---

The wailing of some middle aged woman is heard from the distance, battling for attention with the shrill scream of the ice cold Siberian wind. We find ourselves in a the tiniest plot of farm land we can see, piles of dirt hiding potatoes, a hastily put together scarecrow at one corner. Right in the centre of the shot is a fairly large man, bald cap securely fixed onto his head to cover his long hair. Staring straight at the camera, as the scene brings him into focus, his moustache is evidently curled upwards at the sides. His beard seems to have been permed up, causing it to frizz down to his chest... Eerily Caedusy.




"Kulak."


The man seems to be leaning on a hoe, which he flips up into the air with one fluid motion. The edge of the hoe seems to be stained red, still wet.


""That's what they call I 'round these pa'ts."


Reaching into his left pocket he digs around for a second before turning the whole pocket out. A few silver coins fall to the soil by his feet and he feigns surprise quite obviously.


""Oo'sies, our bad. Maybe is in this one..."


His hand dives into the right pocket, his fingers visibly curl around a rectangular object. With the face of a clown waiting to utter the punch line, he removes the object from his pocket.


""Can't be recording n'thing without this, can I?"


The cover of the book reads, in large text, "Synonyms and Gangster Insults". Clearing his throat dramatically, Danny continues.


""Kropotkin? Really? Marlow Raxis, Jody Madrox, Danny Imperial and now you? You're fucking kidding us, what they be putting in the water at the training institute? All y'all coming in sounding like cheap rip offs o' Gollum but the only thing all y'all got in common with that snivelling belly-crawler is yo' physical resemblance to the biproduct o' a downs syndrome frog and Chris Chaos' mother.


Kill kill kill, o' no, voices in me's head.


O' no, they're back! O' no, let me just insult this little some bitch before conducting myself in the exact same way. Cheap little thrills and mimicry, we sho' hope this is possible tongue-in-cheek ironically sneaky be damned, that is the WORST case of copyright infringement we has ever seens in our lives."


Danny winks at the camera directly, he flips it the bird before blinking and regaining his angry posture.


""You's best listen to those voices in yo' head though, love. You see, we is the kulak your brain wants you to kill. Well... if a Kulak wasn't a peasant and owned an apartment in downtown New York. Yeah, not some corner 7/11 stand like my fellow Hindus, or playing rugby and rolling in the sand like my fellow Fijians, ye' know, because we's a little more than the cultural consummation o' to ethnically diverse individuals.


I'm your little Kulak on steroids. Well to do, causation of the income gap, you're so desperately trying to battle. Why don't you call yo' little friends together in the basement of some gas station, proceed to give each other a beating to numb the voices in your head and replace them with more blood clots in your brain than you already have?


Then proceed to mix soap in your kitchen, beat yourself up and change your name to Tyler Durden, pretend to be something you're not. We are every communist son of a bitch's worst nightmare, these farming pants we seem to be wearing? Yeah, you could probably sell them and feed a hundred of your homeless friends for a year. Ain't that a peasant thought? Oops, pleasant."


Pulling the bald cap off his head and chucking the tiny book into the dirt, Mr Imperial tilts his head at the camera.


""Love, sunshine, cunt. Whatever you want to identify with, submit to the voices. OOOH DO TRY AND KILL ME. Please, be my guest."


Licking his lips, slightly cracked from the hard beating of the wind, Danny exhales slowly.

""What are you Kropotkin? What do you stand for? What do you do? You insult men more accomplished then you, belittle them even. You rumble on about how we’re a cheap gimmick? Trying avidly to yearn for attention… But wouldn’t that suggest we were actually trying? You’re a blank slate, and not in the good meaning of the phrase.

At least when you were masked you had an excuse.

At least when you were masked, you could say that was the point.

But what, now you’re going to conveniently borrow OUR “gimmick” as you put it? Suddenly, you’ve always had voices in your head… Huh?

Don’t get us wrong, we definitely know how that feels, as you can see. That’s our status quo. So if you’re struggling from the allusive voices, then we sympathise… Really. But then, my little cunt, where do you get the balls to come and pick a fight with us about our little game? YOU’RE PLAYING IT TOO. Of course, this is all assuming you’re actually suffering.

If you’re just really intelligent and mocking us the entire time…. Then do a little better a job of it, please. We don’t ignore presentation, the theatricality of it all… You seem to think this whole greyscale movement of architecture applies to character and speech too. Nobody feels anything for you, nobody fucking cares about you or your agenda. Shut the fuck up and retire Kropotkin, if you’re just wrestling to vent, we’ll mail you a hundred different stress balls and fleshlights, oh wait, or do you use dildos? Hell, we’ll send you both, bitch. That’ll sate your… Issues, far more than getting in the ring with us.

If anything, after you fight us you won’t be able to carry out “Prince Kropotkin’s” wishes and purge the world of Kulaks and inequality. Hell, you’ll be barely be able to lift your cock to pee, or bend your knees to piss. Again, whatever you’re packing down there.

You’ve given us nothing to work on after two vignettes, we’re going to go back to beating the life out of some of these poor farmers, just to have some fun. Toodles, sunshine.”

Danny turns on his feel, walking towards a nearby hut. The door seems to have been kicked down, the room has a massive hole in it. The screen fades to black.