All for Boris

By Richard Davidson

LONDON; Sept 5th, 1987:

Vladistovsky was a walrus of a man, whose great grandfather had been a Lebanese tea merchant, or so he’d been told. Vladistovsky didn’t like trouble, or those stupid “Ernest” movies, and he knew the difference between Oysters, and that gooey stuff.

He’d survived two world wars, several visits from the KGB, and Mrs. Kimalistoff’s biscuits, and now the strangest thing was happening.

He was getting younger.

He hadn’t noticed at first, contentedly gnawing on three day old oatmeal with what was left of his teeth, and sleeping in the bathtub for weeks at a time, but then, one day, he felt something.

He wasn’t tired. He wasn’t sore. He wasn’t even feeling particularly cranky, which was probably good news for Ian, who looked after him, and often wore two pairs of socks, at least in the wintertime.

Vladistovsky stared into the mirror for three hours, eleven seconds. He saw hair growing where there had only been liver spots, and noticed some plaster had fallen from the wall behind him, leaving the shape of a chicken.

He’d had it with England. It was fine for Tree Surgeons and Piano Teachers, but an old Butcher like Vladistovsky needed better food, and radio stations.

Vladistovsky had grown up in the beautiful forests of the Ukraine, back when it was called Bolivia. His hometown of Uuurl had once been little more than a backwards harmonica factory, and seven bars, but around the time of his ninth birthday, everything changed.

A local tribe of Nazi Indians had sold a portion of their holdings in the Kajminiskov Mountains to a mysterious man who didn’t like pears. Somehow, as the story goes, this mystery man had been killed in France, or possibly Antarctica, which is a common mistake, and in his last will and testament, it stated the following:

“I, (name incomprehensible,) being of sound mind and soured body do bequeath to the people of Uuurl, being a vapid constituency with severed holdings, as a group whose division will be forthrightly indentured with biased servitude, a certain parcel of land containing but not excluding or identifying those portions or portions as bequeathed herein.”

This, of course was perfectly clear to everybody, except for those whose job it was to figure out what the hell it meant. So a committee was formed to study the document, and their findings were published in a book entitled, “Findings of the Committee to Disparage Unentitled Bequeathment in Uuurl,” which, as you may have guessed, never did make the best seller’s list.

Being good Communists, the people of Uuurl divided the land up evenly, giving two thirds to the town’s powerful Mayor, and built small homes out of sticks, and dirt. They grew within only a few years, some getting as tall as six foot seven, and by the time Vladistovsky was thirteen years old, there was a new harmonica factory, and eight bars.

For his fourteenth birthday, he had gotten a clock. He wound it, and put it on his wall, and no sooner had it struck Nine, but there at his door was Igor Slavidivik with a moustache, and a job offer. Vladistovsky had accepted the moustache with great eagerness, and the job with controlled panic. Slavidivik was opening a hog processing plant, and he needed boys to slaughter the frightened animals.

Vladistovsky went outside, his heart racing as he walked down the path to where his beloved Comrade Boris was penned. How he loved that pig, and today he was bringing moldy potato peels in old bathwater, which was Comrade Boris’s favorite.

Comrade Boris squealed his delight at seeing Vladistovsky, and he leapt into his arms, testing the boy’s strength and dexterity, which was still just fine, thank you very much. They reveled and played together in the straw, as the last of the twilight waned.

As Vladistovsky watched Comrade Boris slurp his supper, he wondered how anyone could ever kill another creature, a beautiful animal like Comrade Boris. He was heartsick, and a little bit smelly, but he was hungry, and his family was hungry too.

His father had worked in the coal mines, being lowered into the shaft to check for gas. One time, there was gas.

His mother had worked for a local carpenter, and she had to hammer in nails with her bare hands, while holding up slate panels with her head. She was getting shorter every day, and harder to look at.

Vladistovsky’s thirteen brothers, and twenty seven sisters had gone off to fight in the Great War, and he knew he had no choice but to murder hogs, or they would return to find he and his mother dead, or worse.

The first day was the hardest. In the eyes of every pig he saw Comrade Boris, and he almost got fired for being too slow, but he begged Slavidivik for another chance, and on the second day, he was killing twenty three pigs per hour, which was a new record, or something.

After the war, one of his brothers, and eight of his sisters returned home, and they had at least twelve legs between them, and almost as many eyes. Luckily for them, by this time Vladistovsky was the head foreman at the plant, and since Slavidivik was in good with the Mayor, they had enough wood to burn a fire three nights a week, and enough potatoes to feed a family of four.

Every night he would throw his apron in a pot of boiling water, making a broth from all the hog that had splattered on it throughout the day. The family was doing well, by Uuurl standards. By the time Vladistovsky was nineteen, he was known as the premier hog slaughterer in the Gromsky Valley.

All these memories came back to Vladistovsky as he stared into the mirror, and he could almost feel Comrade Boris in his arms, and he cried. He had forgotten so much, but now parts of his brain were springing back to life.

He was hungry for steak, and he put on his galoshes, got his hat and coat, and headed out the door. He found his way to Sir Nigel’s Steakhouse, wondering how he would chew the grainy British beef, and to his surprise he discovered a couple of teeth had grown back.

“Comrade Vladistovsky?” a craggy, familiar voice came from behind a cloud of thick cigar smoke. It was Guntar Slovodovian, who had once been a government agent, but not the KGB, or so he claimed.

“Guntar,” came Vladistovsky’s reply, “it is good to see you.”

He was lying, of course, but when Slovodovian asked Vladistovsky to join him, he knew he had no choice.

“My God, Comrade, you look wonderful,” Slovodovian remarked, the usual suspicion in his voice filling the air with the smell of doom, and day-old lunchmeat.

“I had heard you were just barely hanging on, you know.”

Vladistovsky smiled, and ordered the T-Bone, Medium, with Skin-On Potatoes in Butter, Carrots with Basil, and a Caesar Salad.

“And what will sir be drinking tonight,” the waiter asked pretentiously.

Vladistovsky was going to order prune juice, but Slovodovian spoke up.

“My friend will start with a Vodka, and with his meal, bring him the finest Burgundy.”

“The Pouchare?” the waiter asked.

“No, you idiot,” Slovodovian sputtered, “The Horschnikoff!”

“Sorry, sir,” the waiter’s eyes flashed murderously. If this crusty old fool wanted to drink that swill, that was his business. He was just that much more convinced that nobody with class comes here any more.

The bartender poured the vodka, and the waiter laughed as the wine steward blew the dust off a bottle of Horschnikoff with a battered label. 1943! It was probably vinegar by now, he laughed, checking to see what else he had.

Of course, Horschnikoff is preserved with the Govanne root, and can survive for several ice ages, but being an immigrant, he had no way of knowing that. In his country, they just drank the Blood of a Yak, and went to bed feeling sick, and often mean-spirited.

1943 hadn’t been a good year for Vladistovsky. His remaining family members were killed by the German soldiers that had wandered into Uuurl by mistake, and holed up at the Vladistovsky residence. He himself was at Stalingrad, flying an ancient biplane against the Luftwaffe. He was shot down 45 times in a row, and had once come close to putting a small hole in a Stukka.

Early in the war, he had been with the Germans, in a special commando squad whose mission was to storm the Rhineland. He soon found the Master Race just a bit imposing, and had returned to the Motherland just in time for Stalin’s battle strategy of “go ahead, kill as many of my men as you want-I’ve got more” came into play, turning the war in the Soviet Union’s favor, and filling entire towns with corpses.

Stanislovsky was one of the soldiers who had died in battle many times, only to be sent right back out to fight by his overzealous commander. It was hard, he imagined, for any non-Soviets to understand the strange alchemies in effect during that unimaginable time, but no one who lived through it ever completely withdrew from the dark, ancient forces that had been unleashed by such cruel barbary.

Men would be dead, and then, you’d see them fighting right next to you again, as if they’d never died at all. One minute, your best friend’s head would explode, and you’d leave him behind, choking with the fear of a similar fate befalling your own, and the next, he was charging the line like a jazz saxophonist on a coffee break.

“Young man,” rasped Slovodovian’s unhealthy voice, “I wish very much to taste one of those.” He indicated some escargot at the next table.

“One, sir?” the waiter asked, a small wave of pimpled adolescence arriving moments later in his impatient pestilence.

“Come here,” Slovodovian beckoned.

As the waiter leaned in, Slovodovian wrapped his meaty hand around the back of the waiter’s neck, and held his gnarled finger against a key spot on the young man’s throat.

“I could kill you with only the slightest effort,” Slovodovian said quietly, and Vladistovsky didn’t doubt it for a second.

“When a gentleman is entertaining another gentleman, it is understood that whatever the host wishes to taste, he wishes for his guest to taste.”

He paused, for dramatic effect, as if he needed it at this point, judging from the look of extreme panic on the boy’s face.

“There was a time when the art of serving was an ART!” he raised his voice a little.

“A man could work as a laborer, from sunrise to sundown working like a dog, covered in vile filth for only scraps of spoilt food, and some fat.”

The waiter was transfixed by Slovodovian’s every word..

“But to serve, ah, that my good man was to rise from the filth. One wore the finest cloth, polished all the silver by hand, and served delicacies created by the minds of geniuses to those who were privileged enough to even smell such a thing.”

Vladistovsky was sure the next thing that would happen would be Slovodovian screaming, “and you make a mockery of an ancient tradition” at the top of his lungs and then shooting the boy, but there was always a chance Slovodovian had mellowed a bit with age, and sure enough, he let go of the young fool, who was trembling like a chocolate torte.

“I humbly beg your forgiveness, sir,” the boy mumbled. “I was being arrogant, and foolish. I will bring you the finest escargot Chef McTavish has ever created.” And from that point on, he became the greatest waiter the world would ever know, with a knowledge of food that ran deep beneath the collective psyche of mankind, and bordered on competence.

“McTavish?” Slovodovian turned to Vladistovsky in disgust, as the waiter returned to the kitchen. “Who ever heard of a Scotsman preparing escargot? The very idea sickens me.”

Vladistovsky found Slovodovian equally disgusting. The very essence of Slovodovian was found in the first principle of aristocracy. Refined by the smooth undulations of the totalitarian system Slovodovian had become part of, it had festered into the type of nastiness one rarely dares even dream about.

Vladistovsky had been a soldier, and a hog slaughterer, and yet he would never have as much blood on his hands as Slovodovian.

“So, my friend,” Slovodovian smiled broadly, “do you still have that butcher shop?”

“Yes,” was Vladistovsky’s detached reply.

“I’ve never seen you as the type to stay in England. I assumed you would one day return to your homeland.”

His smile was forced, like grapes through a straw, and Vladistovsky didn’t like how he was staring.

“This is my home now,” Vladistovsky lied. “I’m sure I’ll die here, without shedding a tear.”

Vladistovsky was ready for the main course. Two more teeth had grown back, and an old man’s face filling out was not the sort of thing the eye of Slovodovian could possibly miss.

At first Vladistovsky considered ordering lots of drinks, but then he realized what a thoroughly seasoned alcoholic Slovodovian was, and the idea began to lose it’s legitimacy. He decided to do it anyway, however, because he was so tense he had tied one of his socks into knots with his toes.

The two men laughed into the night, recounting adventures that would make any sane person tremble in fear, and Vladistovsky decided Slovodovian must be drunk, as he had become very blurry...

Vladistovsky was unconscious before his head even hit the table.

“Sleep my young friend, sleep...” Slovodovian’s words swirled in the smoky air. Behind him, the wine steward was dragging the dead bodies of the waiter and the bartender towards the freezer.

Tomorrow’s Executive Luncheon was not to be pretty.

*******************************************************

Slovodovian was very pleased with himself. He leaned against the big Walnut desk in the small cottage, his chair tilted as far as he dared, and lit a cigar, drinking in the smoke, and the fine view he had of the nearby mountain peaks.

Vladistovsky was his once more. He’d always enjoyed kidnapping the old hog slaughterer, but this time was especially sweet. Slovodovian had been retired for several years, and in the Kremlin, those few who remembered him thought of him as useless; a relic from the past.

He had something this time. Something he couldn’t quite put his chubby finger on, but there was something very strange about Vladistovsky’s sudden robust health. Something, thought Slovodovian, as he retired another fifth of fine imported Scotch. He could drink it like water, so he did, of course, as his psyche bounced restlessly around the room, knocking over a small vase. It would have nauseated passers by, had there been any, but there weren’t, and Slovodovian was nervously recounting the limited scientific and medical knowledge he had available to him. One of the windows was open just a bit, and a feather blew in on the late autumn breeze, and floated carefully past Slovodovian, down the narrow hallway, and under the door of a darkened room.

Vladistovsky was running through a beautiful sunlit field. There, beckoning him, was Captain Skidowdofwicz, who was a commander in the Polish Army. Skidowdofwicz was obviously dead, with grey, pitted skin, and blood all over his uniform, and Vladistovsky tried running the other way, but for some reason that wasn’t working.

Skidowdofwicz began to float away, which was just fine with Vladistovsky, until he too began to float.

“You are wishing to show me something...” Vladistovsky thought, or said, or whatever.

Skidowdofwicz slapped himself stupidly in the forehead, and rolled his eyes right back to the whites. The two floated out over the Kajminiskov mountains for what seemed like days, until Vladistovsky recognized the Umberlemde range, a sight he hadn’t seen in many years. Then, floating over the ridge, a small farm valley.

It was Uuurl! The sainted bequeathment of his squalid youth. He could see the twin spires of the communal outhouses silhouetted against the dingy twilight. Boglofkovich, a local farmer, was on the back porch of his horrible shack, picking crow out of his teeth with a rusty nail he had inherited from his grandmother, several times removed.

Skidowdofwicz was pointing to something in the shadows, but Vladistovsky couldn’t tell what he was looking at. He was swimming towards consciousness, aware of a frightening pain in his mouth, and hearing the squeals of thousands of dying pigs. And one pig in particular sounded dreadfully familiar.

Vladistovsky had no idea how much time had passed. He was locked in a small room constructed in the familiar old world style of pine and cedar mixed with the blood of the innocent and guilty alike. Vladistovsky could scarcely believe it, but all his teeth had grown back, and his hair as well.

He heard footsteps approaching the door. As a key turned in the lock, Vladistovsky stood pressed against the wall next to the heavy iron door. As it swung open, he leapt on the man who was coming in, grabbing his head and forcefully breaking his neck.

To his surprise, he saw the dead eyes of Alvin Richtenschtein, who had defected from the Nazis all those years ago, and had died Slovodovian’s faithful servant. Vladistovsky was almost sad, as he spit on Richtenschein’s corpse, and checked him for weapons.

He found, of course, a small WWII issue German pistol, which was no surprise to Vladistovsky, and he quickly slipped it into his coat, along with Richtenschtein’s keys, a knife with a silver and bone handle, a pair of dice, and a Hershey bar. He stalked slowly down the corridor, his shoes in his hands.

He padded his way to a huge wooden door with a bronze boar’s head mounted on it, and looked silently through the keyhole. There, sitting in front of the fire, reading a pornographic magazine, sat Slovodovian.

In his mind, Vladistovsky had already ran into the room, shooting every single bullet from Richtenschtein’s cute little gun into the mountain of rotting flesh that is Slovodovian, and then stuffed him into the fire as he searched the room for marshmallows, but he knew he should be very careful.

Slovodovian didn’t live to be so old and disgusting without being cagey, and staying one step ahead of the enemy. People said his mother had blood from the line of the first Czar, and his father was a Rottweiler. Few actually believed this, but it was a popular story at prison camp get togethers and social functions.

Vladistovsky now had the mind and body of a twenty five year old, and yet he retained the experience of a man in his late seventies. He knew Slovodovian must die. And he knew it was up to him. He felt a gun in his back.

“Don’t move,” came a familiar voice.

“My God,” thought Vladistovsky, “is that Dr. Von Huum?”

Von Huum marched Vladistovsky into the room. Slovodovian had a look of amazement on his face.

“He has killed Richtenschtein, and taken his gun, keys, a pair of dice, and a Hershey bar.”

Slovodovian set his magazine on the table.

“Do you know who this is, Von Huum?”

“No. Should I?”

“It is Comrade Vladistovsky!”

Von Huum was beside himself, and for a moment, was going to cry.

“Give me the gun,” instructed Slovodovian.

Vladistovsky handed over the pistol, knowing full well if he tried anything funny, or began singing Gilbert and Sullivan, that Von Huum would shoot him dead. And he was now far too young to die.

“Now the keys.”

Vladistovsky complied.

“The dice...”

Vladistovsky rolled a snake eyes.

“The Hershey bar of my dead comrade, please.”

Vladistovsky pulled out the candy bar, unwrapped it, and began to eat. Slovodovian was enraged.

“Dr. Von Huum, we will find the secret of our friend’s unique physical condition.”

The Doctor laughed, “even if we have to dissect his brain like we did his pig.”

Slovodovian went white.

“It was YOU!” Vladistovsky screamed, pulling the knife with the pearl and bone handle from his pocket, and stabbing Dr. Von Huum in the back of the neck, and holding his body in front of him as a shield.

Slovodovian had already started shooting, and within seconds, little pieces of Von Huum were getting all over the place. Vladistovsky hurled Von Huum’s corpse at Slovodovian, knocking him backwards, and leapt on top of the filthy old communist, breaking two of his brittle ribs in the process.

He had ahold of Slovodovian’s gun hand, by the wrist, and was banging it against the marble floor. With the other hand, he was punching Slovodovian in the face, turning a thing of horror into a work of art.

“You killed my pig, you son of a bitch,” he shouted into Slovodovian’s face with each blow, and when Slovodovian released his grip on the gun, Vladistovsky scooped it up, and got off the almost dead cold warrior.

“What are you going to do with me?” Slovodovian rasped desperately.

“Dear comrade, it is not a question of what I am going to do with you,” Vladistovsky answered resolutely.

It’s a question of what you are going to do for Boris.”

********************************************

Uuurl Township, two years later:

“What do you suppose made the old man have such a change of heart?” asked the young priest.

“I do not know, my son,” answered Father Bainbridge, “but perhaps God helped him see through his evil ways, and inspired him to turn over all his war loot and investments to start this noble hospital. We may never know for sure.”

Slovodovian, as it turns out, was worth billions, and for some reason had used every last penny to establish the Boris Vladistovsky Pig Hospital, shot himself in the head seven times, and left his 12 year old son in charge of the operation.

Vladistovsky had stopped getting younger. The effects of puberty were beginning to take hold, and he had his eye on a 17 year old candy striper. He had asked her to dinner, and she had accepted.

“Thank you for inviting me out, Mr. Slovodovian,” she intoned pleasantly over drinks. She had never known such a suave, mature 12 year old.

The waiter approached the table. “Tonight the Chef has prepared a wonderful appetizer of Tushonka...”

“Stop right there,” Vladistovsky held up his hand.

“No Pork.”

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