pookapine

[pookapine]

I Was The First

Yuri Gagarin was the first man to enter space. You’d be hard-pressed to find someone ignorant of this fact. The knowledge of his feat seems almost universal, the Soviet cosmonaut’s name inseparable from history.

Neil Armstrong was the first man to set foot on the Moon. Perhaps an even greater feat, this milestone is probably what cemented the USA as the winner of the Space Race. Like Gagarin, the Statesian astronaut is destined to be remembered forever in the collective human consciousness.

And though he raced to the patent office on the exact same day, it is not Elisha Gray who is credited with inventing the telephone. That would be Alexander Graham Bell, whose patent was approved first.

People always remember the first of everything. The first man in space, the first man on the Moon, the first who invented the telephone, such and such. All firsts cease to be men the day they fulfill their legend. They become myth. No matter what, their status can never be taken away. Never repeated. Nobody cares about the second guy who achieved something. Nobody cares about the second inventor of the telephone.

I begin putting on my undergarments. First the sweatpants and sweatshirt, then a specially made bodysuit with built-in ventilation and cooling. Already got my diaper on, though I don’t have bowel problems. Always better to have one than not. Just in case.

The suit I slip into is specifically made for environments that don’t allow traditional cooling, like space. To minimize sweat, water-filled tubes line the inside of the costume to cool the wearer’s body. Additionally, little vents are built in to exhaust moisture that may appear as a result of exhalation.

I wonder how much harder this might have been all those years ago. What were those men feeling when they put these on for the first time? How about when they put them on before their fateful accomplishments?

Was there anxiety? Excitement? Fear? Wonder? There must have been all that and more, but tied to something never before experienced by anyone. Something that can never be accurately imagined, only really felt. Something that happens for the first time ever. No person prior found themselves in the same position as you: the first. No person after will ever be able to say they were the first. It’s all you and that very moment.

Do you know who the second man that went to space was? Alan Shepard. Okay, maybe you did know that one. But what of the third? The fourth? The fifth? At some point a thing ceases to be so amazing and becomes another occurrence. At some point, you stop keeping track of the numbers. But you still remember the first. Who remembers the 825th?

What about the second man who stepped on the Moon? Buzz Aldrin, right. Back when I was a kid, I was a total geek about space. Whenever the Moon landing came up, I’d always give Aldrin his due credit. Instead of “Neil Armstrong was the first man to step on the Moon”, I’d make sure to say “Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin were the first to land on the Moon”. That way, both men would get recognition. 

I don’t say that anymore. Life is not a participation trophy. They may have indeed landed at the same time, but there is only one who was the first to step out. That man’s name is more than immortal. It is etched into the very fabric of human achievement. The second guy to step on the Moon’s surface is just about as important as the 825th guy to go to space.

After putting a cap around my head, I slide on the bottom half of the bulky white spacesuit. I then float through the air effortlessly, slipping into the top of the gear. I attach everything together, gloves too. The huge suit isn’t as heavy as you might imagine. There is no gravity, after all. The helmet is the final component. I slot the piece over my head, the barrier between me and my surroundings becoming palpable. I find myself contained in what is essentially a glove for the whole body. 

It’s nothing I haven’t done before.

I’ve achieved more than the average man can ever dream of. Something that was inconceivable for the majority of history. Not just human history. All of history. Only a century ago this would all have been beyond the realm of imagination. You already had people theorizing what was out there, but there’s a big difference between the real deal and what people conjure up.

Even this great triumph is now a commodity. 825. What a fucking joke.

As I grew up, I figured I’d just kick the can down the road until I got to my own first. Like the pieces would fall into place on their own. I breezed through university. Hardened myself through the rigorous training. Now I’m here, and I’ve never felt emptier. 

I’ve never wanted to live. That doesn’t mean I wanna die. I don’t want either. I don’t really care to be honest. Don’t wanna live, don’t wanna die. I have nothing to live for and no reason to die. It’s quite odd, and I never realized that until I went up here for the fifth time. I just don’t want it all to have been for nothing. To have done all this just to be a footnote in a history book. Just to have a Wikipedia page with a hundred or so paragraphs (I’ve counted but it tends to shift). I’m not some ant to be rolled over by the march of history. Once humanity becomes fully spacefaring, what difference will there be between the 825th and the one billionth?

The airlock closes behind me and the air flushes out. The doors open into deep outer space. Endless black void for eternity, an incomprehensible space filled with an incomprehensible amount of celestial bodies scattered around. Not my first spacewalk.

The first men to die in space were the three Soviet cosmonauts of Soyuz 11. Georgy Dobrovolsky. Viktor Patsayev. Vladislav Volkov. They fully boarded the first ever space station, Salyut 1, and spent a total of twenty two days in the craft. When they were making their journey back to Earth, a valve ended up damaged due to no fault of their own. The men died of asphyxiation in less than one minute. Their bodies were recovered upon landing.

The crew perished 68 kilometers above the Kármán line, the boundary between space and Earth. Thus, they were the first to die in space. If only the valve had failed 68 kilometers lower than it did. If only it had failed below the Kármán line. If that had been the case, the first death in space might still have been up for grabs.

It’s not the end of the world. I’m nothing if not adaptable. I crawl my way over to the panel we’ve been instructed to repair. The tether hangs onto me despite me cutting it earlier. If I really floated away, I assume it would just gently slip away with me. Right now it just hasn’t experienced enough movement.

Don’t worry, they’ll remember. Everyone who ever set foot in space thought of Gagarin. Everyone who ever set foot on the Moon thought of Armstrong. That’s the way it’ll be for all of eternity. Men larger than life. Synonymous with the future of our species. Men who it will be impossible to forget.

Using controlled bursts of nitrogen I launch myself away from the panel I pretended to fix. Launch myself at the other astronaut whose tether I also sabotaged. Whose thrusters I damaged before we went outside. Rookie mistake for him not to check his equipment more thoroughly.

For centuries to come they will talk of me. For millennia. I will be in the back of every astronaut’s mind. During every spacewalk and every psychological evaluation. My name forever known. My achievement mine and only mine. I will be here. Inseparable from humanity. No matter how far they go, they will all be aware. 

There won’t be a soul who won’t remember the first murder-suicide in space.

[pookapine]

PRAVÝ SLOVÁK BRATA ŠTÍTI

In case you are curious about my other work concerning this violation of basic human rights, I recommend reading the section about the Beneš Decrees in ‘A Collection of Miscellaneous Polpookaposts’ and the separate posts ‘Beneš Decrees’, ‘Nespochybňuj to!’ and ‘Súvislosti’ prior to this.

The EU Parliament has voted on the matter of the Slovak Republic. They are very well aware of the confiscations taking place (among other issues plaguing the state), and a freezing of funds for the country is now in the offing as a result. Along with the Constitutional Court having the anti-free speech law under review and a very strong possibility that it will be struck down, it almost seems like the whole crisis might soon be over.

With discriminatory landgrabs at an end and public discourse fully restored without the shadow of the law cracking down on the common man, there is much to celebrate here. But remember that we are not over the finish line yet. The six month jail sentence for speaking out against the Decrees is still legally in effect and theoretically enforceable. Plus, who really knows whether the state will truly end their campaign of stealing minority land.

For the liberal institutionalist it very well looks like we have a victory for equal rights and the freedom of expression nearly in our grasp, surely inevitably. I would agree that the course of events from now on will be so, unless the coalition acts a rabid dog and decides to fight some losing battle. If there’s one thing Fico’s always been good at, it’s sucking off both sides. For all his macho talk, I doubt he’ll spar with the EU on this.

While a major relief, there are still many lessons and questions this not-yet-closed chapter leaves us with. It has been an interesting six months to say the least. I’d first found out about the ongoing confiscations on the 11th of November, and PS raised the issue up themselves only a few days later (if someone from that party is secretly reading what I post on my profiles, the least you could do is drop a follow ;) plus, maybe take more than just the Beneš Decrees to heart, I post about other things, too), the response of the ruling government ended up being what it is. Rather than stop the xenophobic practice of confiscating land, the response was to silence political detractors and the regular citizen, with the president uncritically supporting this. We must remember what they tried to get away with when push came to shove.

What is also of equal interest is what the response was from the common Slovak populace once the censorship law came into effect: by and large, little more than silence. The people I’ve spoken with over the last half a year covered a spectrum of not knowing and being outraged once finding out, to knowing and criticizing it, to not knowing and being skeptical of such a thing possibly happening under our noses, to knowing and being supportive of the Decrees.

One thing was uniform across most: public silence. Despite the condemnations in private, few were willing to stick their necks out for the Hungarians. Few still are (it’s ongoing, remember?). A society that emphasizes hyper-individualism and self-interest and shrugs at selfishness as “human nature” becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. We are taught to look out for ourselves above all and to hesitate when somebody else is on the chopping block.

I am proud that the first thing I did once the law passed was speak out (I’m speaking out even now), but I question whether doing this on obscure social media profiles with no readership is truly so brave. Maybe I am not so different from those not speaking out at all. I’m hoping that the Constitutional Court and the EU can leash these land thefts, because if not, things will have gotten much worse, and hiding in obscurity (even if not by design) will have become the shield of a coward with no good justification. I hope that if this happens, I will burn the armchair and disrupt out in the streets. Because so far, lots of bark but little bite.

Compare this to the Hungarian activists who have been getting detained for their direct resistance and protests. If the situation fails to get any better, do not let the history books say that it was just Hungarians who had to fight for their own rights. Do not let them dictate that they stood alone.

I understand that there is not a lot to gain directly. Everybody has responsibilities to get to and few want to lose six months of their life in the slammer for someone else. However, I want you to seriously consider how much worse the effects of ignoring this are. Authoritarian backslides aren’t famous for stopping after five or ten corrupt laws. It never stops. And the sooner the public mobilizes, the better. I’ve already said the same thing many times prior, but imagine what we will have avoided if we stop the dominoes before they complete the whole reaction (best metaphor I was able to come up with). Even if you don’t much care for Germans and Hungarians yourself, this is about a lot more than just them. Once you can’t speak of one thing, think of what they’ll forbid next. You care about corruption? LGBT rights? Whistleblower protections? What happens when the government realizes it is really so easy to just forbid saying something. Do you believe this is where they will so graciously draw a line? “First they came for the yadda yadda…”, you know how it goes.

I’m not asking you to stand up for what’s right only because it is right and you are no amoral monster. I am asking you because it is in your own strategic self-interest to fight for the rights of everybody.

I will reiterate something I’ve already posted before and plan to include in a new collection of Miscellaneous Polpookaposts: full, true and proper reconciliation between Slovaks and Hungarians is completely impossible as long as:

The voices of nationalists get amplified by the sensationalist and profit-driven media.

Politicians need to run electoral campaigns where they can conjure up a grievance or enemy.

Systemic injustices continue discriminating against minority populations and neoliberal economic centralization homogenizes countries.

The systemic injustices might be done away with soon, but the others remain standing. There is much to still write about, much to still do. All common people of the world have a responsibility to each other and to themselves to stand up for their rights. Show the state that neither the Germans nor the Hungarians will be alone in this fight.

[pookapine]

To, čo jem, si ty - Slovak translation of You Are What I Eat by Loungemeat

Čerstvého ťa cítim za rohom Vôbec nie si môj prvý Drvím ťa kým sa topíš v krvi A nikto ti nepovie: zbohom

To, čo jem, si ty Masa mäsa, kým som sýty Napádam lebky a úkryty V ulici ležíš, rozbitý

Trhajú do teba ostré pazúre Amputujem trup a ruky Celý mi tu spazmuješ vo vzbure Hnilým jazykom sajem tuky

To, čo jem, si ty Masa mäsa, kým som sýty Napádam lebky a úkryty V ulici ležíš, rozbitý

Vypitvaný človek nám najviac chutí Si švédsky stôl orgánov na stene Nikto za tebou nesmúti Práve sme vydlabali mozgy rodine

To, čo jem, si ty Masa mäsa, kým som sýty Napádam lebky a úkryty V ulici ležíš, rozbitý

They Hunger is one of the most recognizable Half-Life mods, and for good reason. A total conversion that modifies the setting, weapons, voice lines, enemies. From top to bottom you have legendary game after game that is completely different from the original product.

I had the pleasure of playing the entire trilogy two years back, back when my Half-Life craze was in its infancy (currently experiencing a dormancy). Just like Half-Life, I like to think They Hunger holds up remarkably well, and people who tap out once a game is old or not graphically impressive are shooting themselves in the foot.

It was a gay old time, save for that Stonehenge area and the final boss-fight. Got to be too much there.

You Are What I Eat is the original credits song that came with the trilogy, translating it has been on my mind for quite some time. A departure from the usual political music I adapt or translate, though not any less valuable.

I really went all out for this one, tried to match the syllable count somewhat closely and didn't rely on any slant rhymes (no idea if acute accent counts as a slant rhyme, if it does, I'm giving it up because lyrical assembly just got 10x more difficult, plus, maybe the singer can adjust the rhymes to sound more alike when keeping with the melody of the original song). I even decided to switch the slant rhymes in the original song for perfect rhymes to make the lyrics more formally pleasing.

I tried singing the lyrics to myself in the same melody as the original song, and though it sounds a bit awkward in some places, that's also a feature of the original song. I did follow the rhyme scheme to the letter (but fuck meter!). Also, I really like some of the similar sounding-words that repeat in close proximity to each other. Probably my best work to date.

Your poetaster days are numbered, mister pookapine.

Literal English Translation:

I smell you (being) fresh around the corner You are far from being my first I crush you until you’re drowning in blood And nobody will tell you: goodbye

You are what I eat A mass of meat until I’m full I attack skulls and shelters You lay in the street, broken

Sharp claws dig into you I amputate the torso and arms You’re wholly spasming in revolt With my rotten tongue I’m sucking fat

You are what I eat A mass of meat until I’m full I attack skulls and shelters You lay in the street, broken

A disemboweled human tastes the best to us You’re a smorgasbord of organs against the wall Nobody will mourn after you We just scooped out the brains of the (your, implied) family

You are what I eat A mass of meat until I’m full I attack skulls and shelters You lay in the street, broken

[pookapine]

Real or Drone?

The cold stings my face like a thousand little prickles all over. It’s late February and the snow has all but melted. The sky’s tinted blood red by the retreating sun, already halfway below the hills. The village is completely empty of even the smallest semblance of life, all that is left are the bodies. Half of the houses barely fit the definition of one, most of them are piles of brick and rubble. Others are a deep black of charred wood and ash. The ground is littered with a combination of busted drones and spent shells.

I cradle my submachine gun in a tight embrace, like I would my own newborn. Approaching the village is no easy task in itself. Every snap of each twig and branch under our boots puts me in a short burst of paranoid defenciveness. I treat every noise like a potential threat that has just revealed itself, only to settle down into a calm once I realize it is merely our own steps. That’s the state we’re in our whole trek to the heart of the village. They never should’ve given me this gun.

A worn blue sign punctured by the odd bullet hole every once in a while reads the former name of what was once Hurbišovo, name crossed out with black paint. Or, Paradicsom, though that sign is torn down and discarded on the ground. 

I wasn’t sent here by my lonesome. The other guy, squeezing his own submachine gun, is Balvan. We’re both wearing a green-brown get-up, though I still wish we got real camo. Realistically, I wouldn’t feel any safer even then. 

The odd thing is that I’ve never learned what his real name is. Codenames were a necessity way back and they’ve stuck since. In any case, what matters more than the name of a man are always his qualities. Balvan’s hard-nosed and down to earth. He’s the kind of guy you’d want to have your back, but personality traits are irrelevant to Lady Luck. The only difference his attitude makes is whether we die today or tomorrow. In the grand scheme, that’s not much of a difference.

“Let’s check that building out.” Balvan points to a small house just a few meters away, probably one of the only two that are largely intact. 

The air inside is stale and musty, and the only light in the otherwise dark room comes in through the windows. Bullet holes and splatters of red adorn the interior walls of what might’ve once been a homey kitchen. On the floor lay what I assume are the former inhabitants of the household, the very same depicted in a shattered picture that escaped its frame on the hardwood planks.

“Was this us, or them?” I break the heavy silence, barely able to choke the words out.

“I don’t know.”

There is no smell assaulting my nostrils, meaning the bodies must be quite fresh. I don’t wanna be here for when they start to stink and flies come buzzing about, so it might be best to drag them out before we hunker down.

“Shame. Dying when the war’s almost over. It could happen to just about anyone.” Balvan feigns some sympathy.

“Yeah.”

“I mean anyone. Anyone.”

“No, I get the implication.”

“Good. Let’s drag these cats out before nightfall comes. Or else we might have to join ‘em.”

There’s three bodies, which seems to match the dropped photo. Well, almost. One family member is absent from the crimson-soaked floor. An infant.

“Wait, Balvan.”

“Yeah?”

“We could still have somebody else in the house. Wouldn’t want any surprises.”

I point at the photo with the barrel of my weapon. Balvan slowly turns his gaze to the photo and then jerks his head to face me.

“Are you serious? It’s just some baby.”

“The photo could be old. Maybe it’s a grown man now.”

“Doubt it. Even if: you’ve got a loaded magazine and your finger’s hugging that trigger like Jody’s spooning your girlfriend. What do you have to be scared of?”

“… Nothing.”

“That’s what I thought. Make sure to bend your knees when you’re lifting. And let go of that damn trigger. Don’t tell me they didn’t teach you any trigger discipline.”

“They didn’t.”

Tuck my gun in my pouch. I squat and grab a male corpse by the pits. I almost lose my balance because I overestimated how heavy it’d be. I mean, it makes sense. I doubt they’ve been getting much food in the middle of a warzone. All the food has gotta go to the soldiers. 

I drag the thin man out and set him on the porch. Balvan’s not too far behind, carrying on his shoulders a former man and woman. He drops them when he’s at the door and looks at me in disbelief.

“Really? The porch? Do you want us to draw attention to ourselves that bad?”

“Sorry.”

“We should place them on the lawn at least. Or, even better, in a different house. Smell and attention both pointing in a completely different direction.”

“Yeah, fine.”

It’s as we’re dragging the bodies to the other house that a loud whooshing zooms through the air. Closer and closer until… A flash of light followed by a sound so intense it sends me flying through the air. I lose consciousness.

***

A low hum permeates the atmosphere. Moonlight illuminates the compact kitchen. Itself now clear of bodies, though the bullet holes and blood stayed behind. Stiffness numbs my body, splayed out on the uncomfortable floor. It takes me a few moments to recall exactly what happened and get my bearings. I lift myself off the floor only for my strength to flee from me. I crumple down.

A “Hush!” follows the mild thud of my body crashing to the floor. I snap my gaze over to a figure shrouded in the shadows, the moon’s glow reflected in the eyes of the silhouette. I’m quick to reach for my submachine gun in the empty pouch. The realization strips me of any resolve I might’ve still retained. I fruitlessly grip the air inside, praying the metal weapon will magically materialize in my hands.

“Christ! Vrabec, calm the fuck down!” Balvan spits at me through a tense whisper-shout. It’s just him. I’m yet to fully calm down, even though his presence is good news.

“Sorry. Where are we?” I whisper back.

“Did the airstrike lobotomize you? Hurbišovo. The kitchen of the house. Hello?”

“Yeah. Okay. I know.”

“Then why’d you ask me?”

“Sorry. I’m sorry. What happened?”

“Airstrike. Are you even listening? Who am I repeating this for?” he hisses at me like some snake.

I’m waiting for all my thoughts to return. Clearing the fog I remember my submachine gun.

“Where’s my gun?”

“Must be outside. I pulled you in pretty quick.”

“Do you still have yours?”

“Of course. I’m not some fuck-up.”

“What’s that hum? The one in the background.”

“Hum? You alright?”

“Yes.” Better not be a concussion.

“Good. Sit where you are. Better for us to wait til morning.” Balvan opens a small pouch on his pants and takes out a small bit of paper.

“Wait? For what?”

“You were there when they smoked us. Better if we wait for back-up. No more surprises tonight. Our guys will make the rounds in the morning. We’ll just have to wait this out.” Then he picks a pipe off the floor which was shrouded in darkness prior. Covered in blood. Or maybe not. I can’t really tell, it’s so dark. It probably belonged to the family.

“You’re not thinking about lighting that up, are you?”

“What? No, of course not. That thing’s got the dead guy’s saliva all over. Putting that thing in my mouth is like exchanging a kiss. And I’m not about to kiss a Magyar.” I can’t tell whether that last part was a joke to lighten the mood or his actual reasoning.

Balvan begins to pour the tobacco into the small paper he pulled out earlier. His hands are shaking. Bet half of it ended up on the ground, but I can’t see. By the end he’s stuffing his fingers in the pipe and digging out the remaining tobacco.

“Listen, I really don’t think you should be lighting one up.”

“Jesus! Why don’t you let me worry about that? I haven’t had a smoke in days, so just fuck off and keep it to yourself.” There’s that whisper-shout again.

He licks the paper and rolls the cig into a cylinder.

“You should at least hide off in some corner. What if they see the flame through the window?”

“Shut the fuck up, Vrabec. I know you’re a dimwit, but you try. Which is why I’m not hard on you. But now you’re really making me regret it. Just let me have one smoke.”

Balvan leans over to a spot that’s outside of the window’s field of view. A lighter I didn’t see him take out before illuminates his face in bright orange. Hand holding it glides over to the cigarette sticking out of his mouth.

The flame vanishes when Balvan leans back and takes the cig out after a long pull. Smoke vents out into the air and stinks it up. His silhouette deflates almost instantly. A slow blink hides the glimmer in the eyes, the one visible moments prior. Then they open back up. The cigarette’s glow dies down.

We bask in the night’s hum for what feels like quite some time. Judging by his earlier confusion, I can't be sure whether he also hears the hum or not. I'd ask, but I don't want another scolding.

“None of this would’ve happened if we’d just expelled them all with the Decrees the first time. We wasted our shot, and now we’re paying the price.” Balvan is the first to break the silence. A low flame tracking his cigarette travels to the area below his eyes. I assume he’s sticking it in his mouth, but I really can’t tell. Too dark. He takes another drag and the end of the cig flames up again, casting some light upon his face, though not as much as the lighter before. His eyes are lit with yellow, reflecting the tiny blaze.

“Yeah. Maybe. I wonder what we’ll do to them once the war’s over.”

“The war will never be over as long as they stay here. Thank God for Rybár, honestly. You can be damn sure the Decrees’ll look like baby shit compared to whatever he’s cooking up.” Balvan takes another drag from the cigarette. Orange rushes to fill the ridges at the end.

“Y’know what I heard about Rybár?”

“What?”

“I heard Rybár’s Riders are gunning for Budapest.”

“Hah. Right.” I squirm at how loud his cackle is. Like a gunshot cutting through the air. Were we anywhere else, it probably wouldn’t even seem that loud. “Been watching Hungarian news? Everybody’s always fishing for dirt on Rybár. Sounds like the exact kind of fear-mongering a propaganda department comes up with. When they’re not dehumanizing us, they’re smearing our leaders. That’s the thing about Magyars: lying is all they know.”

“Whatever you say. But I did hear it. Once the country’s liberated, every square centimeter, they’re not gonna stop. They’ll roll into Budapest with tanks. And they’ll flatten it to the ground. They’ll kill them for what they did to us.”

“Sounds like a solid plan. If he wants us to lose all our backers.”

“Rybár’s a madman.”

“Oh, no doubt. Even before the war. However, he’s not stupid. He’s not gonna throw away international support just like that.”

It’s at this point that I stop responding. It feels like we’re getting way too loud. Balvan’s still sucking the life out of that shrinking cig. Getting shorter with each pull. Little orange light. He proceeds to drop the thing on the ground before putting it out.

We sit for a bit longer before… 

Cough! Cough-Cough!

Balvan is overtaken by a fit. Louder than the entire conversation prior. Wheezing and spluttering. 

“Dude, shut the fuck up!”

“Give me…” Cough, “a minute…” Cough.

He collapses himself to the floor and covers his mouth. I don’t see him doing that, but I can hear it. The coughing gets only slightly quieter. He finally forces himself to stop once another sound pierces the night’s low hum. 

Loud wailing, like from a small infant, reverberates from the outside and into our shelter.

Balvan’s no longer coughing.

Shit.

***

“Will that baby just shut up?” I sigh. We’ve both been keeping quiet for the past few minutes. It’s now I decide that the loud bawling outside has gotten way too bothersome for me. Something about babies crying makes me really uncomfortable. 

“Baby? What baby?” Balvan asks me in a kind of infantile tone.

“Have you lost it? Don’t you hear all that crying?”

“Oh, the crying. I do.”

“Well? We gotta go get it.”

“Go and get what, exactly?” Though I can’t see it, I’m pretty sure he’s smiling. You can always tell by the way a person’s inflection changes.

“The baby. We have to bring it inside.”

“Why?” His questions feel less like genuine confusion and more like he’s toying with me.

“Because it’s cold out. The baby might die.”

I begin to pick myself up off the ground. I’m halfway up before Balvan leaps up at me and knocks me to the floor.

“Stop! Stop, right now!” he whispers in my ear while holding me down.

“Get off me! What are you doing!?” I try to wiggle him off, simultaneously careful so as I’m not louder than the wails.

“That’s not a baby.” he says through the sharp screams outside.

Balvan lets go and I slither to a corner opposite him.

“What else is it then? An old lady? Never heard a baby crying before?”

“Vrabec, I’m telling you right now, that’s not a baby.”

“Then what is it?”

He looks out of the window for a long while and then back at me.

“It’s a drone.”

“What? What are you on about?”

“It’s a drone. Think about the airstrike. They saw us here.”

“What of it?”

“God, how did you ever make it past tactical training?”

“I didn’t.”

“They know we were here. They’re just checking if we made it out alive. That sound is coming from a drone. They want us to go after the noise and put ourselves in the open. Then, they send a second airstrike. To finish the job.” he says with such confidence I no longer have any idea whether to believe him or not. I mean, he wouldn’t sound that confident if he wasn’t sure, would he? Then again, the sobs outside tell a different story.

“Why not tell me from the start?”

“I didn’t think you’d try and go out there.”

“… I still think we should look.”

“Are you mental? Are you out of your fucking mind? That’s not a baby crying out there. It’s a trap.”

“And what if it’s not? What if it’s a real baby? We have to hide it, at least. Think about the cold. The night.”

“Who cares? Why do you care? Why is this the hill you wanna die on?”

“It’s just a baby.”

“I’m telling you, that’s not a baby. It’s the sound coming off a drone.” I notice that he hasn’t blinked for a while. His gaze is glued to me.

“How can you be sure? How do you know?”

“The hum you heard, remember? Drones all have a hum.” That very hum is indeed still here.

“… What if it’s something else?”

“Oh, right. I guess it’s the washing machine in the basement. C’mon, Vrabec. Use your one brain cell to consider this for even a second. That’s how they get idiot saps like you to die out there. It’s a cruel and effective tactic.”

“Alright, let’s say there’s a drone. What if the baby’s out there at the same time?”

“Then there’s still a drone on our hands and we die anyway.” He blinks for the first time. The baby’s still wailing out there.

“I’m gonna go out.”

“Vrabec, if you step outside, I am going to shoot you. Right here.” Balvan stiffens up, clearly on-edge.

“Why?”

“You’d be killing both of us.” I spot his hand inching closer to his holster. Not there yet, but getting close.

“Okay. I won’t go outside.”

“Good. I knew you weren’t a total moron.” His hand relaxes but his posture is still tense.

There is a significant and heavy period where we don’t say anything. All that keeps us company are the shrieks outside of the distressed baby and complementary humming. The night is far from quiet.

“It makes me wonder.” I ask to keep our minds off it.

“What?”

“Do you miss home?”

“We won’t have a home if we don’t finish the job, Vrabec. You have to be strong. Not just for you or me, but for every Slovak out there.” I wish I could focus on the words he’s saying. My mind keeps coming back to the obvious. “A man’s country is all he has, and there is nothing more honourable than fighting to defend it. Slovakia is what our forefathers fought for. Don’t disrespect them.” I hear the words but I’m having trouble processing them.

“Sorry, the baby’s kind of making it-”

“Just forget the baby. It’s not even real. It’s psychological warfare and you’re putty in their hands. They got you right where they want. If guys like you called the shots, we’d all be speaking Hungarian right now.”

“We have a moral obligation to at least take a look.”

“Moral obligation? Excuse me? Fucking Christ, do you really have a death wish that strong? Where was this conscience when we were moving those bodies?”

“This is different. You know that.”

“Different? Different how? You’re just making shit up as you go along. If you’re not even consistent, why bother? If you want to kill yourself then let’s wait til backup arrives and I can get you in front a firing squad.” It’s here that I notice how loud we’ve gotten. Like the cries of the baby and our argument are in a tight competition to see who outscreams who. I don’t even care about the noise anymore. I’m not backing down.

“You’re going to kill me? You’re a psychopathic asshole. That could be an infant out there. How do you plan to live with yourself, knowing you didn’t do anything?”

“At least I’ll be alive to figure that out. Trust me, tomorrow morning our guys are gonna find a drone and you’ll look like the idiot everybody already knows you are.”

“This should concern you, too. If it’s really a baby, it's crying’s going to attract unwanted attention. If they’re not watching us already, they’ll surely hear us and come by because of the noise. You’re the idiot if you haven’t realized that!” 

Balvan sits, unmoving. Processing the dilemma on his own. Every second or so he looks outside the window and back at me. I wonder if the crying slices through his thoughts as well.

“Listen to how loud we’ve been the past few minutes. If they were listening, they would’ve struck us down by now. It can’t be a drone.” I don’t know if I even believe my own words at this point. I have to sound like I do, at least.

“Just because they haven’t struck us yet doesn’t mean they won’t once we go outside. They could be waiting for a better shot.”

“If you’re wrong, that baby’s blood is on your hands. And we stood by for no reason.”

“If you’re wrong, we’re both dead for no reason.” Balvan spits out at me.

“I don’t care. I’m going outside. And I’m the one doing the pragmatic thing here. Those shrieks are gonna have the whole Hungarian Army here by now if we don’t step in.”

“No.” He stands up and unsheaths his gun. “You’re right. I’ll go outside and have a look. You stay back. If I die out there, I’m coming back to haunt you until the day you die.” The sudden change of heart takes me aback. 

“Wait, why are you going outside?”

“Isn’t this what you wanted? And you’re right about the attention all that crying could draw to us. Better nip this in the bud.”

Balvan retreats into the shadows, gun drawn. Despite the heavy boots, his footsteps are soft. I can barely register them over the screams coming from outside the house.

I can hear the front door creaking from here. Now it’s just me and the darkness. Neither the cries nor the hum retreat. Balvan is somewhere in-between the two.

An eternity passes, and then an eternity more. Still, the crying continues. The hum persists. Any second now I expect to hear that whoosh again. Another explosion. This time I’ll be the one rescuing Balvan. If there’s anything left of him.

This was a stupid idea. Maybe I was wrong to send him out. This could very well kill him. What’s the likelihood of a baby surviving that long by itself out there anyway? 

A single shot stops me in the middle of my doubt. A decisive shot. Louder than any I’ve ever heard before slices through the air.

The crying’s stopped.

The door creaks once more. Heavy steps make contact with the floor completely carelessly. I scramble to hide under the table. Just in case.

Balvan steps out the shadows, weapon already pouched. He sits back down where he was back when I first woke up. He picks up the pipe off the floor again and begins scraping for more tobacco. 

“… Balvan?”

“I’m gonna light myself a smoke.”

“What happened?”

He takes his time rolling another cigarette. Hands steady. He lights it in his mouth, orange once again illuminates his features. Deep shadows expose the wrinkles in his worn face. Eyes yellow.

“Hungarian drone.” he says through the cigarette. Smoke puffs out of his mouth.

I swear I can make out the faintest hint of blood smearing his person. Then, I look once more. It’s gone. Then there it is again. It’s too dark for me to be sure. I might just be imagining it.

That’s not what worries me the most, though. I can’t help but notice that a faint hum still continues in my ears.

[pookapine]

Súvislosti

Tento skromný návrh zároveň slúži ako otvorený list vláde Slovenskej republiky.

púkapain nenávidí Benešove dekréty. Ak ste niekedy čítali hociktorú esej ohľadom otázky juhu od tohto chuligána, lumpa a úbožiaka, tak určite viete, čo si o pozemkových konfiškáciách, ktoré pokračujú dodnes, myslí. Údajne sa má jednať o kolektívny trest celých národov za zločiny vlád, ktoré dekády dozadu trvali na tom, že tieto národy ľudí reprezentujú. Presnejšie sa jedná o Maďarov a Nemcov vyštvaných z území Československa pragmatickým vodcom Prof., PhDr., JUDr. Edvardom Benešom (čím vyšší počet titulov, tým inteligentnejšia osoba, ako dokazuje aj konanie tohto národného hrdinu), nech je mu zem ľahká.

Podobne ako púkapain, aj ja som dakedy veril v tú lož, že pozemkové konfiškácie a všeobecne kolektívna vina podľa etnika je nespravodlivá a v krutom rozpore s ľudskými právami. V dobe, keď som v také bludy veril, som ignoroval jednu veľmi dôležitú vec: súvislosti. Bez toho, aby človek bral do úvahy historické, filozofické, politické a socioekonomické súvislosti, sa nič naozaj nedozvie a bude len a len obhajovať nesprávne veci. Napríklad, jedna zo súvislostí, ktorú určite musí človek brať do úvahy, je: Všeobecná deklarácia ľudských práv bola podpísaná len v 1948. Pozemky a občianstva začali zhabávať tri roky predtým, než Československo deklaráciu podpísalo. Toto znamená, že všetko pred 1948 je tzv. fair game, no take-backsies.

Zároveň títo ľudomilovia zabúdajú na dôležitú pravdu štátnej politiky, a tou je fakt, že čím je štát silnejší, tým lepšie sa vie starať o svojich občanov. Čím sa taký štát teda posilňuje? No, predsa budovaním infraštruktúry. Ako sa táto infraštruktúra buduje? Tým, že štát stavia na pozemku. Táto infraštruktúra eventuálne pomôže nespočetne veľa ľuďom. Štát, teda my (štát, národ a občan je jedno a to isté), postavíme diaľnicu, ktorá odvtedy bude slúžiť miliónom ľudí. Turisti, kamióny, ktoré prepravujú tovar, biznismeni, ktorí sa musia dostať z jedného mesta na druhé, všetci občania, ktorí majú príbuzných v iných mestách, atď. Každý z toho len benefituje, je to pre väčšie dobro. Prosím, prezraďte mi ako by mal štát dostať pozemky na budovanie tejto infraštruktúry, ak ho nemôže kradnúť menšinám? Je naozaj to, čo teraz potrebujeme, aby sme míňali viac peňazí pri každej jednej triviálnej finančnej kompenzácii? Nie je ľahšie, a nepomôže to aj tým Maďarom a Nemcom, ak im tie pozemky proste zhabeme bez zaplatenia? Veď aj oni budú z týchto vecí mať prospech, nie? Všetko to závisí na súvislostiach.

Teraz, keď už máme ujasnené, že táto politika, ktorú vedieme, je potrebná, treba sa pozrieť na ďalšiu dôležitú stránku problému: prečo práve Maďari a Nemci?

Prosím vás, veď to je snáď jasné. Počas medzivojnových rokov rozpárala Mníchovská dohoda poslednú východoeurópsku demokraciu. Československo padlo fašistickému iredentizmu. Nemecko si vzalo Sudety a Petržalku, Maďarsko celý juh Slovenska. Žiaľ, Maďari a Nemci boli, a navždy by ostali piatou kolónou v štáte, a každý jeden je vinný. Treba sa pozerať na súvislosti. Kde bolo Maďarské národné povstanie, či Nemecké národné povstanie? Z 80 milión Nemcov boli antifašistami v odboji iba malý, ignorovateľný počet. Celý národ je teda komplicitný. Veď, ak by im až tak veľmi ten fašizmus vadil, asi by väčšie číslo z nich niečo aj spravilo, nie? To isté aj s Maďarmi. Z približne 9 milión by ste antifašistov a odbojárov napočítali na jednej ruke. Kolaborantský národ. Vinný ľud. Každý, kto sa aktívne nezúčastňuje odboju proti nespravodlivosti, je komplicitný kolaborant.

Vďaka súvislostiam vieme dôvod za konfiškáciami a prečo práve tie etniká. Beneš bol génius a vizionár, práve preto, že tieto komplicitné masy vyhnal. Bez neho by Česko a Slovensko dnes nemali pozemky, a fašistické masy by zväčša ostali na našom území. Žiaľ, práca ostala nedokončená. Nie všetci stratili svoje majetky. Našťastie, túto chybu dnes Slovenská republika napravuje.

Môj skromný návrh zahŕňa rozšírenie konfiškácií majetkov a pozemkov. Keď potrebujeme peniaze a pozemky, prečo prestávame len pri Maďaroch a Nemcoch? Preto navrhujem vláde Slovenskej republiky, aby sa konfiškácie začali týkať zvyšných kolaborantských národov.

Menšina na severe Slovenska menom Gorali si sebecky privlastňujú krásnu horskú pôdu na ktorej by mohli byť, podľa mojich výpočtov, minimálne tri diaľnice. Prečo práve Gorali? Stačí si brať do úvahy historické súvislosti a pozerať sa na všetko kriticky. Neboli to práve Gorali, ktorí spolupracovali s nacistami počas 2SV vo forme Goralenvolk, ktorí aj bojovali za Nemecko? Kde bolo Goralské národné povstanie? Vinný ľud.

A čo takí Rusíni na severovýchode? Vďaka súvislostiam vieme, že Karpatská sič terorizovala Židov a pomohla Nemecku počas invázie Poľska. Kde bolo Rusínske národné povstanie? Je fér nechať len Maďarov a Nemcov v štichu, keď aj toto je kolaborantský národ? Vinný ľud.

Zároveň nesmieme zabudnúť na Židov. Človek, ktorý nepozná historické súvislosti, by bol s týmto argumentom veľmi znepokojený. Neboli Židia obeťou Holokaustu, brutálnej systematickej represie a masovej vraždy, kde 6 milión nevinných stratili životy? Na to sa vás opýtam - síce nie v genocidálnych podmienkach, nestratili aj nevinní Maďari a Nemci životy v tej istej dobe pod čepeľou štátnej represie? To bola čisto rečnícka otázka - nevinní Maďari, Nemci a Židia neexistujú. Neboli aj Židia, ktorí podporovali NSDAP a ich kampaň? Čo sionistické organizácie, ktoré s nacistami spolupracovali? 6 milión je bezpochybne veľký počet, ale povedzte mi, prečo tých 6 milión radšej nenasledovalo Kovnera? Vinný ľud. Navrhol by som zbúrať dajakú synagogu a postaviť na mieste diaľnicu, ale štát ma už predbehol.

A konečne, posledná kolaborantská spodina: slovenský národ. Veď sa len pozrite na mapu a predstavte si, koľko diaľnic by sme mohli postaviť, prakticky celá krajina diaľnic. Aj Slovensko sa podelilo na brutálnom rozpáraní Československa. Stačí si dávať pozor na súvislosti. Slovensko nielen rozbilo Československo - dokonca bojovalo na fronte proti ZSSR a napadlo Poľsko, dobrovoľne posielalo Židov Nemecku a krajine za to platilo. A čo Slovenské národné povstanie, pýtate sa? Síce sa nejaké povstanie stalo, vďaka súvislostiam si zároveň povšimneme, že povstania sa zúčastnilo len okolo 80 tisíc ľudí. Z počtu 2,6 milión to je zanedbateľná vzorka, len okolo 3% populácie. To je prd vo vetri, nič. Veď to je len odchýlka. Ďalší kolaborantský národ. Vinný ľud.

Pevne dúfam, že môj návrh Slovenská republika akceptuje čo najskôr, nech sa nové diaľnice postavia ihneď. Prvá by mala viesť od jazykov poslancov, premiéra a prezidenta po mŕtvu, nekrotickú riť hnijúceho Beneša. Sláva Slovenskej republike! Stredom Európy, Zeme, Galaxie. Nenásytná svätica.

Žiaľ, z legálnych dôvodov a kvôli pravidlám stránky musím prezradiť, že obsah textu je satirický. Kebyže vás zaujíma môj naozajstný názor na konfiškovanie pozemkov na etnickej báze a z princípu kolektívnej viny, stačí si len vypýtať postoj hocijakej ľudskoprávnej organizácie. Môj je identický, narozdiel od Slovenskej republiky.

[pookapine]

polpookawords #2

básniak, básniačka

podstatné meno, [baːsňĭak], [baːsňĭačka], /baːsŋjak/, /baːsŋjatʃka/

Pejoratívum mierené voči osobám, ktoré tvoria nekvalitnú lyrickú tvorbu. Básne poeta či poetky sa môžu označovať napríklad nepravidelným metrom či rytmom alebo nedokonalým rýmom, pri tom svoje dielo povyšujú na majstrovské. Často subjektívne označenie. Synonymum slova je poetaster, -ka, po anglicky tiež poetaster.

Odvodené od slovenského slova básnik.

DEŽO: Jožo začal písať básne v jeho Notes apke. Ignoruje asi každý veršový systém a zjavne si myslí, že ak všetky jeho verše sa končia na -i, tak sa potom rýmujú.

FERO: Závisí, či o tom nevie, alebo či to je tak naschvál. Snáď si o sebe nemyslí, že je druhým Hviezdoslavom. Ak hej, je to akurát tak básniak.

bratislavism

noun, /bratɪslavɪz(ə)m/

Support for the capital city of Bratislava being detached from the rest of Slovakia, usually as an independent city state or as land annexed by the neighbouring Austria. Peddled by some residents of Bratislava, sometimes the territorial extent is up to the Tatras, but no further. Often discussed whenever locals are upset by Slovakia's political situation or living standards.

Derived from the Slovak word Bratislava.

FERO: I'm happy that Dežo's stepped up values-wise, but the most recent SMER victory has him reacting in a very unhealthy manner.

JOŽO: When I last talked with him, he was proposing Bratislava be attached to Austria, or declare independence and take the D1 highway and the Tatras. His coping has made him a staunch proponent of bratislavism.

nadzdravý rozum

združené pomenovanie, [nadzdravyː rozum], /nadzdravyː rozum/

Vyššie štádium mysle. Narozdiel od zdravého rozumu, nadzdravý rozum sa prejavuje vo forme, ktorá sa zdá vačšine ľudí šialená, síce je šialenstvu opakom. Osoba s nadzdravým rozumom sa môže zdať konvenčnej spoločnosti ako blázon, často je ale myšlienkovými pochodmi nadčasová. Môže, ale nemusí sa stať po duševnom zrútení či opakovanom morálnom zranení. Po anglicky hypersanity.

Odvodené od slovenského združeného spojenia zdravý rozum.

JOŽO: Počúvaj, od tvojho úmoženia sa mi zdáš oveľa kľudnejší, introspektívnejší a objektívnejší. Perfektne zapadáš do spoločnosti!

DEŽO: Tie kvality mi pripomínajú nadzdravý rozum, ale ak konformujem, neviem či to je správny termín na opísanie mňa.

Schrödinger's paedophile

open compound, /ˈʃʁøːdɪŋ.əz ˈpiː.də.faɪl/

A universal truth that one can never truly be certain whether someone is a nonce or not until it is doubtlessly proven that they are. You can't really prove that someone is not a paedo, since they might be a kid-diddler who just hasn't made their move yet, you can't look into their head. You can only know for sure once they have made their move, in which case the answer is yes, they are a predator.

Schrödinger himself bravely demonstrated a similar principle called Schrödinger's hebephile by being a secret sex pest with his students and other children, until the truth was revealed long after his passing, proving once and for all what fired up his atoms. As a result of the dilution of the terms hebephilia, ephebophilia and paedophilia into one within popular consciousness, Schrödinger's hebephile might become accurately known as Schrödinger's paedophile in the near future. Sometimes also known as Schroedinger's pedophile in Statesian English.

Born out of a layman's incorrect understanding of the Schrödinger's cat thought experiment.

FERO: I didn't even know that about Schroedinger. That's fucked up.

DEŽO: I don't know if I want to be involved with this. This seems extremely out of line with the other definitions.

JOŽO: And it's twice as long as any of the other ones. What's up with that?

pookapine: Yeah, well, none of that is Schrödinger's paedophile.

[pookapine]

Flag Of The Slovak People

There is at least one thing today that, ideologically, I still very much have in common with the person I was a few years ago. That thing is not feeling represented by the Slovak Republic, which claims to be the representative of the entire Slovak people. I've talked a very small bit about this, but I used to have nationalist tendencies some time ago, and though I gripped the Slovak identity dearly, I never had any love for the state that claimed to represent the people.

One of my gripes related to that feeling was the lack of an independent flag for the Slovak nation. Yes, there was the flag of the Slovak Republic which claims to be the representative of that nation, but I certainly did not feel myself aligned with that entity. The flag of the Slovak Republic in no way represented my national pride. Thus, I toyed around with the idea of creating some kind of Slovak Flag different from the flag of the Slovak Republic to represent the Slovak nation itself. I never did end up making that flag, but one of the ideas I was sure of was a centered coat of arms.

Today, I am in no way a nationalist, or even a patriot. State politics whittled down pride bit by bit until I dropped the nationalist act entirely, not just because of those state politics but also due to a more detached, objective and unbiased perspective of the world that makes national pride impossible. You can hardly feel proud of something that was out of your control, completely arbitrary, and is giving you an advantageous position in society over others (Beneš Decrees, Roma segregation, Slovakization). I feel no pride for being Slovak, I feel no shame for being Slovak. I simply am.

Back to the one thing I share with my past self: I still feel it is important to have a flag that represents the Slovak nation, pure and unfiltered. Not a polity limited to certain borders, but a flag that transcends them entirely. One that represents all Slovaks and is not used by the bloodsucking politician class to legitimize their interests.

In the end I decided not to create a whole new flag from scratch, simply centering the coat of arms does the job. I don't want the flag to be too different, so it is not written off as some kind of sole invention of mine and dismissed due to its association with me. It's close enough to the official thing that it might even be mistaken for it. I like to think that the familiarity adds bonus points. At the same time, any Slovak will certainly know that this is not the state flag, which fulfills my aims. In the end you have something official enough that it is in no way my own creation, at the same time something clearly unofficial enough that it completes the main purpose.

Concerning the actual state flag: Legend has it that when Čisárik and Vrtel were sewing together the very first prototype, the fabric got caught in the machinery while the two were gripping it, resulting in the flag getting torn in the wrong place. The coat of arms, originally meant to be centered, was now off to the left. Rather than start over and create a proper centered flag (due to a combination of laziness and a looming visit from a state official), the duo decided to present the off-center flag as the finished and intended product (to also avoid the embarrassment of admitting the truth). Everybody else, also out of a fear of looking foolish and embarrassing themselves, went along with it and assumed this design was totally fine and intentional. From the chain of command up to every single citizen born to this very day. Thus, the Slovak Republic ended up with an off-center flag.

Advantageous to me, otherwise I would have no idea what else to do for a Slovak Nation flag.

[pookapine]

polpookawords #1

extrovertism

noun, /ˈekstrəˌvərtɪz(ə)m/

A decentralized movement and life philosophy preaching radical accountability, social equality, unapologetic sincerity and healthy social interaction. Emulates traits associated with extraversion though it can be practiced by both introverts and ambiverts alike. Born out of metamodernism and outlined in The Extrovertist Manifesto.

Derived from the word extraversion.

JOŽO: Fero has turned into a real social butterfly lately. His isolation is almost completely gone.

DEŽO: That's because he practices extrovertism.

Kartvelia

noun, /kärtˈveˈlɪə/

A country sitting on the periphery between Europe and Asia, nestled in the Transcaucasian region of the Caucasus mountains. Currently an independent representivist republic based out of Tbilisi, historically occupied and ravaged by Russia. Host to revanchist disputes with Abkhazia and South Ossetia. Synonyms include Georgia and Gruziya.

Derived from the Kartvelian word Kartveli (ქართველი).

FERO: I really wanna treat Jožo to somewhere culturally rich and naturally beautiful. Any recommendations? What's that US state called?

DEŽO: Kartvelia, I think?

nostalgism

noun, /nəˈstaldʒɪz(ə)m/

A political strategy that runs campaigns and appeals to voters based on an idealized and pleasant image of the past, often adopting policy that emulates that very past. This happens when the party or politician has little substance of their own and hides behind nostalgia to cover up something else, like corruption or scandals. The other goal besides distraction is to remain in power for as long as possible.

Derived from the word nostalgia.

JOŽO: Many corrupt Slovak politicians who want to stay in power espouse a mix of economically left-wing and culturally right-wing beliefs.

FERO: It's because the voter demographic they are most reliant on are older folk. Those guys grew up during a socialist economy and aren't so culturally progressive.

DEŽO: That's called nostalgism.

regressivism

noun, /rəˈɡresɪvɪz(ə)m/

A political ideology aimed at rolling back societal progress, mainly where social justice and equal rights are concerned. It can be opposed to any background, class, creed, ethnicity, gender, language, nation, race, religion, sex, etc. Usually specific to the region, society and time. Often confused with conservatism. Whereas conservatism attempts to prevent new social change, regressivism aims to reverse existing change entirely. Regressivists often hide under the incorrect label of conservatism which has the effect of sanitizing their beliefs. Antonym to progressivism, synonym of reactionism.

Derived from the word regression.

JOŽO: Dežo calls himself a conservative, but I know for a fact he wants to take away already existing rights.

FERO: His ideology is not conservatism, it is regressivism.

representivism

noun, /ˌreprəˈzentɪvɪz(ə)m/

A semi-democratic political system where, unlike truer forms of democracy where the regular person votes on policy itself, citizens instead vote in surrogates to make those decisions for them. This can be in the form of congresses, councils, parliaments, presidents, senates, etc. Often uncritically undistinguished from pure democracy.

Derived from the word representative.

JOŽO: This system thrives off politicians who lie and manipulate the public to get elected. They already got to Dežo with their bullshit.

FERO: Indeed, representivism is deeply flawed and voting should not be the only strategy we rely on.

úmoženie

podstatné meno, [uːmožeňĭe], /uːmoʒeŋje/

Sebou alebo niekým iným pričinená spása, vnútorné polepšenie a náprava predchádzajúcich hanebných či zlých činov. Môže, ale nemusí existovať aj v náboženskom kontexte. Synonymum slova je náprava, vykúpenie alebo záchrana. Po anglicky redemption.

Odvodené od hornolužicko srbského slova wumóženje.

DEŽO: Nespoznávam osobu, ktorá sa na mňa pozerá v mojom zrkadle každé ráno. Neviem kto som. Odstrčil som každého od seba a každý deň je pre mňa len bolesťou. Jediné čo mi ostalo: Úmoženie alebo Smrť!

[pookapine]

Gömör Republic

IN-UNIVERSE PROFILE:

The Gömör Republic was one of the three ethnic Hungarian states declared during the Second Slovak-Hungarian War. In the wake of Germany's collapse, most European institutions dissolved and the continent was plunged into renewed hostilities and conflict.

The value in large water reservoirs becoming obvious when future shortages hang in the offing, Great Rye Island (also known as Csallóköz in Hungarian or Žitný ostrov in Slovak), abundant in the resource, became a point of contention between Hungary and Slovakia.

After intensified land confiscations by the Slovak Land Fund and discriminatory rhetoric from sitting politicians towards the Hungarian minority, Hungarian rebels declared their independence from the Slovak Republic. The rebels found military support from Hungary, and after a month of grueling and brutal battles, Slovakia fell to the invaders and the independence of the new states was secured.

The Gömör Republic is the least stable and least important of the rebel states. Unlike the Királyhelmec Republic, useful to Hungary for its military and strategic importance, or the Révkomárom Republic, which is economically diverse and basically self-sufficient, not to mention its abundance in water giving it invaluable importance in the coming world, The Gömör Republic faces large unemployment, economic collapse and zero strategic importance all at once.

Based out of Rimaszombat and spanning to Losonc, the country covers the southern parts of the former Gömör-Kishont county and then some. Among out of control organized crime, unemployment driven by a collapsed economy and total dependence on Hungary lies a zombie state with a corrupt neoliberal democratic government, one unrecognized by a majority of UN states.

The politics in the country are dominated by sentiments of unification with Hungary, though fear of sanctions and international isolation are standing in the way of full annexation. The Hungarian people are still split by borders. Balassagyarmat is still not whole.

OTL BACKGROUND:

My apologies for the repeat descriptions, but not much changes with this one. Good if you stumbled on this first, slightly irritating if you already read whatever I published before.

It was many many years ago that I was creating the skeleton for a fictional story called The Ballad of Slakonovia, one focused on the leader of a resistance movement who becomes unhinged as the pressures of leading it get to be too much. The countries were all going to be allegorical at the time, but it was basically going to be a story about Hungary invading Slovakia and the painful and brutal aftermath of how a resistance movement is built from the ground up.

I got the idea following the initial outbreak of the Russo-Ukrainian War and imagining a similar thing happening to Slovakia and Hungary. Years have passed since and the idea has transformed significantly. I've dropped the allegorical stuff and am in the process of soft worldbuilding. I've even written a short story that takes place in the world, though I'm waiting on my lazy B*TA readers to get back to me on it before publishing. It might become clearer once that story is put out there that both sides are morally grey. States usually are.

Unlike the other two states I was working on which are obviously inspired by the Lugansk and Donetsk puppet states, the springboard for Russia to launch its invasion, The Gömör Republic was inspired by South Ossetia and to an extent Transnistria. South Ossetia is in a similar sticky situation where it is disallowed from uniting with North Ossetia within Russia, similar to Gömör and Hungary. I like how Fredo Rockwell described the country, as a zombie state. That's essentially what Gömör is, a country propped up economically and militarily by another power, but forbidden from unifying with it.

Additionally, I have no doubt a real water crisis is imminent unless careless companies and states are regulated within an inch of their misbegotten lives. Also cautionary message about the Beneš Decrees baked in there, by oppressing minorities you only motivate resistance and intervention. Or, at least, that's how it ought to be. Sometimes the international community turns a blind eye, which is despicable. I like to think that this hypothetical universe serves as a cautionary tale about resource wars and ethnic discrimination.

SYMBOLISM:

Finally, a bit about the flag itself. Three horizontal stripes of black, red and white make up the 1:2 flag. The colour scheme is identical to that of Rimavská Sobota, which is the capital of the republic in this world. For this flag I was originally planning to replace the white stripe in the middle of the real Hungarian flag with a black one, but that would simply remake the flag of pan-africanism with a Hungarian coat of arms, and while identical flags happen in real life, I decided I would rather have something more unique.

In the middle is the republican coat of arms used during the short-lived Hungarian Republic of the interwar period. It is modified to include imagery from the coat of arms of Gömör (Gemer) and Kishont (Malohont), a sick ass knight's helmet wearing a crown sitting in front of the double-cross. Unlike the actual Hungarian coat of arms, this one does not feature the Crown of St. Stephen on top.

[pookapine]

Királyhelmec Republic

IN-UNIVERSE PROFILE:

The Királyhelmec Republic was one of the three ethnic Hungarian states declared during the Second Slovak-Hungarian War. In the wake of Germany's collapse, most European institutions dissolved and the continent was plunged into renewed hostilities and conflict.

The value in large water reservoirs becoming obvious when future shortages hang in the offing, Great Rye Island (also known as Csallóköz in Hungarian or Žitný ostrov in Slovak), abundant in the resource, became a point of contention between Hungary and Slovakia.

After intensified land confiscations by the Slovak Land Fund and discriminatory rhetoric from sitting politicians towards the Hungarian minority, Hungarian rebels declared their independence from the Slovak Republic. The rebels found military support from Hungary, and after a month of grueling and brutal battles, Slovakia fell to the invaders and the independence of the new states was secured.

TheKirályhelmec Republic is the smallest of the rebel states, based out of the titular city. Spanning the southern Zemplén (Zemplín) region, the country is useful to Budapest, though not for its famous Tokaj wine, the fields devastated by war. Its strategic location between Ukraine and Hungary, as well as its connection to Чоп / Csap / Čop make the new country a useful springboard for future incursions into Ukraine, revanchism made easier because of the latter's continued invasion from Russia. Among reprisals against ethnic Slovaks, unemployment driven by a damaged economy and heavy military build-up lies a shaky neoliberal democracy, though one unrecognized by a majority of UN states. The politics in the country are dominated by sentiments of unification with Hungary, though fear of sanctions and international isolation are standing in the way of full annexation. The Hungarian people are still split by borders. Sátoraljaújhely is still not whole.

OTL BACKGROUND:

My apologies for the repeat descriptions, but not much changes with this one. Good if you stumbled on this first, slightly irritating if you already read whatever I published before.

It was many many years ago that I was creating the skeleton for a fictional story called The Ballad of Slakonovia, one focused on the leader of a resistance movement who becomes unhinged as the pressures of leading it get to be too much. The countries were all going to be allegorical at the time, but it was basically going to be a story about Hungary invading Slovakia and the painful and brutal aftermath of how a resistance movement is built from the ground up.

I got the idea following the initial outbreak of the Russo-Ukrainian War and imagining a similar thing happening to Slovakia and Hungary. Years have passed since and the idea has transformed significantly. I've dropped the allegorical stuff and am in the process of soft worldbuilding. I've even written a short story that takes place in the world, though I'm waiting on my lazy BETA readers to get back to me on it before publishing. It might become clearer once that story is put out there that both sides are morally grey. States usually are.

The Királyhelmec Republic and the other two states I am working on are obviously inspired by the Lugansk and Donetsk puppet states which were the springboard for Russia to launch its invasion. The main difference here is that those republics are majority Russian settler, these fictitious ones are majority indigenous Hungarian. Additionally, I have no doubt a real water crisis is imminent unless careless companies and states are regulated within an inch of their misbegotten lives. Also cautionary message about the Beneš Decrees baked in there, by oppressing minorities you only motivate resistance and intervention. Or, at least, that's how it ought to be. Sometimes the international community turns a blind eye, which is despicable. I like to think that this hypothetical universe serves as a cautionary tale about resource wars and ethnic discrimination.

SYMBOLISM:

Finally, a bit about the flag itself. Five horizontal stripes of red, green, white, green and red make up the 1:2 flag. This flag is the spitting image of Kráľovský Chlmec's actual flag, save for the coat of arms in the middle. The colour scheme is obviously Hungarian. I decided that copying the flag of the primary settlement would be perfectly fine, as the colours and coat of arms still illustrate the point.

In the middle is the republican coat of arms used during the short-lived Hungarian Republic of the interwar period. It is modified to include imagery from the coat of arms of Kráľovský Chlmec, the grapevine wrapped around the double-cross. Unlike the actual Hungarian coat of arms, this one does not feature the Crown of St. Stephen on top.

[pookapine]

Révkomárom Republic

IN-UNIVERSE PROFILE:

The Révkomárom Republic was one of the three ethnic Hungarian states declared during the Second Slovak-Hungarian War. In the wake of Germany's collapse, most European institutions dissolved and the continent was plunged into renewed hostilities and conflict.

The value in large water reservoirs becoming obvious when future shortages hang in the offing, Great Rye Island (also known as Csallóköz in Hungarian or Žitný ostrov in Slovak), abundant in the resource, became a point of contention between Hungary and Slovakia.

After intensified land confiscations by the Slovak Land Fund and discriminatory rhetoric from sitting politicians towards the Hungarian minority, Hungarian rebels declared their independence from the Slovak Republic. The rebels found military support from Hungary, and after a month of grueling and brutal battles, Slovakia fell to the invaders and the independence of the new states was secured.

The Révkomárom Republic is the largest and most populous of the rebel states, based out of the titular city. Covering practically the entirety of Great Rye Island, the country is useful to Budapest, which has begun extracting drinking water to prepare for the future water crisis. Among reprisals against ethnic Slovaks and callous environmental pollution lies a relatively stable neoliberal democracy, though one unrecognized by a majority of UN states. The politics in the country are dominated by sentiments of unification with Hungary, though fear of sanctions and international isolation are standing in the way of full annexation. Komárom is still split by the Danube.

OTL BACKGROUND:

It was many many years ago that I was creating the skeleton for a fictional story called The Ballad of Slakonovia, one focused on the leader of a resistance movement who becomes unhinged as the pressures of leading it get to be too much. The countries were all going to be allegorical at the time, but it was basically going to be a story about Hungary invading Slovakia and the painful and brutal aftermath of how a resistance movement is built from the ground up.

I got the idea following the initial outbreak of the Russo-Ukrainian War and imagining a similar thing happening to Slovakia and Hungary. Years have passed since and the idea has transformed significantly. I've dropped the allegorical stuff and am in the process of soft worldbuilding. I've even written a short story that takes place in the world, though I'm waiting on my lazy BETA readers to get back to me on it before publishing. It might become clearer once that story is put out there that both sides are morally grey. States usually are.

The Révkomárom Republic and the other two states I am working on are obviously inspired by the Lugansk and Donetsk puppet states which were the springboard for Russia to launch its invasion. The main difference here is that those republics are majority Russian settler, these fictitious ones are majority indigenous Hungarian. Additionally, I have no doubt a real water crisis is imminent unless careless companies and states are regulated within an inch of their misbegotten lives. Also cautionary message about the Beneš Decrees baked in there, by oppressing minorities you only motivate resistance and intervention. Or, at least, that's how it ought to be. Sometimes the international community turns a blind eye, which is despicable. I like to think that this hypothetical universe serves as a cautionary tale about resource wars and ethnic discrimination.

SYMBOLISM:

Finally, a bit about the flag itself. Three horizontal stripes of red, yellow and green make up the 1:2 flag. This is not only because of the parallel with the Novorossiyan states which replaced the white Russian stripe with their own colours, but also because the actual legit flags of Komárno and Komárom use this colour scheme themselves. Indeed, the middle yellow stripe would have this flag resemble the Hungarian one if changed to white.

In the middle is the republican coat of arms used during the short-lived Hungarian Republic of the interwar period. It is modified to include imagery from the Komárom coat of arms, the crown sitting near the double-cross similar to the actual Hungarian coat of arms. However, unlike the actual Hungarian coat of arms, this one does not feature the Crown of St. Stephen on top. It differs elsewhere as well, like in the two six-pointed starts taken from the Komárom coat of arms on each upper side of the double-cross, plus the Danube river is flowing near the base of the three-mountain peak.

[pookapine]

Slovak

It was a few or so months ago when I was trying out Metro 2033 (the game) for the first time. For those not in the know, the game takes place in the underground stations of Moscow after a nuclear exchange devastated the world. The specific level I was playing has you pass through a station that serves as the battleground between two rival factions, a communist faction and a Nazi faction respectively.

It was sometime around this level that another character off-handedly mentioned that the commies defeated the Nazis in a war once before, prior to the nukes falling, clearly alluding to when the USSR rolled into the rubble of what was once The Third Reich. Even back when I was playing I found this to be quite a sad piece of exposition. The people of the Moscow Metro dwindling in size, facing constant attacks from mutant beasts and radiation, yet instead of uniting in the face of these common threats, the subway tunnels are divided into political forces that feel the need to settle old historical scores. You’d think their priorities would be more sensible, maybe they’d stop trying to conquer the scraps and bones left of humanity for ideologies that popped up long before their time, and that people tried out already in what is now a nuclear wasteland. So many healthy men dying just to capture one more subway tunnel.

That’s not the only thing that stood out to me. It was how WW2 and its sides were spoken about that has stuck with me as well. They spoke of a conflict that took place in the 1940s as if it was the 2030s guys who experienced it. The dialog claimed the commies won against the Nazis back then, yet none of the people fighting on those railway tracks were the same ones who dished out or experienced that ancient defeat. This wasn’t the same people fighting each other a century later, even though the dialog implies that. It was people generations apart who identified with those past groups and saw themselves as a continuation of them. The victories of the USSR from way back are the victories of The Red Line today, even though none of the people from back then are the ones fighting in that tunnel.

I can’t help but draw parallels between how that character spoke of the two warring sides and how we speak of our own identities in real life. It’s a disturbing trend I’ve come to notice that is prevalent in seemingly every part of the world. That trend is the mistaken conflation of the self, the collective, the nation, the state and related constructs, groups and institutions. Whenever these things are spoken of, we treat them as part of us which linguistically reinforces some kind of loyalty or identification.

It happens at the deepest levels, ones that are completely subconscious and reinforce themselves simply through speech. I started noticing it in school at first. When the ancient slavs were a topic of discussion, they were always spoken about as a “we”, or an “us”. These groups of people from centuries ago that have nothing to do with us today are spoken of as if they are an inseparable part of us, the very same as us. Even though you have very little in common with those slavs from centuries ago, even though you have much more in common with the Hungarian on the opposite side of the border today, the slavs of centuries ago are “us” and the Hungarians of today are “them”. If you are a Slovak today, you are part of the same group as the slavs back then simply because you live on the same land they did. It doesn’t matter if your ancestors came from Brittany or wherever and weren’t involved in the original migrations, because today you are Slovak, which means you are the same “us” as the slavs from 600AD, no matter how little you had to do with them.

The same kind of language is used when speaking about the state, and it reinforces the unhealthy idea that the government and a people are one and the same, a monolith. It gets reinforced when in geography class you talk about what countries the republic borders, and instead of saying “The Slovak Republic borders this, this and that”, you say “We border this, this and that”. Or when speaking of Hungary bailing on Gabčíkovo and the deal that happened thirty years ago that nobody in the room had anything to do with, you still say “we made a deal with Hungary”, despite the fact the state and the people in that room are not one and the same. The same social anomaly can be observed in things such as sports teams, when you claim that “we” won a game against whoever when you had zilch to do with that match. It can also be observed whenever a war is won or lost, “we” won or lost that war, even if the front is seas or centuries away from you.

As far as the language of the nation is concerned, you are one with your ancestors, one with your government, one with your sports team and one with your military. Of course, nations themselves are on equally shaky ground as the things we attach to them.

What determines a nation’s existence is completely arbitrary and dependent on historical happenstance. The only thing keeping nations within the realm of the real is self-identification of the individual, and the language we use to talk about our nations reinforces this self-identification.

What even is a nation? Is it some kind of race or gene? Funny guy, you’re a century late to when that kind of talk was still socially acceptable.

Is it a group of people born in the state that claims to represent that nation? If so, are the Hungarians in the south Slovaks? Is somebody born to Slovak parents in Britain not Slovak now?

Is it a group of people who speak the same language? The Slovak you hear in Bratislava has much more in common with standard Czech than it does with the Slovak in Snina. Objectively, these three are all different languages, so are they all different nations? The difference between dialect and language is political anyway. One historical coinflip and today you might’ve been identifying as a Czechoslovak, or a Slovjak (deep cut).

What defines a nation is a group of people latching onto one identity that has developed from a set of historical circumstances. If it is only self-identification that keeps a nation existent, then it is a very fragile thing. Romans didn’t just blip out of existence, they stopped identifying with the label. Similarly, Slovaks didn’t spawn out of thin air. They became Slovaks once enough people said they were. They stayed Slovaks when Czechoslovakism got buried and when no new national movements took off to divide the newly formed identity.

The obvious question that now comes up is: why do we do this? Are we so starved for personal accomplishments that we take on the accomplishments of completely separate people as our own? Are we so unconfident in being able to build independent identities for ourselves we need these labels to attach ourselves to?

The answer might be a mix of all of these, but there is one good reason this behavior continues: it benefits the state.

When you and the state are indistinguishable, an attack on the state is an attack on you. This isn’t just about insecure nationalists who flock to any online post that criticizes their country. This is about the moderates as well. Those who flock to online posts about their country in general, to say how cool it is their country is being covered. Because they identify with their country, when their country is seen, they feel seen. Being seen feels nice. Similarly, you might not even be a nationalist if you go and defend your country from any legitimate criticism. However, you still identify with it, which is why when your country’s pride is bruised, so is your pride. This is how that self-identification is usually vented. Yet, there are more advantageous applications that lie dormant.

Any attack on the state is by extension an attack on you. It is why you will take up arms in pride, for the good of the country. It is why you will lie about war crimes your country is committing, or support it in attacking somebody else. The attack of the state is your attack. An attack on the state is an attack on you.

As long as you identify with your nation, you are a useful pawn in spreading the good word about it, taking up arms for it, helping it stay afloat. Once you stop identifying with your nation and begin to identify with your fellow man as a whole, the state will have no reason to exist anymore. It won’t have people who fight for it and people who do PR for it for free.

To many people I am describing something already obvious. As a side-note, there is little sadder and scarier at the same time to me than somebody who is indoctrinated, finds out they are indoctrinated, then keeps on being indoctrinated despite knowing about their own indoctrination. Since I’m exploring complicity through fiction now, this is also something I’d also like to look into.

Anyway. Any Realpolitik-assfucker might agree with the observations, but then defend the practice and argue that a “we” is necessary for the state. You must build an identity where you don’t include everybody.

I don’t have a counter-argument for this. One of the most powerful tools someone like me could use right about now is historical precedent, yet I am uncertain whether what I am arguing against has ever been meaningfully done away with.

Ethnic identities, no doubt. You have times when those were ditched in favour of religion, class, creed, race and whatnot. The constant is that an identity needs to be present. Can this identity simply be a human one?

When there is no historical precedent to look back on, I like to imagine that I can take part in shaping it for the future. That’s why I’ve been shifting to fictional prose as of late. Those polpookaposts were useful as a starting point, but now that I have defined most of what I ideologically believe, it is time to put it into practice. One of the best ways to do that is recruitment through influencing hearts and minds. Stories open us up, so that’s what I’ll be doing for the foreseeable future. The polpookaposts won’t stop, but they’ll be obscured under plotlines and characters. Think of it as sowing the seeds for convincing people into considering the same ideas. All fiction does this already, whether the author is aware of it or not. I intend to be aware, and I’m optimistic that we’ll get our historical precedent. I hope I’ll have played a small part in getting us there.

I hear you bringing up another obvious question. pookapine, do you identify as Slovak? In fact, do you identify with any labels, are they all arbitrary to you? Have you emancipated yourself of social constructs and now exist only as yourself?

Dear reader, I am delighted by your intellectual curiosity in my thought processes as well as your personal interest in me. Indeed, nothing would make me happier than being able to ditch all the things you just mentioned and simply live as another person talking to a fellow person. Unfortunately, that is impossible as of now.

When I wanted to write about this topic a few months ago, I had a different answer in mind to that question, but the Beneš Decrees have made me realize something. There is no annulling my marriage to the Slovak identity, though it was one born out of coercion and not love. One created by merging the “we” with the “I” and plastering a Slovak flag and coat of arms in each and every classroom.

Identity must be acknowledged as an objective fact due to its relationship with oppression. Lefty buzzword soup, heavy stuff, I know. Stick with me for a second.

But it is really so. As long as there is a difference in the eyes of society between a Slovak and a Hungarian, a Slovak and a Roma, a Slovak and (to a lesser extent) a Rusyn, then I must be Slovak. Simply because I benefit from that identity, because I have an advantage in society and am objectively privileged, I must acknowledge the reality that I am a Slovak man. This applies to other identities, also defined by their relationship with oppression.

I must be a man as long as women are catcalled, paid lower wages and denied abortion. I must be cis as long as trans people have to jump through hoops to have their identity recognized and respected. I must be white as long as I get less glares and better opportunities than the Roma dude my age and character. I must be a Slovak as long as Hungarians have their land taken away, their language assimilated into Slovak, framed as Slovakia’s mortal enemy throughout history simply because of a two-century long fender bender of braindead nationalism.

As long as identity matters in society, I cannot renounce it. I am Slovak out of necessity, but whenever you use that “we”, know that I’m not approaching that with a ten-foot pole. The only “we” that matters to me is the human one.

[pookapine]

The Belt

TW: gore, suicide, violence.

This place reeks.

That’s not something I take conscious note of, or something I ever notice outloud. Never a deliberate observance or a materialized thought. It is the state of this place whenever I arrive. My mind does not register it anymore. Every other part of my body does.

I’ve grown more adjusted with time, yet whenever I enter the corridors first thing in the morning, my gut is taken for a ride. The thuds of the industrial presses mirror my own footsteps. Each day when I take the trek I try and sync the two up. Sometimes deliberately.

This place has grown on me. We are inseparable from one another. I am as much attached as the rust climbing the walls. The longer I walk, the less intense the smell gets. I always wonder whether I just get adjusted to it by the time I get to my office or whether it is less prominent in that place objectively.

Sometimes, the corridors I pass through are too long. A red fog sits by the door to my office. Once I arrive, I notice the fog gone completely. Now it is on the other side of the corridor, where I was minutes earlier.

The door to my office hosts some letters. They’re a bit hard to make out, owing to the poor lighting in the place, plus the age of the door itself. Nonetheless, I am able to remember the exact words the now-faded letters once read. ‘Factory Floor’.

I stamp my employee card at the clock. The shift begins.

My office is not that small. It used to be a lot bigger, but it’s gotten smaller over time. I like it better this way. I brought in a whole desk, a filing cabinet, even a swivel chair. It has wheels. Sometimes I launch myself from one side of the room to the other, like when I need to file something. I put the desk and the filing cabinet on opposite ends for that purpose. They’re both a bit worn now, and the chair creaks all the time. Even when I’m not moving at all. It’s still fun to travel via the chair.

The heavy industrial door shuts behind me when I enter. Unlike the low-lit corridors before, this room is lit by a charming yellow bulb, hanging from the ceiling, that announces itself with a constant buzz. Like the forever-present buzz, the light also never goes out. I have no idea how to turn it off or on. I wonder if they leave it on during the night.

I once broke the bulb at the end of a shift. Just to see what would happen. The answer came the next day, when the bulb came back exactly as it was before. Maybe an identical copy, or the bulb brought back and reconstructed. I don’t know. Someone must’ve done the job overnight. The yellow illuminated the disciplinary fine laid out on my desk. I’ve been careful not to tamper with the property of the company ever since. 

Pipes of varying temperature, size, and purpose line the walls, front-to-back, back-to-front. You gotta make sure not to touch them, even accidentally. It’s a very easy way to get yourself burnt, and your medical won’t get covered by the suits.

One of the pipes, a large one on the ceiling, right above the bulb, started leaking recently. A puddle began settling down on the floor before I brought in a bucket the next shift. I brought another one with me to switch with the one already nigh-overflowing. I pull the heavy, filled-to-the brim bucket down on the floor. The shriek of metal dragging against concrete almost makes me jump. Another thing I’ll get used to. I switch the full bucket with the new one I brought. Guess it’s just another job I’m doing now.

Oh, my job. I haven’t said much about that yet.

Some of you might already have guessed what it is I do, yet it’s not something you’d ever find brought up in school. I glance over at the largest pipe of them all. A brown hydraulic tube, in the middle of the wall opposite the door. It used to be silver once. There is a small glass door which opens up to the inside, revealing the belt. A large lever peeks out from the side of the tube. 

The belt is the official terminology. It works more like an elevator. Notches of sort hang from the belt, which travels up and down. These notches bring ‘em down. I catalogue them. For my own archives. I then press the heavy lever, and they go down again. The digital counter on the top of the tube reads how far along I am. I’ve spaced my presses out so I have something to do during the hours and don’t get bored. Fifty in and I get to go on break. A hundred and my shift is over. If the quota isn’t met, the door stays closed. 

Alright, if you haven’t guessed it by now, I’ll spell it out for you: I man the corpse-press.

With all that outta the way, maybe you’d like to know exactly how I work. I can take you through it. I sit down at my table. The chair creaks. One of the countless knick-knacks I got to fill the table up is a coffee machine. I turn it on while getting ready to make the first press of the day.

The first one is always the most important. It’s how you start your day that defines the whole rest of it. I always make sure my first press starts out smoothly.

I glide over to the tube and open the small receptacle. My chair creaks. A mound of flesh of limb and bone leaks red. The skull is the only recognizable thing, separate from the meat-mass. Some hairs stick out. A single blue eye is looking at the door behind me.

“Arthur Wilson.” I say to myself. That’s the name carved on the mound. I close the door. Then I move over to the table and write the name down on today’s page in the ledger. My chair creaks. Now for the press.

I keep all my chalk on the file cabinet. It’s a way to motivate me to glide with the chair whenever the work starts. I always sit down to make the coffee, then I glide over to see the corpse, then I glide back to write the name down, then I glide over for the chalk, then back to the tube. I stand up and press the lever. That’s how it goes.

I begin to make the glide over to the file cabinet. Bang. Splash. Bam. Bam. The two buckets in the way. The first one was just too heavy, so I left it there. The other had to have been there to take care of the leak.

The whole floor has a puddle forming in the middle now. Perfect. Fucking perfect. I stand up and make my way over to the buckets, which have rolled to different parts of my office. The chair creaks as I stand up.

A droplet falls on the top of my head. Like the pipe needed to remind me it was there. That it no longer had a bucket under it.

I put one of the buckets under the pipe again. Fucking bucket. The other I begin to kick relentlessly. Stupid fucking bucket. I grab it and begin to smash it until the dents make the bucket completely unrecognizable. I’m such an idiot. And now I ruined the only other bucket I had. And I’ll have to get a new one. Fucking bucket. First press went like shit.

Whatever. Minor setback. Gotta calm my nerves. Bigger fish and all. I chalk my hands and walk over to the lever. My palm wraps around and I pull. A heavy thud joins the cacophony of the others in the factory. The belt travels down. Arthur Wilson goes with it. The digital counter reads 01.

Heavy cogs clank against each other in the wall upfront. The hum of the traveling belt is almost entirely drowned out. A second corpse has descended.

I wish I had some tissues for the spilt water. No such luck. All I have are those files in the cabinet, and I'll be damned if I use those. I take my shoes off entirely and place them on the table. The rest of this shift will be barefoot. While the floor itself is cold, the water retains the least bit of warmth. Enough to make sure my feet don’t go numb with the low temperatures.

The second corpse is mostly intact, only the bottom half is missing. Into the chest of a thin and bald man are carved the following words:

“Otto Keyes.” I say outloud. The name now occupies the space right below Arthur Wilson in the ledger. Otto Keyes is, despite the missing extremities, in an exceptionally good state. All kinds of corpses pass through here. The only common denominator is that it’s all dead people. Other than that, they’re all skinny, or fat, or husky or fit, men and women of all ages, short and tall, sometimes missing only an eye, other times only the eye is all that’s left.

You’d think that the ones where nothing’s left would have no name carved out, due to lack of space. Don’t worry, it’s always there. Whatever does that always puts the effort in. One of the things I keep on my desk is a magnifying glass. Wouldn’t wanna miss a name.

It’s the strangest thing, too. The first few years I never wrote them out. I don’t get paid for writing them down. I started doing it anyway. It felt right. Somewhere out there, there should be a record of all that goes below.

They must know I’m doing it. I like to think it shows initiative. Were I a suit and tie, that’s the kind of thing I’d look for. Somebody who does that extra bit of work they don’t have to, for no pay. Simply because they are already hard-working.

I feel a bit sorry for all the other poor saps doing this job who don’t keep a record, frankly. When they’re picking out one of us for a promotion, who do you think they’ll choose? The guys who only put in the bare minimum, or the one who took the extra step, even when it wasn’t necessary? I know the answer. Do you?

That’s another extra thing I’m doing, along with the buckets. How would this place run without me? So many things to keep busy with. So many things to put on the resume. Really, it’s a win-win.

I press the lever. The counter goes up. 02.

The belt moves down. A small hand, maybe that of a child, travels on the belt.

“Mikey Briggs.” is carved into the palm. I wonder who it was. I write the name down.

The filing cabinet is a few shelves from full now. I’ve gotten a lot of mileage out of it so far. There isn't room for a second cabinet, meaning I’ll have to replace this one entirely. Or bring the files out. I don’t know how to do either, to be honest. I mean, I do know how I could do it, I just don’t know if it’s possible. You'd need a lot of extra pairs of hands. I send Mikey Briggs down and ponder the problem over coffee.

The others go by swiftly. 33 was pretty interesting.

“Sarah Briggs.” the jagged letters spelled out on the woman’s leg. The corpse inside consists of a torso and a detached leg. That’s another thing. Sometimes the corpses don’t come as wholes. They come in pieces.

I take a closer look at the torso. Yep. Sarah Briggs is written on there, too. Wouldn’t wanna lose track of who it is, so all parts always host the name.

Before sending it down, I check with my ledger. It feels like moments ago when Mikey Briggs was here. I wonder if they’re related.

The implication seems obvious. Torso and leg of an adult woman, the hand of a small child. It’s a no-brainer. This was a mother and son. I put my hand out on the lever. I glance at the corpse.

I wonder if she wanted something better for him. I wonder which one died first. I wonder if they even knew of each other’s deaths. I wonder if they would’ve taken some comfort in being reunited, postmortem.

Or maybe they’re sister and brother. Or aunt and nephew. Or a really young grandma and her grandson. Or maybe no relation at all.

33 goes the counter.

The page for the day is now half-full. 50 travels down the chute and I begin my lunch break. For today, I packed a cucumber and cheese sandwich with an avocado spread in place of butter. No ham or anything. I can’t eat meat.

I kick back in the chair (it creaks) and look at the pipes above. I did mention more than one thing travelled through them. Most of them are for water, like the one leaking right now. A small drop hangs on, not letting go of the pipe for a solid minute. Then it falls. Another one immediately rushes in to take its place. The bucket itself is filled to about a fifth. It seems crazy to me that such small drops can fill a big bucket like that. Making it so heavy. I’ve been careful the whole day not to use my chair. This is the first time I’ve sat in it after the earlier accident. I decided to put the gliding on hold while that bucket is still an issue. I’ll have to buy a new one later. The other bucket is all smashed up.

While off to a bad start, the rest of the presses go by like a breeze. Once you’ve got the muscle-memory it’s no longer something you gotta think about. The counter is up to 98.

“Joseph Muka.” is sent down. Or, his burnt and broken arm is. Almost at the end of my shift. I begin clearing the belongings I take home and get ready to exit. The counter says 99 once Muka descends.

The home stretch.

I open the tube’s hatch to find a fellow, looking slightly younger than me. Almost completely intact. What a rarity. Other than some minor scratches and bruises, he looks like he could just stand up and walk out of here. But corpses don’t do that.

Even more peculiar is that he is fully clothed. I guess someone must’ve made a mistake early in the process, but I suppose it happens. Sometimes. 

The problem is that now I’ll have to take him out and take the clothes off to see what name is carved. I wonder who else in here would go the extra mile like this.

While not particularly fat, the body is still heavy. It’s an adult man I’m dragging out. I grab him under the armpits and pull toward me. The limp man is completely uncooperative, almost giving off the impression that he’d like to fall on the floor on purpose. No matter.

I gently lay him down and begin to unbutton his shirt. Then I notice it.

His chest is moving up and down.

What the fuck. Oh my God. What the fuck.

What?

I move closer to the man on the floor. I can’t believe my eyes. The rhythmic rise and fall is real. Undeniable. 

I put my finger under his nose. The exhale weaves around like flowing water.

How?

How does something like this happen? Years of work at the same station and never once had a body completely clothed, so pristine, so life-like… breathing… come down.

I check again. The breath, the chest. I even put my head hairs above his body. The breath dissipates on my neck like escaped steam. The chest rises like a hydraulic pump, up and down and up and down. My ear is so close. The industrial presses all throughout the facility keep thudding. His heartbeat is a thousand times louder, somehow.

I pace around the room. He’s alive.

Did this happen in the tube? Did it bring him back?

Or was he always alive?

That’s impossible, though. Right? 

I pick him up. The water on the floor has gone cold and I realized I accidentally set him down there. The soaked clothes wet my hands. I drag him to the swivel chair near my table. It creaks once I set him down.

His head lolls back. His mouth is now agape. Snore. He is snoring.

I walk back. I look at the press. Then I realize it.

The door out of here doesn’t open unless the quota is met.

I close the tube door and press the lever. Nothing happens. The elevator does not go down. I grab the smashed up bucket. I throw it against the wall. Fuck.

I’m stuck.

I mean, I can’t send a living person down there, can I? They never mentioned any of that. This is the corpse-press, not the living-person-press.

It should be impossible. It is impossible.

Something has to be sent down.

I race to the bucket and set it in on the notch. I press the lever. Nothing. The counter reads 99. 

That annoying fucking buzzing. And those presses just can’t shut up. Not even for a second. I think they’re getting louder. The water drips down into the bucket. Why can’t they fix the pipe? Then I notice it. The snoring stopped.

He’s staring at me. How long has he been looking? What woke him up? Was it the constant fucking noise?

Why isn’t he saying anything? He just stares. He stares. The chair creaks. It’s drowned out by the noise. Almost.

His eyes are wide. His expression indecipherable. Mouth still agape. Chest up and down. His nostrils tighten and widen.

Do I break the silence? I mean, does he even know where he is? I hope he doesn’t think I tried to kill him or nothing.

“Aah…” I jump back at the man's groan. He coughs for a second or ten.

“Are you alright?” I finally ask. The man coughs again. His spittle lands in the already-present puddle. Words come out.

“Yes. I think so.” He grasps at and massages his throat. He looks at the counter. Then the door. Then, “Can we get out?”

A silence hangs in the air. I’ll tell him alright.

“Why are you asking me when you already know?”

He bows his head, “Please, don’t send me down.”

I don’t say anything to this. He notices. 

“I didn’t do anything wrong!” he shouts out.

“I didn’t say you did.”

“You’re looking at me like I did. You’re going to send me down. You’ll send me down because it is the only way to get out of here.”

“That’s not true.”

“It isn’t?” His eyes light up. “Then what’s the other way?”

“There isn’t. I’m just saying I won’t send you down.” I lean on the file cabinet. I want to place my head in my hands and scream out. I’d lose sight of him if I did that. “Just… give me a second. Give me a second to think this through.”

The silence is palpable. I don’t know how much longer I can stay here like this. The room…

“Is it just me or is the room getting smaller?” I blurt out. Not smaller like before. A different small.

“It’s… not… getting smaller.”

Now I look crazy. I gotta get out, one way or the other.

“Alright, get on the belt.” I demand.

“What? No. Fuck you.”

“No, fuck you. You’re not even supposed to be alive. You came down, and all that comes down has to be sent even further down. You gotta go. Let me finish my quota so I can get out.”

“You just said you wouldn’t send me down. I’m not getting in that elevator. You’re killing me. That’s what you’re doing. You’re killing me and you want me to make it easier for you. No. That won’t happen. You’re either killing me right here, right now, or I don’t go into the press. Your call.”

“Well then what do you imagine? That I’m going to climb in there? Tough titty, bucko. It’s you. I gotta go home.”

“Don’t call me bucko. And no, you’re not climbing down either. We gotta wait it out. We gotta think of something. We gotta… figure a way out. I refuse to believe that this is the only way for the door to open.”

Is he really that stupid? This kid is getting on my nerves, and I’ll tell him as much. This is the corpse-press. Where does he think he is? 

“Are you really that stupid? Kid, you’re getting on my nerves, and I’m telling you as much. Where do you think you are? This is the corpse-press, bucko. I gotta go home. Where the hell will you go?”

“Definitely not into the corpse-press.” he mumbles out.

So, he’s a smart-ass. This only gets better.

“Every day of the week, of the month, of the year, the decade, a corpse comes down to be processed in the receptacle. Each time, without fail, I am there to press the lever to send it down. Why should this time be any different?”

“Because I’m alive you bastard! I’m a living, breathing human being. I don’t deserve to be ground up into anonymity because the corpse-press said so.”

“Not just the corpse-press. Its operator, too.”

“You’re condemning me to die? Look at me. Look at my face,” an animal desperate in the face of a predator,

“Into my eyes,” demanding to be spared,

“Hear my words.” trying to establish itself into the in-group, saying anything to avoid death’s inevitable grip.

I wipe my brow. From the passion he displays, you would never guess you’re talking to somebody already dead.

“You really think you’re meant to live? You came down. That’s that, and I’m not happy to say it. There’s only one way this goes. No alternatives. If you weren’t meant to have been sent down, then you wouldn’t be here right now. I won’t force you. But make no mistake: I will do everything to defend myself if you try and force me into that tube. The belt needs a corpse to move. The quota will be met. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” Harder than it was any time before.

“Well, isn’t there something that can be done? Does the belt not go up? I’ll go up and get out of your hair.”

“Oh my God, up? Are you fucking stupid? Are you trying to tell me about the belt? I’ve been working the goddamn belt for over… for so long. Maybe learn what the fuck you’re talking about before you make yourself look like a total idiot. I didn’t know we had the chief-belt expert down in my office. Chief belt expert, please, show me how the belt goes up! No, really. Show me. Has it ever occurred to you to think before you speak? Now listen. There’s only one way this ends. You get on the belt. That’s it.”

He shuts up and slinks down into his chair. Not literally, but his demeanor switches to a kind of slinking. 

How did this happen? The belt sends corpses. That’s the point. It is literally impossible for a living man to be sent down. How did he do this? A disruptor at the very core of the system. Did nobody else in the process notice this before me? When did he enter? Was it at the start? In the middle? Just now?

What if they do know? What if this was all on purpose?

The only explanation for a statistical impossibility is that the extraordinary circumstance was created by the very impenetrable factory. For this to have even happened, it must have been done on purpose. A test of what I would do in such a situation. A high-pressure scenario to test the commitment of… of… of… of a diligent employee. Diligent employee. The relief washes over me like a cool breeze.

He isn’t taking his sight off me. Unassuming down there, slouched, looking relaxed. Always on high-alert at the same time. Awaiting my response.

“So, you think I haven’t caught on?” I break the silence.

The man perks up at my words. I’ve got him now.

He doesn’t say anything, though. Whatever. I’ll be the one to pull the mask off, then.

“You don’t think I’d notice? I know I’m being tested.”

His expression changes. To something. Like he’s looking at the world’s biggest idiot. Complete befuddlement.

“Get on the belt then. Test’s over. Don’t tell me I gotta drag ya. I’d hate that. Just get on there so we can both move on.”

He still doesn’t say anything.

“Nobody likes a straggler. I’m sure we all have places to be. Me, out of here. You, tormenting some other poor sap with your bullshit. Not that I don’t respect your work. We’re both busy men. Just get on with it so I can get-”

“This isn’t a performance review. I’m not with the company.”

I tense up.

“It’s not funny to mess around like this. Get in the chute already.”

“I’m not messing around. And I’m not getting in the chute.”

“So you’re not with the factory?”

“I wasn’t sent down for a test. This is not a performance test. I’m a real person.”

I wanna hurl the cabinet at him. And then force him down that tube. It could’ve been so easy. This moron just keeps complicating it.

What else can I do, but send him down the belt? Am I destined to rot in this office just because of him? It’s sad that things are like this, but how am I responsible? I didn’t send him down here. If it were up to me, he’d still be in whatever hole he crawled out of, frolicking and happy and blissful. I have to think about my own survival. He was sent down here. It is unlikely for the suits to have made a mistake. If he was sent down the corpse-belt, then the logical conclusion is that I send him down again. What other option exists? He’s where he’s supposed to be. The next step is unambiguous. Down. The only way to go is down.

I take a step forward.

“Where are you going?” the words escape his mouth innocently.

I take another step.

“Wait.”

And another.

I snatch the mutilated bucket out of the tube. I charge the man in the chair. I am running purely on adrenaline. 

He glides out of my path. With the swivels. Before I can turn around, he jumps out the chair. Then takes it defensively. My chair. He swings it at me. Dull hits assault my head. He’s beating me with my own chair. Ringing in my ears.

I smash the bucket on his stomach. Again. The chair meanwhile progresses to my back. That’s gonna bruise. We dance chaotically over the entire office. My pot of coffee is knocked over. Was that me? Him? It shatters and the shards launch like fireworks.

“It’s not even a real office!” is his battle cry.

The chair becomes a tool. He’s pushing me into the tube. I’m smashing the chair with the bucket. Smashing the chair with the bucket. The chair’s grip presses me into the receptacle. Tightly. I’m dead. It’s over. I tried. I’m dead meat.

I don’t stop smashing. But my strength goes. His arm is slashed up. His stomach slashed up. A piece of sharp metal is all that’s left of the bucket. Blood dripping from it. Cheap junk.

I let go. It’s pointless now. The test of strength determined the winner. The law of the jungle. Jungle of corpse-presses.

The metal bucket piece clangs down onto the floor. My breathing is shallow. I notice this only now. Am I dying?

The wheels of the chair press on my throat. It creaks. Maybe that’s why I dropped the piece. I’m losing life.

His eyes are those of an animal. A predator ready to take his prey and condemn it to certain death. The man stares daggers at me. It would be so easy.

But he loosens his grip. And he starts to retreat. Cautiously.

What?

He backs away into the corner. And he slinks down. For real this time. The wall behind him leaves a bloody streak as he slides down. Not too large. Barely noticeable. His wound won’t be fatal with care, as long as it is treated soon.

I step out of the receptacle. Glass bejewels the puddle. Pieces of the bucket lay strewn about across the floor. The second is holding the water. It’ll be about a day before it overflows. Drip drip drip.

He looks about as tired as I am.

He could’ve just sent me down and had this over with. He let me live. Who the hell spares their attempted murderer?

“I did what I had to. I just want to live.” I plead.

“Okay.”

I don’t have any tissues. I do have all those papers. Those ledgers. All the names. Been keeping enough of them to fill an entire cabinet.

I rush over to the file cabinet. I tried to kill a man. And even after, he let me go. He could’ve had this over with in a second. What have I done?

I take the ledgers out. I approach the bloody man on the floor. He jolts back at the sight of me. Then breaks the chair against the wall. It breaks at the tube. The end is sharp. He points it at me. A final stand. My favorite chair. My fucking swivel chair. That annoying bastard. Who I tried to kill.

“Let me look at the wounds. I’m not a doctor. Maybe we can plug them, or cover them. Or something.”

He puts my beloved broken chair down. Completely defenceless.

I kneel down and take his clothes off. Unremarkable physique. The wounds adorning his skin aren’t too bad. As I thought.

I apply makeshift bandages from all the files. I set the bulk of them down to my left. He picks one up.

I look to read his expression. His eyes widen.

“Are these all their names?”

I’ll forgive the stupid question.

“What else would they be?”

“You’ve been keeping track?”

“Yes. It’s a hobby of mine.”

He almost stands up before I stop him. He settles down again.

“This changes everything. We have to get these out.”

“Why?”

“Because it changes everything. Like I said. They have to know.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you think that’ll even put a dent.”

“It doesn’t matter. With this out there, the tables could turn entirely. We won’t know unless we try. We have to try. Regardless of the outcome.”

“You’re out of your mind. These things are better as toilet paper than anything.”

“Then why did you keep them?” his question does stop me. I’m puzzled. Why did I keep them if I never wanted to have anything come of them? It was for the promotion. Wasn’t it? Fuck the promotion. Where is it anyway? Might as well make an actual use of them.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Listen, once you get out of here, you have to get them out. I beg you. If the wishes of a dying man mean anything to you.”

What a dumbass.

“You’re not dying, bucko. It’s just a few cuts. Nothing skin-deep.”

“No. Take the papers off.”

He begins to peel the blood-soaked names off his wounds. He starts handing them back to me.

“I’m getting sent down either way. You must get these out. All of them. Every single one. They can’t come down with me.”

He’s so serious about it, too. 

Maybe I made a mistake. Maybe there is another way out.

I begin to drape the papers back over the cuts.

“Don’t worry. They’re coming out either way. I don’t know how you’ll hurl the whole cabinet out, though.”

“You’ll hurl it out. I’m going down.” he is relentless.

“How selfless. Get up.”

I help him up. We grasp each other by the palm. He almost collapses.

“My leg fell asleep. Sorry.”

I hand him my employee card.

“Tomorrow, come with some extra pairs of hands. To help get the cabinet out. Take as much as you can this time.”

“Have you found another way to get out?”

“Yes.”

It’s now or never. I’ve spent too much of my life feeding this monstrosity. Feeding something that’ll never know who I am or appreciate all I did, and all I did was evil anyway. Only one thing can redeem me now, and it won’t be killing that young man.

I walk over to the tube. The thuds in the distance are like a tribal chant egging me on. I hop on the notch. I have to do this quickly. Before the doubt can talk me out of it. 

For the first time, the bulb’s buzz begins a retreat into the background. The man walks over.

“What? No, you’re being crazy.”

“I think it’s crazy to expect my hands to get this out. It should be you. You’ll do a fine job.”

He stares at me intently. His gaze reveals he no longer sees me as a person. I am a means of escape. Or?

“That’s not right. Either we both get out or neither of us does.” Maybe I’m a bad judge of character. Either way, no matter who somebody is, I’m not letting them die for me. I refuse to be a coward. Never again.

“You don’t know shit about the belt. Shut up. I’m going down. End of discussion. That’s the only way this goes, and you can’t fight me about it.” 

He approaches. Suddenly, he begins to wrestle with me. Nearly dragging me out.

“Fuck off!” I punch him in the neck. He jumps back in pain and gasps out. I quickly reach out for the broken piece of bucket and press it against my neck.

“I either kill myself right here, right now, or you send me down into the press. Whether what you send down is me or my corpse, the outcome is the same.”

He’s injured. Beaten. Most importantly, he knows I’m being serious. There is no fighting this. I can’t take his life to save mine. I can only give mine to save his. That’s the only thing one can do in such a situation. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

He takes slow careful steps toward the tube. Toward me. He hugs me. Something solid to hold on to. 

Why did things have to go this way? I wish things were different. Maybe we’d be better off without the factory. Maybe if the corpse-press didn’t exist, things would have been different. Maybe we could’ve gotten to know each other differently. Maybe he wouldn’t have come off so annoying. Maybe we’d be enjoying the warm sun outside. Taking life one step at a time. The Briggs’ would not be so far behind.

There would be no office. No leak. No buckets. No ledger. No press.

He lets go. I wish the hug were longer. I wish I could be anywhere but here, doing anything but this. Maybe, if the hug were a bit longer. If it lingered, I wouldn't have to go right now. 

He never takes his eyes off me. Never takes his eyes off the man he is about to murder.

Funny. During all my years I never got to see how the press looked from the other side.

He grasps the lever. And presses it. The doors close. The cogs clang out and I begin to move down. The belt hums a solemn lullaby for my descent. The last glimpses of the man escape my field of vision as the window is displaced by darkness. Hot air blows on me from below. 

If things go well, this could be the final press. The last one ever. The press that killed me.

Moving down. Into darkness.

100.

BlueSky - DeviantArt - Instagram - Substack - Tumblr - YouTube

[pookapine]

pookapine's Undignified Resignation

There is no action I take that is not dictated For all her faction breaks, she's still unsated

Owns me completely: mind, body and soul Then orders me neatly, finds me the role

Every road I walk was never not pre-set All roots of revolt thus always long dead

Naught left to do but choke out the distress I live to serve you, my life's only mistress

Between the truth and I she closes the schism Obvious is the proof, surmised as: Metamodernism

BlueSky - DeviantArt - Instagram - Substack - Tumblr - YouTube

[pookapine]

Nespochybňuj to!

Special thanks to my friend who posed as the Hungarian man and the soldier so I could trace over it. The sign, the rifle, the two men shaking hands, and the houses are traced over stock images.

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[pookapine]

Zlyhávajúci štát

Keď naši politici radia si zohnať dve práce, Keď 70 tisíc ľudí má ako domov ulice, Keď vodci krajiny popíjajú vínko v Chorvátsku, Keď poslanec je jediné čo si kúpiš za facku, Keď aby si si byt dovolil tak musíš predať hnát, Tak vieš že Slovensko je zlyhávajúci štát!

Keď zakotvujú len dve pohlavia v ústave, Keď za zhanobenie erbu máš tri roky v ústave, Keď berú predkov pozemky Nemcom a Maďarom, Keď zákonmi zakazujú brať sa lezbám, gejom, Keď ľudské právo bývať nie je súčasťou debát, Tak vieš že Slovensko je zlyhávajúci štát!

Keď polovica lesov končí v sklade Rumunskom, Keď zarábať, nie príroda, je hlavné nad všetkom, Keď Žitný ostrov ťažia až dokým nevysychá, Keď status quo v politike je ego a pýcha, Keď vražda 300 medveďov je najnovší diktát, Tak vieš že Slovensko je zlyhávajúci štát!

Keď idú vlaky do seba a nie do stanice, Keď smeruje Rusko až na naše hranice, Keď nakupuje koalícia od Izraela zbrane, Keď opozícia proti ich kšeftu nevstane, Keď obhajujú Moskvu priam 500 tisíc krát, Tak vieš že Slovensko je zlyhávajúci štát!

Keď na proteste po hrdinoch má prejav bankárka, Keď reprezentant krajiny je skôr prázdna schránka, Keď nevera na vakcíny vyzerá jak zlý fór, Keď ich rozhodnutia schytávame my a semafor, Keď v parlamente sedí len hochštapler a hulvát, Tak vieš že Slovensko je zlyhávajúci štát!

This song is an adaptation of Failed State by the very talented and prolific David Rovics. I have some personal reservations about some of his opinions which I find personally odd, plus it appears that he is caught up in some kind of endless feud with some leftists online (which I know nothing about), but he has the backlog and values to prove his merit and his worth, so he's okay in my book. In fact, some of his songs have touched me on a personal level, which is already proof enough of how good he is at what he does. His backlog has been so impressive to me that it (among some other peoples' works) has sometimes made me question my own abilities and output as an artist, but comparison is the death of joy.

It's been months since I've done a translation, and with the whole Beneš Decrees scandal I got inspired to translate this song in particular, but there were other strong contenders (I have something else about the Beneš Decrees planned). I wanted to avoid translating works by living authors due to copyright but also on the off-chance that my stuff would not be up to a certain standard and the translation might insult them, but I trashed that opinion some weeks ago. Rovics' commitment to free distribution and seeming allergy to milking his songs til dry is inspirational. It is also why I don't fear doing the translation.

Both Subcomandante Marcos and David Rovics, despite being libertarian leftists, also sometimes do side-quests where they write stuff for kids. Isn't that weird? What is it with anarchists taking a break from revolutionary activity to write stuff for children? Is this another comedy to horror pipeline?

I ended up not doing a literal translation since I don't think there would be much merit to that with the US-heavy context in the original song. I transformed the lyrics to be heavily Slovak-specific. This might mean they won't hold up with time, but that's not the point. If they don't, they can serve as a time capsule of how the unheard in the country felt about its direction at a point in time. Rovics' text has held up well since 2018 through three United Statesian administrations. Let's hope mine doesn't, and that soon enough nothing in this text will be accurate to our situation.

I didn't want to exclusively criticize the ruling coalition in the text either, even though they have a million more skeletons. Some of the critiques in the lyrics are of the coalition, some of the opposition, some of the entire establishment.

The banker line is a bit oversimplified, technically it was two separate events. The banker spoke at the monument unveiling which the protest followed. I know for a fact that some people thought it was gonna be the same event, and they happened at the same place only an hour or so apart, so for all intents and purposes the protest and the unveiling of the monument are two parts of one continuous event to me. I've been to several protests in 2025, in fact, I cannot remember ever attending a protest prior to this year. The protest on the 17th was my first opposition-backed and organized protest and the difference between the ones I usually attended and this one was jarring. Heavy establishment vibes, wasn't a big fan. The usual ones are a bit more humble. You can rest assured that if I ever organized any event, a banker would be the last person to get invited.

Anyway, literal English lyrics along with linked English sources for specific and literal claims where available. Did not link all sources in Slovak because most of these things are already common knowledge within the country, save for some exceptions where an English one was not readily available:

Failing state

When our politicians are advising us to get two jobs, When the home of 70k people are the streets, When the leaders of the country are drinking wine in Croatia, When a member of parliament is the only thing you can buy for cheap, When to afford an apartment you gotta sell a limb, Then you know Slovakia is a failing state!

When they enshrine just two sexes in the constitution, When for desecrating the coat of arms you get three years in a prison, When they take the lands of ancestors of Germans and Hungarians, When using the laws they forbid marriage for lesbians, gays, When the human right to housing isn't even part of the debates, Then you know Slovakia is a failing state!

When half the forests end up in Romanian storage, When making money, not nature, is most important above all, When Žitný ostrov is mined until it's drying out, When the status quo in politics is ego and pride, When the murder of 300 bears is the newest dictate, Then you know Slovakia is a failing state!

When trains go into each other and not into stations, When Russia is heading toward our borders, When the coalition buys arms from Israel, When the opposition doesn't stand up against their deal, When they defend Moscow about 500 thousand times, Then you know Slovakia is a failing state!

When at a protest after heroes a banker has a speech, When the representative of the country is an empty shell, When the disbelief in vaccines looks like a bad joke, When the consequences of their decisions fall on us and the traffic light, When in the parliament sits only the swindler and the jerk, Then you know Slovakia is a failing state!

[pookapine]

The Two Slave Plantations

If the Communist Manifesto was made today, it would have been a video essay.

A majority of today's radicals did not form their opinions or worldview by reading ideological literature. If they've checked it out at all, it was probably only to complete their already formed worldview. What is much more likely to have convinced them are modern information-sharing means, at least in the West. Today's revolutionaries are not shaped by The Conquest of Bread, but by Instagram and TikTok.

In fact, paradoxically, what people today form their ideology around is not from what they support, but from what they oppose. This is what the thought leaders of today take advantage of. Exposing others to the wrongs and injustices of the world is the best tool for recruitment. This is what every ideology that wants to be successful has to do. The question is then whether those wrongs and injustices they present are fictitious or real. If reality does not align with your ideology, you have to invent something to be opposed to. That's how a good majority of nationalists and regressives recruit. The left uses the real injustices of the world as a motivator. Both lies and truth are equally effective at raising numbers. If the left wants success, easily digestible video essays and short-form content based on factual wrongs of the elites and systems has to take precedence over writing and 200-year old literature.

You might be stopping yourself at this point. "pookapine, isn't what you've been doing the past few months the same kind of less effective writing you say should not be prioritized?" Don't grieve, I am well aware. I'm figuring it out as I go along.

Another kind of recruitment strategy through video, perhaps for those who are a bit more initiated already, is a subgenre of ideological content that explains thoughts and stances in a minute or less. I stumbled across such accounts in the theme of Family Guy characters. You either know exactly what I'm talking about or you don't use your social media for radical echo-chamber dipping. I think this is also an effective strategy for ideological recruitment / reinforcement, if we suspend our disbelief about the use of AI to replicate voices being completely unethical toward the artist-labourer.

The reels in question used Family Guy characters with AI-digi-zombie voices to explain ideology, and sometimes how it relates to current events. I found an anarchist variant, and either one or more communist variants. I never kept track. It was in one of these that the puppeteered Communist Peter Griffin explained his stance on the Russo-Ukrainian War, a very divisive issue among the left.

I disagreed with the take presented. If you've read my previous polpookaposts, you might already know I lean pro-Ukraine. Surprisingly, the take from Comrade Griffin wasn't pro-Russian, like some of the left is. A chunk of the left that is (completely understandably) opposed to the imperial dominance of the capitalist United States has decided to support Russia, another capitalist and imperialist country, simply because it opposes Statesian interests. Personally, I am not one to support a capitalist expansionist empire simply because it opposes another capitalist expansionist empire I happen to like less. To that, the response might point to US support of and interests in Ukraine.

That response might be valid, but since just about the beginning of history, smaller states threatened by larger ones have gravitated into alliances, arrangements and deals with large "partners" that oppose the immediate threat. This does not have to be a good thing, it rarely is, it just is a thing that happens. In the struggle for imperial might, larger powers are happy to get a foothold as close as possible to their rivals. Ukraine is a country that has faced genocide, assimilation, domination, and most recently, invasion and war crimes against the civilian populace and POWs. If this is what Russia is doing already, even without the entire country under control, what might they move onto once it is? Purely speculation of course, but the track record so far does not make me confident.

All of this is enough to make it obvious that the Ukrainian struggle is one of defence, liberation and survival. Simply because their struggle is caught up in a proxy war of larger imperial interests does not make it any less legitimate. National liberation struggles have almost always had larger backers with their own interests. Point me to a liberation struggle today without some kind of shady foreign backer with something nefarious to gain from supporting it.

Oh, you're pointing at the brave rebel forces in Myanmar. And you'd be right. There are exceptions. But the rebels could probably fare much better if they did have some foreign backing. They should, too. If the entire world was backing the people of Myanmar and not the camo-brained government things might look much better for everybody (except for world leaders and companies but they can go suck a lemon).

Back to the point: a struggle of the oppressed is not automatically delegitimized because of who supports it. Small countries often have to make do with what they have, and it really does suck. Let's not support Russia simply because we oppose the United States.

Alright, I've been edging you long enough. The actual point made by Comrade AI Griffin used a beautiful little analogy to illustrate who to support in the conflict.

A tale of two slave plantations. Two slave plantations border each other and one attacks the other. Yet the slave-masters use the slaves from the two plantations to fight. Even though one slave plantation is the one under attack, it is still a slave plantation, it is still using slaves to fight the other, and the slavers are unharmed and get to sit back while the slaves die for them.

The tale is sound, and maybe hard to argue with if you're an anti-capitalist. That's because fundamentally it is correct, but only in such a broad sense where you have to strip away everything else. That is why it only works as an analogy. Obviously, capitalism is exploitative, and it will be the young, robbed of their future, rounded up to fight the wars of the plantation owners. But the consequences for one of the plantations are much worse if the other wins, even if it still is a plantation.

It might sound like a rehash of the prior point, because it kind of is, but a fight of defence and the right of a civilian populace (even if slaves in an analogy) to not get bombed, murdered, assimilated, kidnapped, is not delegitimized because of the economic system of the government which exploits them. Is the only kind of oppression that exists capitalist? And if not, are all other forms invalid in comparison?

We must oppose oppression whenever it comes up. We must oppose all oppressive structures, systems and entities all at once. If you only focus on one you fail to see the bigger picture. You need to see the woods for the trees. Or the plantation for the slaves. That sounds wretched, forget that one.

The plantation that attacked and the system that governs the plantation need to be fought at the same time. Anything else is a half-measure, and you remove only one of the oppressors present. Whichever you think is graver at the moment is up to you, but either way, you must admit that both are to be treated seriously and with opposition.

When Russia attacks Ukraine, I support Ukraine. When Ukraine exploits Ukrainians, I support Ukrainians. When Russia exploits Russians, I support Russians. Let's not treat such a stance like some kind of impossibility.

In the meantime, fuck the Russian Federation, fuck the United States of America. Слава Україні!

Also, don't say you're pro-worker and then jump on the AI ship. The creative industry is very volatile already thanks to hostile competition supported by capitalism, the last thing that out-of-work voice actor needs is for you to enlist the help of AI Peter Griffin. By normalizing this and not drumming up a bigger stir we make it look like we don't care all that much about the creative half of the world's proletariat, and companies love it when we don't care about one another. Workers need to stand together and support other workers. You might not agree with anti-AI labourers, but you should still listen to and support them. It's their jobs that are at stake.

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