I trust no one, not even myself.
–Joseph Stalin
He wears a bespoke silver suit with a zinc-gray tie to make you forget you once saw him washing his hands with a small bottle of vodka in the baggage area at the airport. Last week, a reporter claimed she saw him at an oxygen bar in Moscow—shoelaces loosened, head back, eyes glazed. It’s said he doesn’t like narrow hallways, the smell of rotting apricots, vowels that elongate the mouth. It’s said he’s always followed by three aluminum hummingbirds. Before he sits down, he scrubs the seat with an antiseptic wipe, looks to see who’s watching, then scrubs the seat again. It’s said his wife wears a diamond made from the thigh bone of a bioengineer who tried to emigrate to Germany. It’s said his teenage daughter has cotton-candy-pink hair and has had all her teeth replaced. If you happen to see him stroll by, a black briefcase attached to the chain around his waist, three aluminum hummingbirds trailing him, best not to smile or nod. Best not to even think, What does the great leader do with all those packages of his waste? Does he have them incinerated? Shipped off to Siberia to be stored in a mine? Or does he stroll each night, barefoot, in his pajamas, to feed his desiccated feces to the blushing roses.
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John Bradley
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Yikes! Gulp! Pow! Chilling.
Comment by John Levy on 29 August, 2022 at 11:31 pm