and the Undertaker
Stories from Birmingham PODAST TOO https://open.spotify.com/show/1wSSIExkhsR97u1jqj0iiR
Monday, February 7, 2022
FULL TEXT: The Stories of Lech, Boris, and Gregory, February 7, 2022
This is it. February 7, 2022. A collection of stories about Lech, Boris, and Gregory.
Ghosts are afraid of their afterlife ©
TO
Michael Casey
Lyokha, Boris, and Gregory were a little unsteady on their feet, but the new batch of vodka was very fresh, still barely warm when they tried it. They'd used new ingredients, potatoes; it was actually more Irish Potén than an oriental vodka; it had a kick and a half. Brian had a few potatoes left over from his garden, so the boys took them and thought about what they could make with them.
The new still at Worley Woods needed a bit of time to mature, so if they made some marijuana, it would help flavor the inside of the still. Ask the brewer if you needed more information. They said if you wanted to know the time, ask a policeman. In fact, there was a retired policeman who was a friend of theirs who always knew the time. When a batch was ready, that's why his face always got so red when he sampled the fresh brew. But he had perfect timing; he always showed up on time to arrest naughty boys. His name was Tom, Sergeant Tom, and he always knew the exact time when a new batch was ready in the still.
There are laws about home brewing and stills, and the quantities you can produce for home consumption, but Tom was half-Eastern, from Poland, so they said. So his views on quantities were more Eastern than Western. When his nose led him to the boys, any other policeman might have said, "I'm arresting you." Tom simply said, "Give me a glass," and then told them to add a little more of this and that. A strong friendship had begun.
Rumor has it that the town closest to the town's father still shared a chimney with the police station. A young and foolish policeman reported this to his sergeant, who ordered the wet policeman to be transported as far away from Castleisland as possible. When the sergeant retired, all 20 pubs gave him a bottle; that was 1930s Kerry for you.
But back to Tom, Tom and the boys are firm friends, lubrication is essential, so let sleeping dogs lie, such was Tom's philosophy, and the dogs would definitely lie down and sleep after sampling Lech, Boris, and Gregory's homebrew or still water. At Mrs. Black's funeral, there was a bottle banquet, and all her old, dear friends were present, sandwiches were laid out on the pool table, and there was a table with homebrew and still water, plus pop for the errant children. Just in case any teetotalers are reading this, still water is not fancy water, it's water that's been in a still, like vodka or potaine. Now I'm making this clear, you tell me you're a vegetarian next, God help us.
Mrs. Black herself was enjoying the funeral dinner, sitting at the side of the pool table, and was enjoying the turnout. She hated the way they dressed her corpse and sewed her lips together; she had loved to talk so much when she was alive. They all seemed so sad that she was dead, and those Eastern boys were so kind, their lips parted, and the conversation was good. However, she couldn't join in, as her lips were sealed, sewn tightly together; they had lost their false teeth, so sewing her lips together was a compromise. It was a fine funeral; no matter how many times she attended, she wondered what would happen next.
An angel came to take her to Heaven, but she wasn't ready. The angel said he had five more spirits to take home. Mrs. Black replied that she simply wanted to try alcohol at her own funeral, after which she would leave voluntarily. Lech, Boris, and Gregory were now surrounded by spirits; they swore they saw an angel and some shadows near him. Mrs. Black, hearing this, stood right in front of the boys and begged them to cut her lips. So the drunken boys pulled out knives, which frightened the crowd. But they explained, and the crowd only laughed.
It was hard to cut Mrs. Black's lips. Try cutting a thread with a giant knife if you don't believe me. And if you've punished the bottle, those are a ghost's lips. You don't want to cut yourself, nor do you want to cut off a ghost's head. Eventually, Mrs. Black's lips came free, then she picked up a glass and toasted herself. She handed the glass back to the other spirits to share. The angel had nothing, not because it was boring, but because angels are whole and never meddle where fools rush in.
Now, Lech, Boris, and Gregory's magical properties must still have remained, but all the ghosts appeared before the crowd, and they were afraid. Well, except for Tom the policeman; he wasn't afraid of anything, except spiders. The boys had spirits, and the Holy Spirit also had a soft spot for them, after all the good deeds they'd done, so the boys weren't afraid. Just stay where everyone advised you, Tom; there's room for everyone there.
So the ghosts had a few jugs while the angel played his harp, because angels don't have watches. Then, when it got dark, and it was truly time for the ghosts to go to heaven, Percy the undertaker came running in and found Mrs. Black's teeth. So Mrs. Black, the ghost, snatched the teeth from Percy the undertaker and happily departed for the afterlife. Lech burped, followed by Boris's burp and Gregory's hoarse fart, and the ghosts were off to heaven.
Noon for Three Santas ©
TO
Michael Casey
Lyokha, Boris, and Gregory were visiting this Christmas. They said they were just there to see Totoro the cat, since they have so much in common, Vodka. They also need to bring home a few bottles from the new batch for Miss Slapalotova, their old schoolteacher, just so she'll have a few next to her Kalashnikov under her bed. Totoro, of course, loves running around in the woods now that they're so close. Being a ninja cat, she also enjoys a little vodka, so naturally, Lyokha, Boris, and Gregory love her like a dog. They're bringing me some Slavic shopping, too, enough to fill all my cupboards and freezer space, as if we were expecting a siege. They brought long johns, too, because they know I get colder. They would have brought long johns for Totoro, too, but she has her own fur coat, which has been getting really fluffy lately.
So, we're all happy; we drove the water tanker across Eastern Europe, through France and Germany, to bring home a new batch of vodka in one go. If it's technically illegal, fine, completely and utterly illegal, but they say it's holy water, if anyone asks. Like the Cyrillic writing on the bowsers—if they say holy water, it means holy water. Besides, at this time of year they're all bearded like monks, so what kind of monks would lie?
So the boys decided it was time to go, so they climbed into their gas station, and Totoro jumped on Lech's shoulder like a witch's cat, even though it wasn't Halloween. That was it, like three gunslingers and a cat. They parked the gas station on the double yellow lines; no one stole it or moved it. Then they wandered around the Christmas market, where there were lots of Polish voices coming from the stalls, even though it was called a German market.
As you know, Lyokha is big because he's Polish, Boris is Ukrainian, so he's big and very tall, he can't hide, and then Gregory is very, very wide, as wide as the Russian Urals. They are all cousins where their lands meet and merge. So you can imagine, when they walked down the street, it was like a wave crashing on a beach, or an icebreaker against a crowd. One old woman grabbed Lyokha by the coat to keep from falling, Lyokha turned and smiled. He made way for the lady to take his hand in hers. Never in her life had she felt such energy, a giant man holding hands, if only her husband were still alive. And so she began to cry.
When she cried, the boys watched; she reminded them of their teacher, Mrs. Slapalotova. So Boris brought her a sip of beer, and Gregory a sandwich. Tororo came down and sat on her lap, purring, and the old woman smiled. "God bless you," she said. They waved goodbye, but not before leaving her two more beers and another sandwich; Slavs love their old people. Maybe that's why the boys like me, because of my gray hair.
The boys continued to examine everything there was to see at the Christmas market. People were looking around—they were so big and bearded, after all. And why was there a cat perched on the shoulder, jumping from one giant to the next? It was so noisy, then Totoro jumped up. Had she really seen a rat in the crowd? No, she didn't hear a woman crying; above all the noise, Totoro could hear screams and shouts. Totoro raced down the alley; the woman was in trouble. The boys followed her. The woman was about to give birth; all the excitement and confusion had led to her delivery weeks early. She was a foolish woman, visiting the market while still pregnant. But Jezza always called her foolish, so she tried to prove him wrong for giving birth on the street.
The boys immediately knew what to do and delivered the baby, but the mother and baby still had to get to the hospital. In fact, Totoro bit off the umbilical cord before the boys could even get a knife out of their pocket. And yes, the woman's name was Mary, Maria Theresa. But she would call her baby Lech, Boris, Gregory, Totoro Cameron, because Cameron was her last name. Then Gregory held Maria Theresa in his arms, and Lech and Boris were led by a human snowplow through the crowd. Totoro jumped from shoulder to shoulder, making noises like a mad cat, the crowd parted, and the mother and baby were handed over to the ambulance on duty.
It was nice, they'd done a good deed, Mrs. Slapalotova would be so proud of them, they thought, sipping their celebratory beer. No, she'd slap us for looking at half-naked women, she'd tell us we should have closed our eyes and had the baby that way. They laughed, but it was nice to have a child named after them all, but what kind of name was Cameron?
The boys walked through the market, you bleeding bastard, you dirty, hunched-over bastard. Someone cursed, not blessed, this Christmas season, a small man, stumbled upon them, terrified beyond belief. Three large men were chasing him. One named Lech, one named Boris, one named Gregory. Stepping forward, the boys blocked the cavemen's path; they didn't like hooligans, not at home and not here in England.
You fat gypsies have pushed the cavemen out of the way. Let me shake your hand and wish you a Merry Christmas, said Lech. Let me shake your hand and wish you a Merry Christmas, said Boris. And let me shake your hand and wish you a peaceful New Year, said Gregory.
Watching from a safe distance, the intended victim saw what happened next: the cavemen were grabbed and twisted, and the cavemen were turned around and pushed into a store window. Back home, we have a word for people like you, a very long word you wouldn't be able to pronounce unless you were in the East.
The boys carefully pushed the cavemen into the display case, their crushed faces visible on the video camera inside. In English, we think of that word as "Nazi bully," and you can only imagine how much we hate Nazis and bullies. So say it once: being afraid of someone because you don't understand their way of life doesn't give you the right to ever torment them. We could be gay too, even though our wives know we'd never be, but we all have brothers, uncles, and friends who might be gay or are gay. So can you just be nice and not nasty? Nasty Nazi bullies only die in the end. Still pinning the three cavemen against the store window, Lech, Boris, and Gregory spanked them just as Miss Spankalotova had spanked them years ago, though that was for calling Dmitry four-eyed. Then they released the cavemen, and the boys blessed them, as the Bishop does back home in the East. Dmitry continued to help build rockets for the Soviet Union's space missions; he still sends them postcards.
The victim filmed the whole thing, and within seconds, the three Slavs became national friends of gays. But they only did what Ms. Slapalotova had instilled in them: Love everyone, a Slav is always a brother, no matter what. As they continued through the market, smiles greeted them. These were the three Slavic kings, spreading peace and goodwill, even though danger was now just around the corner.
A couple of drunken guys made a bet that they could climb a Christmas tree, so they scrambled up it like lightning, their weight alone making the tree sway, and that's what happens when a tree sways. You swing a child at the top of the tree; when the tree sways, the child falls, or so the rhythm goes. Now the two boys were swinging on the tree and about to fall right on top of a mother with a baby in a stroller.
A mother's scream, a crowd's groan, death and disaster at the Christmas market. Two impudent boys fall from a Christmas tree to their deaths, killing a mother and child below. But no. Miss Slapalotova had also instilled teamwork in the children. Lyokha, on the left, ran and caught one impudent boy. Boris, on the right, ran and caught another impudent boy. Gregory ran to push the mother out of the way. But what about the child in the stroller? Totoro was perched on Gregory's shoulder, so Tororo jumped up and pushed the stroller aside.
A miracle: three Slavs, two cheeky boys, a mother and a stroller with a baby, and not a single death, all thanks to them and a cat named Totoro. The crowd erupted; this was what Peace on Earth was all about. Totoro was rewarded with a bottle of milk from the stroller. The boys told their mother that breast milk was better, and she agreed; today was her first and last attempt at formula.
So the boys stopped for a few more drinks before heading home. Three Slavs came from the East to bring Love, Peace, and Kindness to all people. And I think they achieved that. As they were heading back to the gas station, their old school friend, Dmitry, the rocket scientist, called out from the crowd. He'd been at the market and had been following their every move; he thought they were fantastic. In fact, he'd called the space station to tell Tim Peake the news, because he simply loved stories.
When they approached the gas station, it had a parking ticket on it, so Dmitry called, because he had friends in high places, and not just in space. A policeman came to take the ticket, then a police inspector. What did the inspector ask inside? Rocket fuel, Dmitry lied, flashing his NASA badge; he works for them now. "Okay," the inspector said. After the inspector left, the boys and Dmitry drank rocket fuel from the gas station.
If Miss Slapalotova had known you'd turned into such a liar, you'd be the one getting spanked, not us. I'm keeping an eye on your footage from space, you know. The boys blushed. Just make sure you add me to the list of people getting a bottle, oh, and one for Tim Peake, he's practically Russian, you know.
Lech Altarnik and Ghost ©
Michael Casey
Lech was an altar boy in Krakow, and this writer was an altar boy too, but that was in Birmingham in the 1960s and 1970s. They had one thing in common, and that was being a ghost. Lech was big and strong, and he'd punch anyone who said that celebrating Mass was for mothers; he had a faith as strong as his own. And besides, he loved dressing up and carrying candles; it was fun and very theatrical, especially the sphere where you put charcoal, and the priest adds incense, and you have to shake the whole thing. It was some kind of really stinking high, smoke everywhere.
Lech always finished last after Mass, blessing, funeral, or whatever, because Fr. Thomas also shared a cigarette with him when no one was looking. Fr. Thomas was on missions and returned home to Krakow to die. He caught several illnesses while abroad, and since Krakow had a good hospital, the bishop brought him home to serve in a small church, so Fr. Thomas could be near the hospital. The bishop also happened to be Fr. Thomas's friend from 50 years ago, when they were in school together. Fr. Thomas beat up a bully, actually, he beat up seven shades, well, you know the next word, so you don't need to say it. So Fr. Thomas saved the future bishop, and that's how they became friends.
Lekha reminded Fr. Thomas himself, a big, strong guy who feared nothing, which is why they shared a cigarette when neither of them should have. Fr. Thomas knew Lekha would never become a priest; he would definitely be a father, but not a father, more like a father to 10 years old. Lekha was a magnet for girls, girls of all ages, from 16 to 160. They all thought he was so handsome, he seduced anyone, even some of the saint statues scattered around the church.
It was just after Lech and Fr. Thomas finished their cigarette on Thursday evening when Fr. Thomas collapsed. Lech scooped him up and watched his life slip away. Fr. Thomas was gasping for breath, but as he died, he said, "If I were a father, a real father, you would be my perfect son. Just promise me you'll quit smoking." Lech promised he would quit smoking. And Fr. Thomas died with a smile on his lips. Fr. Thomas died a "father," leaving behind a son named Lech, who was as big and strong as an ox.
Fr. Thomas's funeral brought Krakow to a standstill, everyone came, priests in abundance, and everyone had a good time, Lech was the chief acolyte, and was given the honor of reading the Bible passage about the resurrection of Lazarus from the dead, and Jesus wept for his friend.
After the funeral, everyone gathered around to chat and slyly smoke, the priest and nurses smokin' like devils, but you already know that. Lyokha wanted to join in, but a voice in his head said, "Promise you'll never smoke again," as if Father Thomas was standing behind him. He had a lit cigarette in his hand, so instead he stubbed it out and stuffed it in his pocket.
During times of stress or sadness, we all hear or see voices or shadows, echoes or reflections. It's normal when your mother dies, or when your beloved dog dies, you might hear her barking, and so on. In Lech's case, every time he reached for a cigarette, he could hear Fr. Thomas's voice; he could hear him asking him to promise not to smoke.
One day, he looked up from the cigarette in his hand and thought he saw Father Thomas reflected in the kitchen window of the presbytery. He turned around, but no one was there. If it had been cannabis, he could have explained it, but since Father Thomas had kept his promise not to smoke after Thomas's death, he always heard Father Thomas's voice in his head just as he was about to raise any cigarette to his lips.
This went on for two years. He would light a cigarette, but just as he was about to raise it to his lips, a Voice would ring in his head, Advice from the Dead Priest. Finally, he threw his lighter into the river that flowed through Krakow, but because he was so angry at the dead priest, it missed and hit the girl in the head, and she fell into the street.
Her name was Karolina, and she was a nurse who smoked like hell, or had until Lech picked her up from a gutter in the street. She was so angry, but so beautiful, wouldn't you be if some idiot, some bull, hit you with a lighter? Lech took out his dirty, snot-stained handkerchief and pressed it to her head to stop the bleeding. As he apologized, he looked Karolina in the eyes, and she looked back at him. What would you do if you were a Polish girl from Krakow, and a huge hunk was looking into your eyes? Well, tell me, tell me right now, or I'll stop this story. STOP.
Okay, I stopped the story while I drank some water. Girls, have you decided yet what you'd do with Lyokha? She beat him, but while he pressed his dirty, snot-stained handkerchief to her wound, he needed to stop the bleeding. Then she laughed and laughed, then kissed him again and again. Only a fool could behave like that, taking everything she threw at him, be it blows or kisses, but all the while holding a dirty rag to her face to stop the bleeding.
The church was still open, so Lyokha suggested they go back in so she could wash up. He also suggested she go to confession to ask for forgiveness for beating him, after which they started laughing again. It turned out she was lonely and that her boyfriend had left her when he learned shortly before their engagement that she couldn't have children. Lyokha was furious and cursed him, whoever he was, even offering to beat the living soul out of him. Karolina lost her heart to him that very second.
A light was on in one of the confessionals in the church, so Karolina went inside to confess, while Lecha went to look for the first aid kit. Krakow confessions are very quick, to the point, and fast. Inside, the priest said, "All you have to do is quit smoking, and then you'll find yourself a husband. Lecha is a good boy, Karolina. I release you, and as penance, you must promise never to beat your husband Lecha again." Karolina was stunned; how did the priest know all this?
Lyokha returned with the first aid kit and treated Karolina's wounds. She said, "You need to go to confession now, I just left," so after applying the last bandage, Lyokha went to confession. Lyokha was about to confess when he heard the familiar voice of Fr. Thomas. Thomas tells him that he must marry Karolina, but he must stop throwing lighters around, otherwise he might really offend someone. As for children, Michael Casey, a Birmingham writer who translates into Polish, well, he asked Padre Pio for a wife and children, but left it all to God. So Lyokha, just leave it all to God.
Lecha emerged from the confessional white as a sheet, as if he'd seen a ghost. He looked at Karolina: "I'll marry you, and we'll leave it to God to decide whether we'll have children." Karolina stood up and pointed. Lecha turned around, and there was Father Thomas entering the sacristy, walking arm in arm with another Krakow priest, Karol in life.
Lekha and Karolina got married as soon as her head wound healed. She had only two pregnancies: triplets, three girls, then quadruplets, four boys, seven children in total. Because when the Bible asks how many times you should forgive, seven times? NO, 77 times. Karolina forgave him seven times, and that was enough for both of them.
Lech, Boris and Gregory are chasing a thief ©
TO
Michael Casey
Popaloffoff is the name of Lech, Boris, and Gregory's hometown, where Poland, Ukraine, and Russia make love on a map. He does his own thing and loves it when others do the same. It doesn't matter if it's Polish, Ukrainian, or even Russian territory; it's Popaloff through and through. Everyone knows each other, and any of the three languages will do. But the preference is always for American dollars, which are always the best in the world.
The priest in Popalovo is named Tolstoy, and indeed, he always has a biblical story to tell you, reader, it's up to you to decide which story you prefer: Tolstoy's epic novel or the biblical story of Tolstoy the priest. Tolstoy the priest always wears rose-colored glasses, not because he poses like a pop star, and not because the Bible makes him see things differently. But for a very tragic reason, you see that Tolstoy has only one eye. An accident, or rather, an accident, Tolstoy lost his eye when he was a young man, a young priest sent to Popalovo to tend sheep.
Tolstoy had and still has a fierce faith. When the war reached a turning point, the Nazi bastards were retreating, the people of Popalovo feared they would come and destroy their church and their village. Anything to destroy the soul of a people. Tolstoy said he would take the Holy Icon from the church, stand at a mountain pass, and pray for the evil Nazis to leave and return from whence they came. So, in the middle of winter, Tolstoy stood for 15 days, holding the Holy Icon in his hands. "Mary, Mother of Popalovo, protect us." And so she did. Tolstoy lost two toes and two fingers to frostbite, but the village was saved from the retreating evil. Tolstoy put the icon back in his leather bag and was still praying the Rosary when he heard a motorcycle.
The Nazi SS man wanted to see what was at the end of the pass, so he took a motorcycle and rode off alone to see what was what. Tolstoy was dizzy, he couldn't get past, this town is under the protection of the Virgin Mary, I have her icon here. The Nazi SS man laughed and drew his dagger. Tolstoy was tired and weak after 15 days of standing in the snow. So she has set her sights on your deserted village. YES, said the insolent Tolstoy. So if she has eyes, you don't need yours. Then the Nazi SS man stabbed Tolstoy in the right eye, leaving the dagger in the socket. Tolstoy screamed, his scream triggered an avalanche, and the Nazi was swept off the pass, leaving only his motorcycle. Tolstoy's blood formed a cross in the snow, not an iron cross, but simply the Holy Cross.
Tolstoy took a motorcycle and rode down the mountain to the village. They were safe, the pass was blocked, and the retreating fascist bastards wouldn't bother them. The blacksmith in Popaloffov pulled out a dagger and cauterized the wound with a red-hot horseshoe. He really made sure the horseshoe was lifted correctly, so the Priest could say it was good luck. And that's why Tolstoy wears rose-colored glasses, so as not to frighten people with his appearance.
The icon was returned to the village and left in a place of honor. As for the Nazi bastard, the wolves were eating his body for dinner; they weren't picky about what they dined on. And so life went on in the village, going about their business, until Tolstoy burst into tears and said the icon was gone. This was over 70 years later, Tolstoy was still a priest, and, though a little slower, he was still beloved. Lyokha, Boris, and Gregory came running. Our icon was missing.
Now let me explain: an icon isn't a photo of your favorite football player or a selfie of a president or dictator, although it can be difficult to tell which is which. An icon is something you cherish, like an engagement ring or memories of your mother. It's worth thousands or millions of times its price. As a work of art, love, and prayer, it is truly priceless. In fact, some icons, if sold, would fetch millions of dollars, and professional criminals use money-moving techniques like bearer bonds.
And yes, the Popaloff icon was priceless and worth millions upon millions. In fact, when Andrew Graham Dixon, England's greatest art historian, stumbled upon the Popaloff icon while on a hiking and gastronomic holiday with his Italian friend, he cried for 30 minutes straight. Tolstoy had to hug him and bless him. Andrew Graham Dixon was so stunned that when he was allowed to examine it, he thought about the bloodstains on his back, so Tolstoy explained how he had lost an eye and several fingers and toes many years earlier. Andrew Graham Dixon cried even more. Then his Italian friend shared the recipe with the Popaloff women, and everyone got completely drunk, pardon the expression.
But now the Holy Icon of Popalova has disappeared. There was a bus with tourists who had arrived the day before, but they were long gone. If only it had been them, but who else could it have been? Mother Maria Popalova, "Speak to Me, Hear My Voice, Hear My Prayer," said Father Tolstoy, tears still streaming from his one good eye, as he fell to his knees in the middle of the square in front of their church. Boris, Lech, and Gregory knelt beside him; soon the entire village was kneeling and praying. Mother Maria Popalova was touched, and Tolstoy heard a quiet voice in his head: "I am always with you. Don't cry, the icon is nothing compared to my love."
Tolstoy shook his head, "I know, I know, forgive me, but we want you back where you belong, here in Popalova." Maria smiled, Tolstoy smiled, he would have brought her back if it had been the last thing he did before he died. "WE'RE GOING," Tolstoy said as he rose to his feet. Lyokha, Boris, and Gregory were confused. They followed him to the shed by the church. Inside was the Nazi's motorcycle, in perfect condition. There was no time to argue; Lyokha and Boris mounted the bike, while Gregory and Tolstoy squeezed into the sidecar.
As they roared, they texted Andrew Graham Dixon, Our Lady of Popaloff, "Stolen." That's all they said, but they knew he'd help. In fact, Andrew Graham Dixon texted every art collector he knew, ensuring no one would try to sell it, and if they did, Andrew Graham Dixon would know, and he had friends at Interpol. "It was sacrilege," he exclaimed before eating a piece of toast with beans, lobster, and a bottle of Guinness.
The trio of cousins didn't know where they were going; they were simply doing what their old priest told them to. When they reached the new main road, they stopped. Left or right? Tolstoy took off his rose-colored glasses and looked at the sky. A tiny voice in his head told him to go left, and so they went left. The trio of cousins were confused about what was happening, but said nothing. They rode further and further away from the village.
They came across a car with a flat tire, so they stopped to help. After all, they had to be Good Samaritans. They didn't have a jack, only a spare tire, so Lech, Boris, and Gregory lifted the car, and Tolstoy helped change it. The family with the baby thanked them as they were leaving, and Tolstoy asked if the baby had been baptized. No, they answered, so Tolstoy baptized the baby on the spot, with Lech, Boris, and Gregory serving as godparents. The family was deeply touched and shouted, "God bless you!" as they drove away.
"See the Blessing," Tolstoy said. "But Fate and Evil always rear their ugly heads, and they were running low on gas. They pulled over to the side of the road, and something appeared from the opposite direction. A gang of Hell's Angels. Tolstoy said, "God is good," as the Hell's Angels approached, but he reached into his boot and pulled out the dagger a Nazi SS man had stabbed him in the eye. He'd kept the dagger all these years; now perhaps he needed to use it to defend himself.
The Hells Angels circled and stopped near them, Tolstoy removing his pink sunglasses. They might have been impressed by his scar. One woman on a bicycle literally vomited. Then the Hells Angels leader spoke up, "Hi, I'm Wayne from Fort Worth, we're on a bike vacation, how can we help?" They were tourists on the trip of a lifetime.
Tolstoy explained. "Son of a bitch," the Hell's Angels said in unison. Wayne wrote to his friend at the FBI; those bastards wouldn't sell an icon in the U.S., or his name wasn't Wayne Duke Hazzard III. So the Hell's Angels said they'd ride part of the way with them. They had extra gas, so they were all on the road. Tolstoy asked if he could ride with someone in the backseat, as he was a bit cramped in the sidecar with Gregory. So Tolstoy rode with Mary-Beth.
As they drove, Tolstoy asked her if she enjoyed being a Hell's Angel. She replied that it was a bit fun on weekends, since they didn't have children. Tolstoy remarked, "You have the breasts of a great mother." Mary-Beth laughed, but there was a hint of sadness in her laughter. So Tolstoy silently prayed for her and all the Hell's Angels. Further down the road, they parted ways. But first, Tolstoy, "Bless them all, may the Mother of God Popalova protect you." He also showed them a photograph of the icon.
Little did he know, little did the pretended Hell's Angels know, what the future would bring. And so they set off, Tolstoy listening to the quiet voice in his head guiding him to the icon. It was already getting dark, and they had to stop for the night. But there was no room at the inn; the Beer Festival was in progress, so everything was booked. But they could stay in the hayloft above the cows in the barn.
So they did, and fortunately, the cows didn't complain about the smell; they managed to get quite stinky in their skins. In the middle of the night, there was a commotion; one of the cows, a prize winner at that, was having difficulty giving birth. The innkeeper ran out in his nightgown. He was so worried about Beauty, after all, that was his cow's name. Lyokha, Boris, and Gregory knew what to do, and they had to hurry. So Tolstoy gave them a Nazi dagger, and they cut the cow out before sewing her up again. There was blood everywhere, but in fact, two cows had been born, one of them a bull, so it was difficult for the mother. When the boys finished, the veterinarian finally arrived. He was, to say the least, impressed.
The innkeeper was delighted and cooked breakfast for all four of them himself that morning. Then Tolstoy celebrated Mass in the parking lot for everyone, and everyone said, "God bless," and the cows in all the fields mooed in unison. Lech, Boris, and Gregory wondered if they would ever catch the icon thief, but Tolstoy always said that God is Good, and yet a quiet voice in Tolstoy's head encouraged him. In fact, the voice grew stronger, causing the Popalovskaya Mother of God icon to draw closer to them.
They continued down the road, and there was nothing but fields, fields, and fields. Then they noticed a sign: "Airstrip this way." They stopped the bike, and in the distance they could see a small plane. A fly, a fat fly, was what the old priest heard in his head. So the motorcycle was knocked off its feet, and they rode as fast as they could. But it was too late; the light plane was about to take off.
But then luck smiled on them: the light plane turned, headed toward them, and taxied to the end of the runway. Now they had their chance. A chance to play chicken. Lyokha headed straight for the plane. The pilot thought he was crazy, and he was. You never steal from Popalovo, and never from the church in Popalovo, and the icon of the Mother of God of Popalovo belongs only to one place: Popalovo.
Tolstoy stood up in his wheelchair and pulled a Nazi dagger from his boot, then prayed, "Guide my hand to Maria Popalova." He threw the dagger into the engine as Lech passed under the light aircraft. 70+ years ago, an icon had saved a village; now he would save an icon.
The plane stalled, and the engine caught fire, fortunately there was a fire truck on the runway. Unfortunately for the pilot and his two passengers, the police were plentiful. All three bad guys were arrested. You see, Andrew Graham Dixon and Wayne immediately contacted Interpol and the FBI. It turned out the art thieves had embarked on a journey, but now it was the end of the road for them—or rather, the end of the runway.
Thus, Tolstoy was reunited with his beloved Icon, and several others were saved. As for the dagger, Evil was turned to Good. One of the police officers knew about the motorcycle museum, so the Nazi's motorcycle was also retired, having been transformed from Evil to Good. Then Tolstoy and the boys were sent home with the icon by helicopter.
Tolstoy held the icon of Maria Popalovskaya high, then knelt in praise. It was decided to install a laser alarm around the icon, but the strange thing was that Tolstoy could pass through the laser without triggering it. Our Lady Popalovskaya, after all, knew he was her friend.
There was the sound of thunder coming down from the mountain as she approached, singing "Ay, ay, vippy, ay, ay, hey" as she arrived. It was nine months later, and you see that Mary-Beth had breasts for the children. She had twins, and every other biker girl had a baby, too. Mary-Beth loved to ride her bike, but, well, you know. So Tolstoy baptized all the babies, and Lekha, Boris, and Gregory suddenly had even more godchildren. They all had new leather jackets, too, with an image of Our Lady of Popalovskaya on the back, with the logo "Our Lady of Popalovskaya Angels."
Lekha, Boris and Gregory return from the Cold ©
Michael Casey
It's tough now, with construction going on and dust everywhere, and the cursing rife, and only from Mom and Dad. The builders blush when they hear such talk, but construction is a blessed endeavor blessed with many curses. Anastasia was visiting relatives in the village when her grandfather called her; the builders had let him down, and now there was dust everywhere. This made her own problem seem trivial; she'd bought herself a new car as a graduation present, but it broke down repeatedly. At the dealership, they only laughed at her and called her a little Russian princess. Now, as the wives of Lech, Boris, and Gregory chopped meat, their blood boiled.
Anastasia's grandfather was Denis Nellis. He was very, very old now, but when he was very, very young, he served as a sailor on an Arctic convoy to Russia. After the war, he married the sister of a Polish pilot who had fought in the Battle of Britain. So he was a man of great courage, worthy of respect, and, since he was connected to the village through marriage, he was FAMILY. The boys' wives sharpened their knives, but Anastasia, with a wicked grin, said that the pen was mightier than the sword and much sharper. The boys' wives agreed after they practiced shooting at the back of the kitchen door.
But where are the boys? Where are Lyokha, Boris, and Gregory? The summer of 2018 was terribly hot—some people love the heat, as they say—but Gregory had a friend who owned a former Russian nuclear submarine, bought at an army or navy surplus sale. He was making trips to the north, the far north, halfway to the North Pole. Zebra Ice Station and all that. Some of the crew got sick, so Gregory persuaded Lyokha and Boris to go on an adventure, or were they little girls? So the three of them ended up on an ice shelf, playing football. Tourists were sold new, or rather, former Soviet winter warm clothes, while Lyokha, Boris, and Gregory frolicked on the ice. After all, the salary was very good, and it was in US dollars, great, what else could they want?
Their wives couldn't take it anymore, dug up an old HF radio set, set it to the emergency frequency, and sent a message to the North Pole. "Come home, dinner's getting cold, need to take care of family matters." That's all it said, signed by three wives. Now the Americans were going crazy trying to figure out what it meant. The Russians wanted to know what it meant, too. Only the British knew what it really meant. You see, Anastasia had a secret: she'd just signed up for a job at GCHQ, so she told them about her holiday plans, and having Denis Nellis as a relative got her an interview, along with having Double First from Downing, Cambridge. Or Monty Python University, as it was called on some recruiting card. You see, Downing was where John Cleese and Michael Winner and this writer's brother went.
Lyokha, Boris, and Gregory worried for a full minute before finishing off the submarine's supply of vodka. Their wives were capable of taking care of themselves and knew how to handle knives and guns. So, when the icicles melted, they enjoyed their vodka. The trip had been a success, and they were invited to join the regular crew.
When they returned home to the village, their wives fed them well and put them to bed. They had to make sure everything was still working after the cold of the North Pole. In the morning, his wife gave them an oriental air, telling them about Denis Nellis and Anastasia. Then Anastasia told them about the construction worker, saying her grandfather would have to face the facts and surrender to reality. The car company said the same thing: just surrender to life. Now Gregory started to get nervous; you never tell the Russians "surrender" after what those Nazi bastards did. Lyokha and Boris weren't thrilled either; that was Family. The Scots never tell you to surrender either; go ask the Black Watch if you don't believe me.
There was just enough time to eat all the food their wives had cooked while they were at the North Pole, then they made love to their wives ten more times before they were ready to leave. David Nellis's house looked like it had been shelled by Nazi bastards. Lekha, Boris, and Gregory got to work. The addition of a bathroom and bedroom downstairs would soon be finished. The boys worked like slaves, worse than slaves, they worked like men from the East, they worked like family. If you married in the East, you were part of the East. They stopped for just five minutes, only to send me an email asking me to keep an eye on Still 17 in Warley Woods; it, too, was reaching perfection; by pure, pure 95% coincidence, they would be in England to try it.
When the dust settled, Dennis Nellis had installed his bathroom and a new bedroom downstairs. Gregory shed a tear, and for once his cousins didn't mock him for crying like a little girl. This was family. I pressed Still 17 and sent the mailman to deliver 10 liters, so after toasting Dennis Nellis, a sailor from the Arctic convoys, they got drunk. What else do you expect?
Now Anastasia wasn't forgotten; the boys, still hovering over the boys, decided to go into the car dealership. The car salesman ignored Anastasia, despite her being so pretty and so, so smart. But boys will be boys, and they came in from the cold, and their three wives asked if they wanted to repeat their performance as soon as they'd dismantled Anastasia's brand-new, wrecked car. So they went into the dealership, now able to physically flip all the cars like turtles. Just like Big Sid does in the finale of Butcher, Baker, and Undertaker.
However, they had seen Dennis Nellis's "Full Monty" on TV the night before, so they simply turned on Spotify on their iPhones and started stripping. The girls at the dealership giggled and streamed it live on Facebook to their friends, but they stopped giggling as they took off more and more clothes. Where was the nearest Polish/Ukrainian/Russian food store? These were MEN with a capital M! The dealership owner came down to see the still-drunk cousins sprawled naked over his cars, leaving marks in the polish—which, by the way, is polish, not POLISH.
He tried to threaten them, but for Hitler, this wasn't springtime. Your Cars have one thing in common with us: the vague "Leha," "Boris," and "Gregory," and what did the dealership owner ask? "BIG MEN!" And with that, the boys left the showroom. And did Anastasia get a new car from the dealership? No, he was going to offer, but the police closed his showroom after hundreds of complaints; the police even said he didn't have a license for erotic dancers, so they were able to shut it down immediately. But Peter Stringfellow saw all this online and sent Anastasia a brand new car, a much better car. He offered the boys jobs, too, but they decided: the wives of the winners get everything, it's just for their eyes.
Lech, Boris and Gregory save a nursing home ©
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Michael Casey
Since we're all stuck in the snow, I decided to share this story—believe it or not, that's up to you. On March 1, 2018, Putin boasts about his military toys, just like other leaders. Can we just put those things aside and instead promote science for all of humanity? The best in our nation is contained in its Spirit. So, let me tell Putin, Kim, and Trump a story about the true Spirit. It's the story of how Lyokha, Boris, and Gregory saved 100 elderly people trapped in a snowstorm, running low on medicine and food.
Popaloffoff is now located somewhere in the east, where Poland, Ukraine, and Russia make love on the map. They make love in bed, too, but I'm just trying to give you an idea of where it all happens. High in the mountains, along a winding road, perched like an eagle looking down on a fast-flowing river, is an old monastery that also serves as a retirement home for the locals. Priests and shepherds live there, the priests paint icons, and the shepherds produce the best vodka in the world. If you live in such a climate, you need a good drink.
This winter of 2017/2018 was bad; today, March 1, 2018, the weather is wild. Lyokha, Boris, and Gregory received a call on the CB radio. Shepherd is down, we're running low on supplies, especially medicine. We might have to burn the icons to keep warm. Now, for anyone in the East, an icon is a sacred relic, more precious than gold, more precious than a US hockey victory. I'm whispering this now, but an icon is more precious than vodka.
So when the message came over the CB radio, Lyokha, Boris, and Gregory had to do something. The snowstorm could go to hell; in fact, it could kiss Gregory's fat ass, and his ass was fat, very fat. They mounted the snowplows and drove to the base. They filled all three trucks to the brim with sand, and hooked up a trailer to each. Not forgetting a case of vodka in each cabin. With the atheist's blessing, they departed.
Only a fool, a madman, and a believer would even attempt it in such weather, but that's the description of the Trio. In Popaloff, they received word that help was on the way, after which SV died. So they gathered together and prayed. Several icons stood by the fire when the wood ran out. As I already said, Saint Michael considers Lech, Boris, and Gregory his friends. As for the icons, they also have special powers, but more on that later.
Driving in a snowstorm is no fun. The Trio laughed, joked, and cursed each other over the radio. They had a mission, a mission from God. They weren't the Blues Brothers, they were Slavic cousins, and they were the best drivers. Sliding, they walked, circled and circled through the garden like a teddy bear, one step, two steps, and underneath it, a tickle. Good thing there was vodka on the seat next to them. It was barely above freezing in the cabin, even though they had furs to keep warm. That bear had almost killed them 10 years ago, but they swore to the high heavens that if they didn't die, they would repay the favor. So now, wrapped in bear clothes, it was time to repay that debt. Popaloff called them, I saved three lives, now you must save the least of my brethren.
It made sense, perfectly logical for the fool, the madman, and the believer; they were all those things. They'd attended Popaloffoff as kids and it had made a big impression, so now they had to do it, they just had to answer the bell. The slide slipped away, the trailers slid like a puppet on a string.
A catastrophe nearly struck. Lyokha steered his plow left, then magically veered right along the mountain road. Boris and Gregory swore they saw a corner appear and push his truck back onto the road. It was hard to tell with all the snow covering it whether it was vodka or not. It was Saint Michael himself; he had a stake in this game, like all the angels and saints in the icons.
After this rescue, like a diving hockey player in the Olympic final, a multitude of angels joined Saint Michael. Even if their icons had been burned, it wouldn't have mattered; saving the lives of the Trio, like Lech, Boris, and Gregory, did.
The road to Poploff is very dangerous now, and you'll slip and no one will see you again, or until spring comes and the snow melts. The wind howled, and the snow fell. The vodka was consumed, like the Trio drunk through a blizzard. How they stayed on the road, no one will ever know, but if you were an angel looking down, you could see snow angels in the snow to the left and right, as angels pushed the truck to keep it on the road. Hundreds of snow angels, made out of snow by real angels. But you don't believe me, do you? You think I drink vodka?
The fire burned low, and the priest, with tears in his eyes, placed the icon on the flames. Then he closed his eyes, unwilling to see his sin. A hundred or more people huddled around the fire, eyes closed, begging the angels and saints to forgive them their sin. The angels and saints wept not for their icons, but because they were humbled by the sight of such Faith.
Lyokha, Boris, and Gregory rode along the dangerous road, slipping and slipping. They cursed each other more, only to encourage each other more. Then tragedy struck: the vodka ran out. They fell silent; they had little time left to go, they needed to concentrate more; the road was now at its most dangerous. Saint Michael called for reinforcements; a wall of angels with outstretched wings and drawn swords lined the road. Nothing would have stopped them from reaching Popalovo now, only the devil himself came to see what was happening, smelling the burning icons.
While Saint Michael was slashing at the Devil with his sword, Lech's truck tumbled off the cliff. He hung half on the road, half off to the side. Boris and Gregory slammed on the brakes of their trucks. He would have been dead in seconds. Only then did three enormous bears appear and pull the trailer and truck back onto the road. The bears vanished, replaced by a golden angel, a beautiful golden angel.
No one said anything; they rode silently along the mountain road to Popalov. They entered the courtyard and ran to the refectory, where everyone had gathered. Lyokha, Boris, and Gregory distributed medicine and food and unpacked the supplies. A madman, a fool, and a believer saved the day.
The trinity looked around and saw the icons burned. But when they took them out, they noticed something: the soot had been wiped off, and the icons were intact, undamaged. Grandmother asked the trinity to follow her to where she was painting a new icon. She turned the icon, and there Lyokha, Boris, and Grigory saw a golden corner with three bears on it.
"I need a drink," they said in unison. So they drank it, a very good one. In fact, they were given the recipe for Popaloffoff vodka, so if you're wondering why Lech, Bori, and Gregory are in Warley Woods, or any other woods for that matter, it's because they're working on their still. Oh, and before I forget, I have an angel on my wall as I speak to you all. And here's a golden icon of an angel with three bears on the wall in Putin's private office, along with several bottles of Popaloffoff vodka. You know, Pope Francis has been invited to Russia; maybe Putin will give him a photocopy of the icon, or just some Popaloffoff vodka.
Lech, Boris and Gregory Save Christmas ©
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Michael Casey
The cousins decided to buy and trade some old army surplus. Putin had revamped his army, so a lot of old gear was being thrown out. Apparently, the enterprising cousins saw this as their chance. There was everything they could buy at rock-bottom prices, like arctic gear, even parachutes and an ancient flamethrower or two. Junk to you or me, but to the cousins, it was an opportunity.
Sometimes what's discarded becomes the most important, like a broken heart healed by love, or a dream about a dead mother on the feast of St. Francis, who comes to heal and strengthen. But I'm talking about my Slavic cousins, and their wives only laughed at them; they were so foolish, but that made them love them all the more. Similarly, wives sharpened their knives in preparation for Christmas, which meant the death of some animals, but it was for the good purpose of celebrating the feast of Christmas.
Among the junk were one or two old military radios, so the cousins' children were allowed to play with one of them. To their surprise, they managed to contact some other children, and soon a radio friendship developed between them. It turned out they had discovered School 76 in Novabliz, which was quite a distance from where they all lived. It was a boarding school for the children of army officers; they really weren't supposed to talk to strangers. But it was a military frequency on an old channel, so the wall came down.
While Lech, Boris, and Gregory rummaged through their treasures, their children enjoyed the radio. It turned out that the parents of School 76 were actually space engineers; they wouldn't say more, but it was at least interesting. Now Christmas was approaching, and the cousins had managed to sell boots, coats, and the like, so they were pleased; at least they had earned a little money. The Christmas feast loomed on the horizon, and their wives were beaming, happy, and so deeply in love. However, when all the cousins' children explained all the expected joy and love they would experience for the children of School 76, they were met with sadness.
You see, at School 76, the parents would work far away, launching satellites into space for the highest bidders. Christmas was lost for them; duty came first. If only they'd seen a fake Santa, it would have been the most fun of all. Now Lech, Boris, and Gregory were sad when they heard this. Christmas, even without a fake Saint Nicholas, was too much.
Their wives looked at them, and all the children looked at them. "We need to talk to your fathers," said the three mothers. So the three mothers took the three cousins into three bedrooms. It's always better to discuss things in a comfortable setting. Six hours later, the mothers emerged smiling, and the cousins appeared as well. It was decided that the three mothers would sacrifice their three cousins' husbands for Christmas. Lyokha, Boris, and Gregory would bring Christmas to School No. 76.
Now, School 76 isn't on any maps, as it was classified as a military school, although it was merely a boarding school. So a link to the map was sent, and Lech marked it on the map with Rudolf's nose. That was all the map they needed. They loaded their snowplow with everything they might need, and what could they bring the students? Dyed boiled eggs and some English chocolate, Cadbury's, of course, and some oranges. There was some vodka, too, but that was for any errant teachers or caretakers. The idea was that there wouldn't be any other gifts as such, or so the plan was. You see, the school was in a remote area, and Lech, Boris, and Gregory might have to make the final trek.
When School 76 heard the news, they exploded. They weren't just getting one fake Santa, they were getting three. Carols were ringing out from School 76, but they couldn't tell the teachers or staff, as it was still technically a military establishment. So, after a final kiss from their wives, who were likely already pregnant, what do you think they did for six hours—knit? So, Lech, Boris, and Gregory set off to celebrate Christmas at School 76. When they ducked into a fancy four-wheel drive going the opposite direction, their paths crossed.
In the 4x4 was Mikhail Mikhailovich, whom you remember, the cosmonaut visited by the Archangel Saint Michael. By pure chance, he was passing through the village of Lekha, Boris, and Gregory. God's will. Mikhail Mikhailovich stopped at the tavern, ate, and rested, preparing to plow himself and return home for Christmas, but then the sky opened up, and a whiteout descended, and a mountain of snow fell. All he knew was that he would spend Christmas there. Mikhail Mikhailovich quickly began telling stories and enjoying the company. His eyes widened when he heard what Lekha, Boris, and Gregory had planned. He himself had attended School No. 76 in his youth, before becoming the world's greatest cosmonaut, and then the world's greatest storyteller.
"I actually drove past them, will they be safe?" "They're like polar bears," the three wives replied. "Besides, we'll kill them if they don't come back brandishing knives. Besides, we're all pregnant, so they won't leave an unborn child behind for Christmas." "How many weeks are you pregnant?" asked Mikhail Mikhailovich. "About 15 hours, not weeks," came the proud reply. Mikhail Mikhailovich blushed; it sounded like one of his stories, but it was true.
Mikhail Mikhailovich took out his satellite phone and recited another story so that Radio Russia would have a new one for Christmas. Then the military radio crackled in; it was Lyokha, Boris, and Gregory. "Well, we're 20 kilometers from our destination, the snowplow can't go any further, so we'll walk. We have skis and sleds, it'll be fun." Everyone looked out the window and saw snow; it was mortally dangerous. Mikhail Mikhailovich took the microphone. "Hello, I'm Mikhail Mikhailovich, how can I help you?" "We love stories," the trio answered in unison. "Did I mean help getting to our destination?" We think we'll be fine. We have vodka to keep warm and lots of layers, and we have old Soviet army uniforms, so everything should be fine.
Mikhail Mikhailovich looked around—these wonderful people deserved their Archangel—and pulled out his satellite phone. A few seconds later, he was talking to Chuck from the US, his friend Tim Peake, who was in space again, and Petrov, a wonderful Russian cosmonaut. Mikhail Mikhailovich was talking to the Heavens Above the Space Station. "Hey, guys, do you want to test this new thing you have?" Within seconds, it was decided it was a method for tracking polar bears, but now it would be tracking three polar bears named Leha, Boris, and Gregory.
The only problem was that the collar didn't have a radio, just a vintage Soviet-era radio. After looking around again, Mikhail Mikhailovich called his good friend Esther, the mother of a millionaire space satellite magnate. He started with "Shalom," and then Mikhail Mikhailovich explained that Esther would help, he knew that. Esther laid down her cards; she was playing poker in Vegas; the winner chose which Charity would win the pot; the ten million had been collected solely thanks to her poker habit, if you remember the story from Malta. The phone rang in the Pentagon situation room; the ringtone was "If I Were a Rich Man" by Topol, a real one-off recording just for a ringtone. If you're a billionaire, you can have such things. The millionaire turned to General Jim Mathis; the mother insisted on the ringtone. A few seconds later, everything was explained, and Esther returned to her poker; she wanted to win.
The millionaire looked around. "I wasn't planning on showing you this yet, but a friend wants a favor." So, General Jim Mathis, looking at the millionaire, showed the satellite image. It wasn't perfect, but Lec, Boris, and Gregory could be seen through the snow. We're leading them through the snow to School 76. So, the millionaire spoke with Mikhail Mikhailovich, and then led the three cousins.
They trudged up and down, back and forth, back and forth, through the deep, deep snow, leaving a trail as they dragged their sleds. High in space, the millionaire brought a couple of other companions into the fray; after all, it was Christmas; they weren't the Three Wise Men, but they had friends in high places, very high places. But then disaster struck: the radio broke down; at -20 degrees, even the thirty-year-old USSR radio had to live out its days.
"All we can do is watch and pray," General Jim Mathis said, looking up from the book Esther had sent him, a first edition of Charles Dickens's "A Christmas Carol." So, watching from above, they all watched and prayed. Three cousins, Lech, Boris, and Gregory, wandered around until the cold killed them. From space, they tracked their route, and then the billionaire noticed a pattern. Written in the snow was "PAX WOBISCOM," or "Peace Be With You." Then, through the snow, the satellite saw a sled pulled by enormous reindeer, carrying a giant man. The giant waved his hand toward the sky, as if he knew all the satellites were watching him.
Father Frost himself came to save them. If Archangel Mikhail Mikhailovich saved Mikhail Mikhailovich, then why shouldn't Father Frost save the three Slavic heroes, Lech, Boris, and Gregory? And that's how Lech, Boris, and Gregory saved Christmas, or rather, how Santa Claus saved them. School 76 had the best Christmas ever, three fake Santas plus the real one. Now, if you think this story is far-fetched, just look at how Norad tracks Santa this and every Christmas. And if you still don't believe me, why are photos of the real Father Frost locked in General Jim Mathis's safe with a signed copy of A Christmas Carol at the top? Marked 25 levels above TOP SECRET.
The Great Misadventure of Lech, Boris and Gregory ©
TO
Michael Casey
The boys got a late start; they'd forgotten a magazine in the bathroom, and they needed it. What was I saying? Well, the magazine belonged to Ivan, and Ivan gave it to Lech with some advice. Ivan was a very, very old man, and magazines were all he had in life because he was very old. Lech was young then, and when Lech, Boris, and Gregory were carrying Ivan home, Ivan said Lech could take his magazine because he knew he was going to die soon.
It was an old National Geographic magazine in French. Lyokha simply put it in his pocket and carried Ivan home with two cousins. Ivan was right, he died soon. Ivan was 97 years old, and the last 15 pints had been too much for him. Ivan was found dead in his chair by the fire, with a wide grin on his lips, two days later. Everyone thought he was asleep from the drink, but when he didn't feed his dogs, people heard howling and came to see what the problem was. No big deal, Ivan was dead, stiff as a poker, but with a wide grin on his lips.
His funeral was a grand affair, with holy relics placed before his coffin. Lyokha, Boris, and Gregory dug the grave themselves, as was customary; you dig graves for your friends and neighbors. Later that day, Lyokha looked through a French magazine but couldn't understand it, as it wasn't an Eastern language, but he liked the pictures. Round objects of all shapes and colors. And what was I talking about? Truffles, of course. It was an article about truffles. Lyokha placed the magazine on the cabinet next to his rifle and promptly forgot about it.
The snow was deep and they had nothing planned, so they watched TV together, along with a large supply of alcohol—they were boys from the East, after all, not girls from the West. The item on truffles popped up; they would have dropped their beer glasses, but luckily they were drinking from bottles, so they didn't. It's a sin to ruin good alcohol. Ask your mother if you don't believe me. Lyokha stuttered, okay, he'd dropped it, so much money for these things. Ivan gave me a magazine with photos of truffles before he died many years ago. Lyokha reached for the top of the cabinet, only to accidentally pull the trigger—CLICK. Everyone instinctively ducked. Lyokha was from the East, so of course there were no bullets in the gun. After all, he wasn't American.
Together, they looked at the magazine photos, all the varieties and prices, which could only be obtained for small amounts of money. A small amount was as valuable as gold. As they leafed through the magazine, a piece of paper fell out. It was written in Ivan's handwriting, a map and a message: "We have truffles too, if you find them." And that was all it took for the boys to think about adventures in the mountains. Lech, Boris, and Gregory, truffle hunters, weren't as dynamic as Indiana Jones, but they could make a little money.
Lekha needed to go to the bathroom, so he left the others to pack, clutching the magazine in his hand. They were going truffle hunting. They climbed into a snowplow and drove 3 km before realizing they'd left the magazine in the toilet. They needed the magazine to identify truffles. So, like fools, they went back to get it before hitting the road again. They drove 50 km into the mountains before the road ended. Now they'd have to walk and climb. It was fun and a nice stretch of the legs. This wasn't a Duke of Edinburgh Gold walk, it was a pleasant stroll for men of the East. They didn't have Irn Bru, they had 70% abv vodka.
Looking at a piece of paper, they reached the spot on the map where the truffles were supposed to be. The only problem was that the truffles were underground. And there was snow, too. That didn't stop them; they had their knives. So they dug in the snow and began digging for truffles, stopping only occasionally for a sip of vodka. Lyokha's knife has a history; he won it from Boris on a bet. Boris had been beaten by his father, Uncle Lyokha, for a long time. But Lyokha endured it and never told his father how he lost the knife.
Gregory was arguing with the other kids about how long the beating would last, but Gregory was actually signaling Boris to be cocky so the beating would continue. Boris took his turn. Finally, interrupting, Gregory collected all the money and gave it to Boris, waiving any commission. So Boris bought an even better knife, but in reality, he bought two. He gift-wrapped one and left it in his father's boots. Boris's dad nearly cried with joy, saying only, "You know, I love you very much." Of course, his dad told Boris, "If anyone says otherwise, I'll skin them alive with my new knife." Like father, like son.
So the boys were busy searching for truffles, even trying to figure out what was written in French. Then luck struck: a wild boar came running up to them and started digging in the ground where the cousins were clearing snow. Soon, the boar found various truffles, but they had to fight him to keep him from eating them. So they fed him bread laced with 70-percent vodka. A drunken boar and three Eastern cousins hunt for truffles with a National Geographic magazine in French, as well as a scribbled note from a long-dead 97-year-old man named Ivan. Of course, it happened, this is the East, they don't walk in the park, but you can all just shut up and let me get on with the story.
The boar fell dead, probably from digging too hard, but by now they had a sack full of truffles. They were hungry and didn't want to lose the boar, so they skinned it and lit a fire. They found some shelter near a cliff. It had been a nice day trip, but now it was snowing heavily. Of course, they didn't check the weather app; they just went where they wanted, when they wanted; they were Easterners. They were wondering if they could find more shelter when they heard a cracking sound and a cry of pain.
A mountain bear was caught in a trap. The trap caught it by the neck but didn't kill it. They were going to shoot it to put it out of its misery, but they remembered saving people in a nursing home. So they fed the bear vodka soaked in bread, then together they removed the bear trap. They felt sorry for the bear, so Lyokha took off his belt and tied it around the bear's neck. Two others followed suit. They wrapped three strong leather straps tightly around the bear's neck to stop the bleeding. Then they rubbed boar fat from their dinner around the wound to seal it, then generously poured a little vodka on the wound.
They heard a noise and followed it to a cave. Inside were three little bear cubs—the mother they'd rescued. What would happen to the bears now? Gregori knew what to do, so he picked up one and stuffed her into his backpack; the others followed. The mother bear was unconscious; she might not survive. Gregori pulled out his cell phone and pressed the distress button. He also pulled a tattered icon from his wallet and hung it on his belt. They'd done everything they could for her; now they had to save the babies.
Beneath their fire was an old log. They climbed inside, secured their slings to the log, and pushed off. It was Cool Runnings-style, down the mountainside. "Three Eastern Men in a Log" isn't a sweet English story about a man in a boat. It was three growling bears in backpacks, racing down the mountainside, accompanied by three Eastern men. The now-crumpled photograph Gregory had left on the bear was of the Black Madonna, so she was leading the cousins down the mountainside.
Back in the cabin, the snowblower started right up; the amount of time they'd spent fiddling with its engine was more than a little love. They went home, called the zoo, and asked if they'd like three cubs. What a stupid question. But what about the mother bear, the mother, alone on the mountain, bleeding, with only three tightly fastened belts keeping her alive? Boris called his friend Olga and told her to save the bear. You see, Olga had a helicopter. Olga flew across the snow and scooped the bear up in a net.
Yes, mother and cubs lived happily ever after. As for the dead boar, his death saved the mother bear. At the zoo, they named the mother bear Olga, and the cubs Lech, Boris, and Gregory. And as for the truffles, well, Olga collected them too and dropped a garden from the sky on Lech, flying to the zoo. They were trash truffles, worthless, but the Black Madonna saved Lech, Boris, and Gregory—I mean the cubs. Or so the cousins thought. A month later, a French chef arrived from Paris; he nearly fainted. The truffles weren't worth anything. But instead, the chef left his 4x4 as payment for the truffles, and, you know, there's an icon of the Black Madonna on the dashboard.
Lech, Boris and Gregory Check it out ©
TO
Michael Casey
So, your little girl has become a big girl, leaving home to go to university. I nodded, trying to hold back my tears; the boys understood and put their hands on my shoulder. No doubt she would miss Totoro the Cat, but her little sister would send news of the cat's progress to her older sister, who was studying. She might even miss her old father, a fat, gray-haired writer in dark glasses from Birmingham, England. I started to sob, but the boys realized they were Popalov's best; they often visited me just to see what Totoro the Cat was like, or so they claimed. But now the family was dispersing; they knew what they had to do, and they would do it.
The boys left me while I was looking through photo albums of my treasure, who would soon be far away, in another part of the country, and I wouldn't be there to protect her. Lyokha, Boris, and Gregory went to the one still hidden in the forest; the vodka wouldn't be ready for another three days. More than enough time to check out my daughter's new home and university.
While they were driving their tanker truck down the highway, they called home. Their wives all agreed that they had to do what they had to do. And if they hadn't been so spontaneous, the wives might have prepared a gift: a butcher's choice, a step-by-step guide on how to butcher a pig with a deadly knife. They didn't expect my daughter to become a home butcher and chef like them, but it also taught her the knife skills a single woman might need in a hurry, and I don't mean when an unexpected dinner party arrives.
Arriving at the University City, the boys sat down on a bench next to a drunk and asked him about the city in exchange for a tiny bottle of their fresh vodka. So that's how they got their hands dirty—ask a tramp, they know everything. So first they went to a local gay bar and drank a pint of Guinness for a change. All the customers thought Christmas had come early or it was a striptease. Lyokha, Boris, and Gregory laughed. "We've done that before, but only at the car dealership," the memory made them smile. "Sorry, but some things are meant for our wives' eyes only."
They explained that their friend, a fat, grey-haired, sunglasses-wearing writer from Birmingham, England, had a cat named Totoro, and that his daughter had only gotten the cat four years ago when he promised her and her younger sister a pet if he had a heart attack. Or they could have a dog if he died. And now she was coming to their town to study. Was she gay, asking for clients? We don't think so, that's not something you ask anyone about, of course not, here's her photo, so the boys showed a photo of my daughter. A few gasps arose, quickly dying down when the boys looked at them. You see, if she comes here, she'll be safe from the BASTARDS, the boys explained.
They each drank another Guinness, this time inside. In exchange, they gave her a holy icon with an icon of Maria Popalovskaya. "If you put this in the window, she'll know she's safe here," the club owners promised, wiping away tears. The boys left the Jester; they weren't fools; they'd found the first safe place for my daughter. They also took a photo of the boys and placed it next to the holy image. Faith and Brown, no one would have imagined that games could be played there, a new symbiotic relationship.
They wandered around the city, visiting sandwich bars and coffee shops, explaining the situation, handing out Holy Icons of the Holy Mother of God Popalova at each location. Each location was also photographed and displayed next to the Holy Icon. Something was happening, Maria Popalova contributed, but they, too, contributed. The boys saw themselves as the same cute Slavic bears from which Russia, Ukraine, and Poland make love on the map. But in the university town of England, they were circus strongmen. One so strong, one so tall, one so broad, not the kind of men you'd see in the backstreets of a small university. Two.
Now they were hungry, so they went to Greggs, only the equipment was broken, and they might have to throw out the food. If we fix this, can we get free food? So the deal was done. Things need fixing in the East, two meters of snow, who's going to come and fix your machine, Santa Claus? So they fixed it in an hour. The staff was very impressed, as was the line of people, all dying for something only Greggs can provide. Soon, a special photo of Our Lady of Popaloff and the boys was placed by the door.
This wasn't their plan; they simply wanted to make sure my daughter was safe. There were now over 200 Holy Icons of the Popalov Icon of the Mother of God scattered everywhere. A man walked with his nose buried in a book, walking right into them, scattering hundreds of icons of the Popalov Icon of the Mother of God everywhere. He bent down to pick them up, then burst into tears. It was Andrew Graham Dixon, England's greatest art critic and a friend of Popalov's. The boys hugged him tightly and kissed him on the lips, the way old friends do in the East. Andrew Graham Dixon made a copy of my daughter's photograph, transferred the phone to the phone, and said that his Italian friend had a restaurant in town, so if she needed work, he was sure he could convince his friend.
So the boys were happy, but now the most dangerous part was coming. The drunk had told them about the city's bad side, so now they had to confront it. They knocked on the door and waited, and three big guys with Rottweilers appeared. The three guys laughed at them. "You bleeding faggots we saw on the street, collecting all those trash flyers and then kissing this guy on the lips, bleeding faggots, just get out, or I'll set the Rottweilers on you."
Now, never, never, never speak like that to anyone from Popalovo, or to anyone, straight or gay or otherwise. And to say that the Popalovo Icon of the Mother of God was nonsense would be going too far. Lyokha looked at Boris, and Boris looked at Gregory. They cursed the bad people with the worst word that can be used in the East. NAZIS. After that, the Rottweilers attacked, but a blow to the nose sent all three scattering like puppies. NAZIS: Lyokha, Boris, and Gregory screamed again. Within seconds, these three tough men were no longer tough men, they were very scared men.
Everyone was going to ask you to turn this girl away if she happened to come to your club, tell her to go home and put her in Mister George's taxi, he's a good man, we met him today. But to say "Ikon Popalov" is nonsense, and then to set the dogs on us. That's too much. Being called gay doesn't matter; one day one of our sons might say he's gay, or one of our daughters might say she's a lesbian. WE WILL STILL LOVE THEM, BECAUSE OUR JOB IS ALWAYS TO LOVE THEM, WHOEVER they are. We are from the East and we love our homeland as much as we love our mothers and daughters. At the same time, Lyokha, Boris, and Gregory spat in the faces of the fascists.
Then the police were everywhere, watching the club and knowing there must be a lot of drugs there, and three Rottweilers guarded everything. Lech, Boris, and Gregory sped up the process. There was indeed a reward, but they insisted it go to a drug rehabilitation center.
So the boys spent their day. And yes, the Chief Superintendent himself kissed the boys on the lips, much to PC's shock, but he had a Russian wife, so he knew about Eastern Culture. One more thing worth mentioning: Holy Pictures had a tiny chip inside, and they gave my daughter an app that would show her all the safe places and guide her home safely, no matter what.
When Santa's Angels Came to the Rescue ©
Michael Casey
Santa was sad, even he had caught Covid-19, he thought he was safe at the North Pole, but no, he had Covid-19. So how could he get trapped and deliver presents, besides, what about all those grandparents who had taken in and might not see their grandchildren this Christmas? It was all so sad, Santa just wanted to cry and ask Mom for a hug. He sobbed, and Rudolph pulled his fur back to cover him more, Rudolph was worried too, no one had a clue what to do. Rudolph slipped out of the giant igloo and started crying, he had to hide his tears from Santa, a reindeer must always be strong. Rudolph looked up at the sky, a shooting star flew overhead. But it wasn't a shooting star, it was a space station.
Rudolph was inspired, and the Dragon Capsule filled the space station with people so they could take turns helping him. Rudolph soared into the sky, his red nose flashing, SOS, SOS, SOS, which, as you know, means "Save Our Santa," "Save Our Santa," "Save Our Santa." The astronauts thought they were seeing something, but Monk was reading them A Christmas Carol from the comfort of his office. And when they excitedly told him Rudolph was flashing it, he grabbed the Santa pictures from under his first-edition copy of A Christmas Carol. In an instant, he knew what had to be done: the three Papaloff cousins had to go to the North Pole and help save Santa.
How could a retired US general get Russia to help? The monk dialed the number and said nothing more, just tapped his thumb on the phone, asking his friend for a favor in Morse code. Could Vladimir deliver three cousins to the North Pole? Vladimir was just a janitor now, or so he claimed, but he had a lot to do. So when he heard Morse code, of course he would help. No words were spoken, nothing was said, just tap-tap-tap on his special phone, the one his friend had given him years ago. One day, we will save the world with this phone, the monk whispered. The phone was stuck to the back of an icon of Mary, a gift from one superpower to another, from brother to brother.
The monk smiled; he had an identical icon hanging on the wall in his private office. After all, icons have power because they're painted with love and prayer. The monk returned to telling bedtime stories to cosmonauts. Meanwhile, a helicopter landed on Popalovo, and after a brief discussion, the three cousins left. Lech, Boris, and Gregory were given Arctic suits and told to get dressed quickly. "Whispered Alexey Gudenoff, 'This is an order from above. You must save Santa. He saved you, now it's your turn to save him.' Everyone dressed in white, wearing glasses, each with a bottle of vodka, boarded the plane. Now you can drink vodka,' explained Alexey Gudenoff, 'because what they were about to do was madness, and only a madman, a fool, or a man from Popalovo would dare. James Bond himself would say, 'I owe you cocoa if I'm asked to do such a dangerous thing.' Three cousins would jump from a plane straight onto the North Pole ice shelf, on skis, with only Rudolph's sparkling nose as their guide. Santa Claus needs help, and they're the only ones who can.
Back in Papaloff, the icons glowed; love and the power of prayer were with the boys. You can take a man out of Papaloff, but Papaloff is always in a man. So the power pulsed within them, as did the two liters of vodka they drank in one go. After all, it can be very cold at the North Pole. With these words, Alexi Gudenoff pushed them out of the plane as it slowed and began to descend. Rudolf flashed past, and with his comrades, they dragged their loot along with them. It was a close call, but Rudolf was a professional; they caught the three cousins as they fell from the sky. With a burp, a thud, and a fart, Lech, Boris, and Gregory were safe. Two liters of vodka each is a great way to relax, so they fell asleep instantly. They woke up to find themselves in front of Santa, and they hugged. Santa was wearing a spacesuit to ensure he wouldn't infect them with Covid-19.
So, you see, boys, I just have no energy because of all this Covid-19 and all that. So, Rudolf thought you could help, and since the elves have also caught Covid-19, I have no presents either. But Love is all you need, muttered the three cousins, still not sober from drinking two liters of vodka. We should just give everyone Angels this Christmas, that's enough, Angels we've heard about in heaven. When they said this, the mother burst into tears, and her tears spilled across the floor like pearls, so the king decided. This Christmas, everyone in the whole world will be a special angel from Santa, or more precisely, Lech, Boris, and Gregory.
The cousins were told that all they had to do was attach angels to the windows, not climb down chimneys, as they were all too big. Besides, Santa has magical powers that allow him to climb down chimneys, and unfortunately, with Covid-19, it might be best not to enter the homes of the world. The mother began to cry again, and the stars began to streak across the sky. That evil pest, Covid-19, was doing its best to harm everyone. But the boys from Papalovo were on a mission, and as they flew across the sky, icons began to glow in the East, North, South, and West. In churches and bookstores, in private collections hidden in bank vaults, icons, holy icons, came to life. You see, this wasn't a fairy tale like "A Christmas Carol." Tonight Prayer, Hope and Love will descend from Heaven and Covid 19 may go to Hell.
Norad hunts down Santa every Christmas, but this particular Christmas Santa seemed very erratic, appearing, whether it was Popaloff, here, there, and everywhere, until finally Santa split into three. Norad didn't understand, but the Monk and Vladimir the Janitor knew, and, sipping cocoa and vodka, they smiled, and the icons in their rooms glowed. You see, a mother's tears at this Christmas time answered all her prayers.
Every house has an angel stuck to the window—the angels we heard on high, singing gloria in excelsis deo. Andrew Graham Dixon, Britain's greatest art expert, was shaving in the bathroom when there was a knock on the window. He opened it to see Lech throwing an angel at him. Then, a few minutes later, Boris was there with another angel, and a few minutes after that, Andrew Graham Dixon got a third blow. It was Gregory with a third angel. Gregory had stolen the remaining can of Guinness that was sitting on the windowsill. Andrew Graham Dixon looked like Santa with shaving foam on his face. He laughed; it must have been the pudding.
And so the boys from Papaloffoff flew, three more drunk, but still delivering Angels wherever they wanted. Now you won't believe what happened next. Yes, they fell asleep, and the three became one, or rather, all three found themselves in the sleigh again. In the morning, the whole world rejoiced at people seeing angels at their windows. Perfect angels, iconic, like angels. Now the thing is, when Mary looked at her angel, she started crying, if only Grandpa were here. And Grandpa looked at his angel, if only I could see my granddaughter Mary, she would love this angel. And so she did, and so did Grandpa. When they both said it at the same time, a hologram, or perhaps a holigram, appeared. Grandpa really was there with Mary, and Mary really was there with Grandpa. You see the power of love and pray, iconic style. Mary really was with Grandpa in his house, and Grandpa was with Mary in her house.
Now it happened all over the world. Just think of me, and I'll be there. Reach out and say my name in prayer, and I'll be there. So, by the power of the Angels, everyone was together, even though they were apart. That's what badges do. Maybe I was wrong about the two liters of vodka; maybe it wasn't vodka after all. Maybe it was Holy Water, so the three cousins breathed Holy Water everywhere, and it was a blessing that families could be together.
There's a footnote. When Andrew Graham Dixon checked his three Angels—because he was a friend of Popaloff's, which is why he got them—he discovered they were, in fact, a long-lost treasure. Three Angels, a set he'd owned back in St. Petersburg, so after crying with delight, he returned them to Vladimir, the janitor, in Moscow. He gave him permission to film anywhere and everywhere he liked, because if you know a janitor, any door can open.
Costs more than vodka ©
TO
Michael Casey
Now, some things are worth more than gold, like friendship or a gun if you're a hunter, but for them to be worth more than gold? For Lech, Boris, and Gregory, for something to be more valuable than vodka? They were visiting me the other day, saying they were just checking to see if I was taking care of Totoro the cat properly. They had a new still in Worley Woods, so to kill two birds with one stone, they popped by. A friend of theirs at NASA, who knew Esther's son, a satellite specialist, started sending them news from cameras. Some billion-dollar technology is used to make sure vodka is just right. Don't ask me how, ask the nice doctor who created the Smiley Face image of a Black Hole. Only someone as smart as her could explain—I can't—the one black hole I'm sitting over.
So the boys filled my cupboards with enough soup and beans to last a siege, and then, whistling Tchaikovsky, they left. They were gone until dark, gasping for breath, and Lyokha had something under his sheepskin coat. It was a baby, with the umbilical cord still attached. Call the doctor quickly; he looked almost frightened. I reached for the phone, but at that moment, Nurse Viki came in for a cup of tea. Viki was a retired midwife; sometimes God sends you something. Put it back under the coat she ordered. Then she grabbed some tin foil and a pair of my old winter long johns from the kitchen. Then she wrapped the baby up and ordered Lyokha to resume warming him.
I'll call an ambulance now. The baby looks fine, but what about the mother? She could be bleeding somewhere. Where did you find the baby? In the forest. Does that mean the mother could be in danger? asked Lyokha, Boris, and Gregory, their Slavic sense of family taking center stage. We have to go find the mother. They headed for the door, Vika interrupted. The mother could be anywhere, but you forgot one thing. Give me the baby now. So Lyokha carefully handed the baby over to Vika, who then pressed him to her own enormous chest and smothered the newborn in love and warmth.
The ambulance's blue flashing light flared outside, and the boys disappeared behind the fence of my back garden. This was more important than any vodka; they had to find their mother. The warmth of the still had saved the child, but now they had to find their mother, they had to find their mother. Their friend at NASA had been sending messages, but they had never responded, that was the deal. But now, in their Black Hole, they absolutely had to worry about their mother. But what message should they send, could they send it?
Three kings are looking for Maria. He'll realize he's smart. That's what they wrote. Three kings are looking for Maria. The baby was safe and warm at City Hospital; what Vicky forgot was more than most people knew. The baby's name was Michael, she didn't tell me, but since it was a boy and this was my home, it was little Michael. The police said the mother might have gotten lost in the woods, but she's probably long gone, so don't look for her until dawn, just in case.
For the boys, NOW meant NOW, they were all fathers, but what if it had been one of their daughters? They had to watch, they had to watch. They were Slavs, a daughter in trouble had to be loved, had to be loved. At NASA, a message addressed to a limited number carries great significance. All the intelligence agencies were on this case. And what do the Three Kings mean, searching for Mary?
Their friend immediately realized it was my three school friends in the Motherland, where Russia/Poland and Ukraine are all making love on the map. They were obviously looking for their mother. Who was Maria then? Mary was a new mother, so they were looking for a new mother. But why look for a new mother? Probably because they had found her child. An abandoned child. That had to be it. Lech, Boris, and Gregory knew he was smart; after all, he worked for NASA.
Lech's phone rang; it was NASA. Could their friend help find his mother? Their friend looked at the throng of high-ranking NASA and spy agency officials staring at him. Well, I left the East to work here, prove to me you have a heart. The man in the suit pulled out his phone and showed a photo of a newborn. This is my first granddaughter, she was born yesterday in England. The man in the suit said two words. DO IT!
That's how billions of dollars' worth of satellites were used to find Mary and help the Three Kings bring her offerings. Since the forest was dark and only heat was visible in space, a new, ultra-powerful satellite was tested. It easily spotted most of the boys. A search area and grid were assigned, and the satellites were launched. A girl from the Black Hole team poked her head around the corner to see what was going on. They told her, so she found the location, opened her laptop, and performed her cosmic magic.
Several foxes were spotted in the forest, and a few stray birds flew by. But what if "Mary" the mother had fallen? Her signature wood would have been smaller. The lady doctor was working on her laptop. Lech, Boris, and Gregory were frantically hunting, but with little success. They found a bloody bag and waved it into space, then called the news. This was added to the story. This went on for two hours, because the forest was so vast. "St. Jude help us," Lech and Boris cried, and Gregory echoed their prayers.
At the space station, the Russian crew told the others what was happening, and everyone prayed to Saint Jude. Friends in higher positions were needed. Then, not one, two, three, or four, but five sparks of life and light emerged from space, including the Space Station. Saint Jude isn't kidding.
Black Hole Doctor Lady jumped up and pointed at the wall-sized screen. NASA employees and the Ghosts were shouting instructions to Lech, Boris, and Gregory in Polish, Russian, and Ukrainian. The Three Kings had discovered that Maria had flared up across all the world's satellites. They used to joke about why the Americans were the first to reach the Moon—they had more German scientists than Russians. But now, now the Three Kings from the East had found Maria lost in the forest.
The girl really did need medical attention, and her name really was Mary. The spies had a helicopter ready, and Lech, Boris, and Gregory waved it off, and it descended into the black hole and carried her back to the light. But what about them? He'd be lost, and the police would be curious, etc. GCHQ in England knew what was going on; that's their job, Prince William will tell you that if you ever meet him at the coffee machine. As luck would have it, the new head of GCHQ was Havis MacTavish, from a very long line of Scottish whiskey producers. Do you think he'd tell anyone what happened last night? I owe cocoa, I repeat, I owe cocoa. GCHQ slapped a Notice D with a 30-year rule on everything.
No one and nothing will ever know what happened. A man found the baby and gave him to Michael Casey, a fat, white-haired writer from Birmingham, the one in England. His dear friend Vicky, a midwife, took him to the hospital. Then another man walking his dog found the mother. Period, period, as the Americans say. Or, as intelligence sources say, MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS.
This story has a p.s. A man in a suit came to England to see his new grandson, and apparently he's so high up that he's being escorted by police. The police handed him a brown paper bag containing a two-liter bottle of fresh vodka. The baggage tag attached to the bottle read, in Polish/Ukrainian and Russian, "With love from the Three Kings and little Michael." I heard that Havis McTavis of GCHQ also received one; Prince William told me over the coffee machine that he delivered it personally.
michael casey fat silver haired writer from Birmingham England
the new Tolstoy
more fun than listening to Putin's lies before he flies away to Soutb America with all the GOLD
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