“Avdotia Petrovna personally broke the toilets with her humongous ass, I swear…”
“Yerokha, hey, Yerokha…”
“Whaddya want?”
“Where’s my pie?”
“You knucklehead! Pick up your balls, they’re rolling around on the floor!”
“Buben, is it true that gray profits in the Trade Department are being closed down through the tax collectors?”
“Unh-uh. Only bonuses go through the tax collectors, but the gray are still covered by the junior clerks.”
“There’s enemies for you! No poker made could ever pick them out…”
“Wait until the fall, Brother Okhlop. We’ll pick them all out.”
“Autumn, autumn, they’re burning shiiiiips…young man, where did you get your tattoo?”
“In Nebuchadnezzar.”
“That’s nice. Especially down below, with the dragons…”
“Come on, Brother Mokry, let me have a swig of kvass.”
“Swig as much as you want, for the love of Christ, Brother Potyka.”
“They keep on about bribes, bribes, bribes…what the hell do I need to dig up bribes for?”
“See-saw, saw-see, Brother Yerokha doesn’t like me…”
“I’ll crack your forehead open, you troublemaker!”
“Did you hear why His Majesty closed the Third Western Pipeline? Those shithead Europeans didn’t give the court any Château Lafite again; just half a car, and they can’t even get that together!”
As always, Batya is the last into the steam room. The bathhouse attendants hold his wide body up and bring him to us. They hand over our kinsman:
“Batya, we hope you enjoyed your bath!”
“We hope it went all the way to the bone!”
“To your health!”
“Into the backbone.”
“Into the marrow!”
Batya’s body gives off heat.
“Oof, Holy Mother of God…give me some kvass!”
Silver cups are held out to our beloved Batya.
“Drink, Brother Batya!”
Batya scans us with bleary eyes, making his choice:
“Vosk!”
Vosk holds the cup for Batya. Of course, today the left wing is in favor. Rightly so. They earned it.
Batya drains the cup of honey kvass, takes a breath, and belches. He looks us over. We freeze. Batya bides his time, winks at us. And utters the long-awaited “Cluck, cluck cluck!”
The light goes down, and from the marble wall a shining hand, full of pills, extends outward. And like the confession for the Holy Communion, we stand in a humble line at the illumined palm. Each of us approaches, takes his tablet, places it in his mouth under the tongue, and moves away. I do the same. I take the tablet, which doesn’t look like anything unusual. I place it in my mouth, and already my fingers are trembling, my knees are weak, and my heart is beating like an anxious hammer; my blood is pounding at my temples like oprichniks breaking into a Zemstvo estate.
My trembling tongue covers the tablet as a cloud covers a temple high atop a hill. The tablet melts, melts sweetly under the tongue, the saliva flooding down upon it like the River Jordan flows in springtime. My heart throbs, I gasp for breath, the ends of my fingers grow cold, and my eyes are more sharp-sighted in the gloom. And now comes the long-awaited moment: a rush of blood to my member. I lower my eyes. I behold it, filling with blood. My refurbished member—with two cartilaginous inserts, a blade of hyperfilaments, pellets in bas relief—rises like a wave of meat with moving tattoos. It levitates like the trunk of a Siberian mammoth. And under my bold member the crimson light of my weighty genitals begins to glow. And not only mine. The genitals of everyone who took communion from the shining palm are glowing, like fire-flies in rotten tree stumps on Midsummer’s Eve. The oprichniks’ genitals have been kindled, each with its own light. For the right wing this color ranges from scarlet to the dark murrey of blood; for the left from sky blue to violet; and for the greenhorns, green light of all hues. And it is only our Batya whose genitals shine a special color, distinct from all the others—our dear Batya’s genitals shine yellow-gold. The great strength of the oprichnik brotherhood lies here. Oprichniks all have genitals revamped by ingenious Chinese doctors. Light flows from the genitals, craving manly love. It gathers strength from the rising member. And until the light has waned—we, the oprichniks, are entwined in brotherly embraces. Strong hands grasp strong bodies. We kiss one another on the lips. We kiss silently, like men, without any women’s sweet talk. We greet and excite one another through our kissing. The bath attendants bustle among us with clay pots filled with Chinese ointments. We scoop out the thick, aromatic ointment and spread it on our members. The wordless attendants move to and fro among us like shadows, for they do not shine.
“Hail!” Batya exclaims.
“Hail, hail!” we cry.
Batya is the first to rise. He moves Vosk close to him. Vosk sticks his member in Batya’s asshole. Batya groans with pleasure, grins, and bares his white teeth. Shelet embraces Vosk, pokes his greased dick in him. Vosk lets out a belly screech. Seryi fills up Shelet; Seryi is speared by Samosya, Samosya by Baldokhai, Baldokhai by Mokry, Mokry by Nechai, who has to push his sticky stud in, and then my turn comes. I clasp the leftwing brother with my left hand, and with my right I direct my member into his asshole. Wide is Nechai’s hole; I drive my member all the way to his purple core. Nechai doesn’t even grunt; he’s used to it, he’s one of the elder oprichniks. I get a stronger grasp on him, press him to me, tickle him with my beard. Buben attaches himself to me. My trembling asshole feels his club. It’s large—without a push it won’t go in. Buben pushes and pokes, then drives his fat-head member in. His machine reaches all the way to my innards, squeezing a guttural moan out of me. I moan in Nechai’s ear. Buben groans in mine, embracing me with his valiant arms. I don’t see who sticks him, but by the groans I know—it’s a worthy member. Well, there aren’t really any unworthy among us—the Chinese have renewed our genitals, strengthened them, equipped them. We have the wherewithal to delight one another, as well as to punish Russia’s enemies. The oprichnik caterpillar gathers, coupling. Behind me I hear groans and screeches. The law of the brotherhood requires that the left wingers and right wingers alternate, and only then do the younger ones join together. That’s Batya’s rule. And thank God…
By the cries and muttering I sense that the youngsters’ turn has come. Batya cheers them on:
“Don’t be scared, greenhorns!”
The youngsters are trying, they long to burst into each other’s tight assholes. The dark bath attendants help them, they direct them, support them. The next-to-last cries out, the last groans—and the caterpillar is ready. It’s complete. We stay stock-still.
“Hail!” cries Batya.
“Hail! Hail!” we roar in reply.
Batya takes a step. And we follow him, we follow the head of the caterpillar. Batya leads us into the pool. It’s spacious, roomy. It’s filled with warm water instead of ice water.
“Hail! Hail!” we shout, embracing each other, shuffling.
We follow Batya. We walk. We walk. We walk in caterpillar steps. Our genitals glow, our members shudder between buttocks.
We enter the pool. Around us the water boils with air bubbles. Batya submerges himself up to his genitals, then to his waist, his chest. The entire oprichnik caterpillar enters the pool. And rises.
Now it’s time to be silent. Muscular arms tense, valiant nostrils flare, the oprichniks have begun to moan. The time for the sweet work has come. We coax each other. The water ripples around us, waves heave, splashing out of the pool. And now the long-awaited moment has come: a tremor rolls through the entire caterpillar.