In a dimly lit back alley somewhere in a major metropolitan centre in Russia (it could be M*sc*w, but we would be liable for punishment under the Official Secrets Act if we were to say any more), a secret meeting is taking place between a bourgeois capitalist exploiter of the working class and a traitor to the Glorious May Revolution. If they appear nervous, looking over their shoulders and speaking in whispers, it is only to be expected; some day, the eyes of the Secret Police will extend everywhere such perfidy – ptui ptui – is found.
“How about a case of beer?” the evil Am – foreigner asks.
“Canadian or American?” the traitor, shifty-eyed, replies.
“Which would you prefer?”
“Canadian beer is stronger. Sorry, Comrade, but is true fact.”
“Hey, no sweat. You want Canadian beer, I can arrange it. Just, don’t call me Comrade.”
“Sorry. But, beer is sissy drink. What I really want is vodka…good Russian vodka. Can you get me a case?”
“Well, yeah. Sure.”
“Good. Can you get me eight cases?”
“If that’s what you want. But, can’t you get it here yourself?”
“You are kidding, yes? Ever since Comrade Premier Mikhail Gorbachev, hallowed be his name, cut back on vodka production and distribution to decrease evils of alcohol, the drink has been hard to get. Sometimes, I am forced to go two…maybe three hours without!”
“That sounds tough. Are you sure eight cases will be enough?”
“I think so. Eight cases will last a week, maybe 10 days.”
“Oh.”
“Please, do not smirk, Com – foreigner. I have large family.”
“I see. So, you need eight cases of vodka for all your relatives?”
“No, I need them all for myself. You do not have family troubles where you come from?”
“Sure do. Now, last time we spoke, you mentioned something about a ghettoblaster…possibly two…”
“Yes. I want two of the best ghettoblasters money can buy.”
“Fair enough. Will Sonys be okay?”
“Sony? Sony…Sony isn’t an American name, is it?”
“Well, no. But, they make very good stereos.”
The rat sighs. “I was hoping for something with an American name. Is big status symbol in wheat fields. But…Sony is good. And, can I have copy of Flashdance cassette, please?”
The vicious bloodsucker of the proletariat barely has time to say yes when a mob of two or three youthniks enters the alley. They are dressed in the decadent style of the west: blue jeans, ripped and dirty t-shirts, safety pins in their ears, streaks of colour in their hair. The two conspirators are silent as the youths pass. The traitorous scum snarls at the youth; the youth snarl at the world. Soon, the misguided youngsters are gone and the conspiracy continues.
“Stupid children!” the pox on the memory of Lenin hisses. “Don’t they realize that western culture is bankrupt, glorifying bosses at expense of working classes?”
The foreigner looks confused. “Considering what we’re doing, how can you criticize them?”
“Punkees are sign of decaying western civilization,” the pox insists. “Corruption is time-honoured Soviet tradition. Can I get a tape by…Bruce Springstein?”
“Springsteen.”
“Even better.”
“Sure. I’ll get you as many cassettes as you want.”
“Oh, and my wife would like toilet paper. Two ply – none of this American single ply crap. Would it be possible to get 20,000 rolls?”
“Twenty thousand rolls of toilet paper? Two ply? I don’t know if my supplier can handle that kind of volume. Ten thousand.”
“Please. The lineups are long, and Mother Russia gets very cold in the winter. Eighteen thousand.”
“How do I know the toilet paper won’t find its way onto the black market? I can give you 14,000 rolls, but I’ll probably take heat from my superiors.”
“I have honest face, no? Let’s say 15,000, okay?”
“Well…I must be crazy, but – what the heck? Fifteen thousand it is. Did you want something else?”
“No. That will be all for time being.”
“Okay. So, let’s get this straight: we’re going to give you eight cases of vodka, two Sony ghettoblasters, a large selection of pre-recorded tapes and 15,000 rolls of two ply toilet paper. In return, you’re going to see to it that the first video arcade games the Kremlin allows in Russia are Star Blap and Super Star Blap, and that my company has exclusive rights to the entire country. Is that basically correct?”
“You got it, Ace!”
“Not yet, but maybe soon. We’ll expect your first progress report in one month’s time. Meanwhile, don’t spend the toilet paper in one place, okay?”
“Don’t…what? Oh…is joke! Ha!”
As the ignoble seller-outer of state ownership walks back to his small apartment, he chuckles. “If only he had held out a little bit longer,” the worm says to himself, “I would have offered him the rights to Poland and Afghanistan, too!”