Chapter Text
Editor’s note: due to the unprecedented level of horrifying events described in this journal and over 9000 threats our publisher has received from every single secret service in the world, some elements from these entries were falsified.
“New year, new me”, ha, fuck that. As I lean into my armchair, I write these squiggly lines while sipping on my 5th bottle of vodka… Or at least I would be, IF FUCKING GORBACHEV WASN’T IMPLEMENTING THIS STUPID PROHIBITION LAW!!!! Seriously, with USSR going down the drain, I should consider moving somewhere else. Maybe France… yeah, France… wine… cheese…more wine… other cheese… now that I think about it, I don’t know anything about France… oh, well. My therapist (haha therapist, the-rapist, the rapist) told me to start doing this journal thing. Not because I’m a depressed wreck or anything (at least not yet), but because I have a tendency to speak my thoughts out loud and people tend to dislike that. It’s bullshit, I’m sure no one in the Pizza Hut heard me thinking out loud that Gorbachev’s stain on his head was a result of Reagan, Thatcher and Deng Xiaoping forming a human centipede, eating pizza, shitting it out, eating it again and vomiting it on his head.…
Okay, turns out I did say that out loud (what are the odds, huh..) because KGB just came knocking on my door. They initially wanted to do the centipede thing with me after shooting me and sending me to the gulag for eternity (in that order, yes), but said that they’re ready to forgive me if I could do a little service for them. When I asked if that’s going to involve sex, they answered that they have Japanese octopuses to do that for them, so no, all I have to do is spy on a controversial archaeological mission that’s taking place on St. Lawrence Island. As I’m writing this, they’re waiting for my answer, but I think I’m going to say no, just because it’s gonna be funny. Okay, I said no, waiting for their reaction.
…
I awoke several hours later in a daze. My nose was broken when I woke up, I think they knocked me out with my frying pan. I’m in a bus, in the middle of an airfield. I think I might be going to St. Lawrence Island after all.
Fuck.