Trump and Putin – Writers Resist

Mamichu

By Robert Walton

“Mamichu, it’s cold!”

I looked at Ivar. I looked at his knobby lump of a head, at his lips lying beneath his broken nose like twin dead slugs, at his eyes glistening beneath his granite ledge of a brow, eyes so small I never knew their color. There was no pleasure in looking at him. I looked away. “Why do you say this?”

“Because the wind cuts like a gypsy blade.”

“No, why do you say ‘mamichu’? What is mamichu?”

“Just a curse—a Zagreb curse for when you have to look up to see hell.”

“What does it mean?”

Ivar’s brow lowered, extinguishing his eyes. “It’s the worst curse of all.”

“The worst of all?”

“The worst!” He chuckled like a diesel engine starting on a frozen morning. “It blasphemes sisters, mothers, grandmothers even.”

“Oh,” I recoiled in mock horror, “even grandmothers! Saints preserve us!”

Ivar shrugged. “It should be reserved for the worst of the worst. I say it about the wind, but I don’t mean it, not really.”

“You don’t mean it? Why say it?”

“Habit. Curses become a habit. The morning wind, this camp, they’re not so bad. My grandfather told me of the true gulag, Stalin’s gulag. One in twenty lived. My grandfather was the one.”

“Bah! Old men’s stories. Stalin’s gulag couldn’t be worse than here.”

“Peter, do we have soup?”

“The soup is snot.”

“But we have the snot.”

I did not reply.

“Do we have bread?”

“The bread crawls with weevils.”

“But we have the weevils. Munch them. Savor the snot. You live, man. You live! This Putin camp is paradise. We could be in America, in a ‘tender care center’!”

“Ha! Mar-a-Lago, maybe.”

A troop of guards carrying Kalashnikovs approached the gate. Two dragged a man between them. The camp commandant followed behind. Six guards peeled off, three to either side, and leveled their weapons. Two more slung their rifles and opened the gate. The prisoner’s feet made twin furrows in the mud as he was pulled into the compound and dropped on his belly.

Three hundred men in the compound stood motionless.

“Who is it?” I whispered.

“Yuri—our mate.”

“How can you tell? His face is gone.”

“It will heal. Believe me.”

The guards turned and paced back through the gate. Ivar stepped forward then. He went to Yuri, knelt, rolled him gently onto his back and cradled his head.

The camp commandant stared at Ivar. He was a short, slender man, like a banker or a pimp—a man whose work is to make others work.

“Drop him.”

Ivar didn’t move.

“Drop him.”

Ivar stroked Yuri’s blood-matted hair. “Outside the wire, we are yours. Inside the wire— we may care for each other as we can. It is the law of the camps. The unwritten law.”

“I am the law.”

Ivar didn’t reply, but continued to cradle Yuri’s head in his battered hands.

“You’re the one called Ivar?”

“I am.”

The commandant nodded to the guards. “Bring him.”

Two guards handed their weapons to men standing beside them. Four more aimed vaguely at the motionless prisoners. All six entered the compound. The two gripped Ivar.

Ivar glanced at me. “Peter?”

I nodded.

Then he carefully laid Yuri’s head on the mud and rose on his own. When the gate shut behind them, we were forgotten. A dozen others followed me to help Yuri.

They took Ivar, but they did not bring him back. Only his screams returned—until they ceased.

•

A line of thirty guards formed in front of the wire the next morning. The camp commandant—chin lifted, eyes bright— stepped in front of them and stared at us. It was a challenge.

Mamichu.

It may have drifted on a forest breeze from pine needles nearby, or sparked from sunlight glinting off barbs on the wire.

Perhaps I whispered, “Mamichu.”

“Mamichu, mamichu.” We prayed, “Mamichu.”

“Mamichu, mamichu.” We chanted, “Mamichu.”

Raw throats opened wide and we roared, “Mamichu. Mamichu!”

Mamichu.

Robert Walton is a retired teacher and a lifelong mountaineer and rock climber, with many ascents in the Sierras and Pinnacles National Monument, his home crags. His writing about climbing has appeared in the Sierra Club’s Ascent. His novel Dawn Drums won the 2014 New Mexico Book Awards Tony Hillerman Prize for best fiction, first place in the 2014 Arizona Authors competition, and first place in the historical fiction category of the 2017 Readers Choice Awards. Most recently, his short story “Uriah” was published in Assisi, a literary journal associated with St. Francis College in Brooklyn. Learn more about Robert at his website and follow him on Facebook.

“The New Order” painting is by Noel Counihan, 1942, National Gallery of Australia.

The Completely Imaginary Trump/Russia Theory that May or May Not Prove To Be True or False

By Amy Porterfield Levy

1987 – The Art of the Deal: Nukes Edition

Trump decides that Moscow needs a Trump hotel and, like every good realtor, he thinks about how good he would be at solving nuclear proliferation issues.

Trump: I have a great idea because real estate deals are just like nuclear arms treaties. The Soviet Union and I should work together and bomb France.

Soviet Union: We’ve never heard of you. Also, dial it down, freak.

1996 – Trump hearts Moscow

Trump: I heart Moscow so much that I want to put an exact copy of Trump Tower there. Also, I am broke.

Russians: *sigh* Fine. We heart you too, weirdo. Why don’t we buy a bunch of condos from you so you won’t be so broke?

2007 – Trump Vodka

Trump: I love Russia so much that I made gold Vodka.

Russia: You are gross. Here is some more money though.

2008 – Donald Trump, Jr. visits Moscow a bunch

Junior: Dad has piles of money pouring in from Russia so maybe he will finally remember which son I am.

Also in 2008 – Russia Rolls on into Georgia (the country)

Georgia: Maybe we should, like, join NATO or the EU?

Russia: Nope.

American People: *yawn*

Press: Something, something. … Here are pictures of tanks.

American People: Cool tanks, bro. Hey, wonder if taking out a home equity loan to buy a Mercedes was a bad move?

2013 – Trump’s Miss Universe Pageant Goes to Moscow

Trump: Oligarchs are everywhere! I love oligarchs! Hey, what does oligarch mean?

Prostitute: It’s where a guy is part of a little group that has all the money and all of the political power in a country

Trump: *jumps up and sings* I wanna be an oligarch!

Prostitute: *yawns* Smile for the camera, dipshit.

That’s an overview of Trump’s little case of Russophilia. It could be perfectly innocent; people do get crushes on countries. He could be like one of those women who drink tea instead of coffee because they’ve read too much Jane Austen.

As for Russia, we all know the Soviet Union collapsed and we sort of thought we were friends and everything was fine. Unfortunately, some things went down in Russia while we were busy worrying about sleeper cells and Adam Lambert. It got a little dictatorish and Putin didn’t appreciate having NATO nearby or that whole European Union thing. He was also afraid Hillary Clinton might push democracy down everyone’s throats, which would be super inconvenient.

2014 – Russia invades Ukraine

Russia: *whistles and looks around* Rolling on into Georgia was pretty cool so we’re just gonna go ahead and take Crimea, okay-thanks-bye!

American People: *yawn*

Press: Something, something. …Putin, natural gas, pipelines.

American Government and the EU: *handwringing* How about some sanctions?

Putin: Your dumb sanctions are fucking with my gazillion-dollar deal with Exxon. That is a problem.

Exxon: Yeah, sanctions are harshing our gazillion-dollar buzz about drilling the shit out of the Black Sea.

American People: Ice Bucket Challenge!

Putin’s New To-Do List

Break up NATO
Break up the EU
Fuck with the Americans
Make a gazillion dollars
Make the ol’ empire big again

July 2015 – Putin meets with top aides (the ones he hasn’t poisoned yet)

Putin: Where are we on breaking up NATO and the EU?

Aides: Just propping up the anti-globalization whiners. The usual.

Putin: Boring. How’s our ‘Fucking with the Americans’ thing going?

Aides: Terrific! Donald Trump just said he’s going to run for president.

Putin: Who?

Aides: That fat American we filmed doing gross stuff with hookers.

Putin: Yeah, that narrows it down. …

Aides: You know, the broke one with the weird hair. Says you’re buddies.

Putin: Oh, him. What a douchebag.

Aides: He’s the douchiest.

Putin: Welp. I’ve got a gazillion dollars on the line and an empire to build so go make life suck for Hillary.

This turned out to be a pretty easy project. Sean Hannity and the rest of White Power radio had become extra-deranged after years of Obama so they happily worked alongside the Macedonian trolls and Internet bots on Facebook and Twitter to amplify the irrational Hillary hate that they’d been fomenting for over two decades.

Pop Quiz: Why do you hate Hillary Clinton

Americans: We don’t. Most of us voted for her.

Trump Voters: Because … pant suits? Emails? WE DON’T KNOW WHY SHUT UP.

Stirring up animosity toward Hillary Clinton and taking advantage of Trump’s natural tendency to be an authoritarian asshole didn’t take much effort and it was also probably a breeze to gain access to the Trump inner circle in order to plant pro-Russian sentiments. After all, who doesn’t have associates who work for Russian mobsters and moonlight as FBI informants? Trump buildings are infested with that kind of sleaze. Just kidding. This is a parody.

July 2016 – Putin meets with top aides (the ones who are still alive)

Aides: Sir, Republicans actually nominated that idiot. Now what?

Putin: *mouth twitches*

Aides: *scared* Did your face muscles move?

Putin: That was me laughing. Go shoot yourself in the back of the head, but call Assange and Kislyak first.

The Russian ambassador, Sergey Kislyak, was evidently skulking around Trump world, probably working some silver-tongued magic on these guys. He’s probably one of those people who gets you to confide in him because he makes you feel like you’re his best friend and possibly the most interesting person he’s ever met. He’s like your sweet, drunk Grandpa except that sweet, drunk Grandpa is a badass motherfucking spy. Trump and his friends probably didn’t even notice they were getting involved in high crimes and whatnot. They’re like those pot smokers who don’t notice they’ve become drug dealers.

Pot Smoker: Hi dude. Just here to buy my weekly dime bag.

Dealer: Hey, man. Buy a little more and I’ll knock down the price.

Pot Smoker: I’ll sell the extra pot to my buddies and that will cover the cost of my weed habit!

Dealer: You are a genius.

Years later…

Pot Smoker: Man, I am very lucky to have lots of buddies and extra cash.

Cops: You are under arrest for possession with intent to sell.

Pot Smoker: *genuine shock* I am not a dealer! I just have hundreds of friends and nice electronics. *cries*

That is Trump’s little gang of genocidal knuckleheads. They probably didn’t mean to collude with a hostile foreign country—it was all so friendly and well-meaning and it made complete sense at the time. Plus, Drunk Grandpa is their bff and he would never dick them over.

Kislyak: You are an American hero. You are also quite handsome. I bet you will beat ISIS and be a world hero one day.

Mike Flynn: *teary eyed* Brown people scare me. Can I have a hug?

Kislyak: *snuggles* I love you. Will you do me a teensy favor as my best friend and suggest chilling out on the sanctions a bit? That would be amazeballs!

(By the way, Drunk Grandpa is darling but he snaps into badass spy mode when he’s dealing with clowns like Carter Page and Roger Stone.)

Kislyak: Hey, Ferret Faces. I will pull out your fingernails if these sanctions aren’t lifted.

Page and Stone: *whining* Why does everyone want to pull out our fingernails?

Kislyak: Shut up and deliver these messages, Ferrets.

While wiretaps, moles, and kompromat would make a great movie, it’s probably more boring than that. Trump may have genuinely thought he was practicing “The Art of the Deal: Sanctions Edition.” A guy with no moral compass, a huge ego, and a complete lack of intellectual curiosity can be easily manipulated by charming, Drunk Grandpas.

Kislyak: You are a tremendously great man who should rule the world. I’m going to stroke your ego like a high-budget porn fluffer.

Trump: I love you. We are best friends.

Kislyak: Totally. Lift those sanctions, you brilliant hunk of smoking hot man meat. I’m going to help you beat mean ol’ Hillary and rule the world.

Trump: I can’t wait to lift sanctions and rule the world. Will you curl up on the couch with me and watch cable news?

Things are unraveling now and these guys are getting stressed and acting stupid so we may see how this ends soon. Putin and Trump could be wallowing around in gold bars and billion dollar bills while Europe is screwed and the United States looks the same but stands for something our kids will be ashamed of one day. This could also end with us sitting on a pile of radioactive dust and eating our dogs, while Paul Ryan crawls through the ruins, bleating about tax cuts.

Or maybe most of us will get our happy ending and live long enough to see handsome FBI agents in windbreakers, gently guiding that fuzzy yellow head into the back of a black Crown Vic where he’ll be whisked out of our lives forever into that far-off place where convicted, humiliated ex-Presidents are stashed. The Ferrets will cut deals and live in constant fear of stairs and tea. As for the bloated, old racists who tried to destroy this country, that’s too fun to think about so we’ll save them for another completely imaginary theory that may or may not prove to be true or false.

Previously published on Huffington Post.

Amy Porterfield Levy is a Florida-based freelance writer and science advocate. She is a contributor to Huffington Post, The Science Post, American Council on Science and Health, and The Genetic Literacy Project.