Mother Russia

The girl comes and goes in fast dreams. Beautiful face and lips and a seamless body. I see her by firelight on cold February nights in pubs. She had a beautiful kid, I remember, but maybe to only make herself seem more real than she was. There are some things that cannot be recreated or replicated, but I think at times that maybe she was a robot. A kind of sophisticated sex doll. Not real at all, but an urbane machine sent to me on behalf of the KGB for my actions that are later explained in the body of this confession. All I know is there are things in people that you will never find again in another. I cannot remember her name because she gave me something when I last saw her to make me forget specific details. I know we met at least four or five times and each time we made love and somewhere in the canyon of my thoughts, what seems to be a million miles away, I can hear those beautiful and contented noises she made while we did. And so, without a name to call her, I confess my part in the sophisticated plot against United States of Amerika, and I call her Mother Russia.  

I was born in Havana, Cuba. 1977. My mother is not my mother and my father is not my father. Not dumb Amerikan ones I grew up knowing, anyway. I was born in Cuba in lab and shipped to U.S. by special KGB agent who knew how to handle baby shipments. I was placed in hospital in Ohio and given to unsuspecting parents who thought they were having another normal Amerikan baby with rocks in his head and plutonium balls. Kids born in the seventies had great balls of various metallic strengths. Now, for the most part, they are gender-neutral and have cottony-soft balls. My real parents are somewhere in Russia. They don’t know each other, and they don’t know me. Nor will they ever, I guess. I don’t know them, but I don’t care. The egg and sperm were shipped via a courier to Havana where they were mixed together like cocktail in test tube and implanted in local girl who I will never know either. I don’t know what happened to Mr. and Mrs. Peacock’s real baby. The one I replaced in the hospital. They shipped him back to Russia and he is probably drinking Vodka somewhere, feeling like luckiest man on face of Earth. I don’t think about him. Maybe KGB kill him. Who cares, anyway.

The purpose of my interesting life is quite simple. The powers that be in 1976 Russia had vision and were playing long game against hostile Amerikans. Knowing their beloved Soviet empire was deteriorating, seeing handwriting on Berlin Wall, they conceived plan that would endure public end of KGB and crumbling of Communism across globe. They would get back at Amerika and win Cold War in final and covert coup de grȃce – a real coup d’état. Not that they couldn’t have just launched nuclear missiles at Amerika and obliterated it off map, but you know, the subtle art of besting your enemy in other more graceful ways is far more satisfying. The death of a thousand cuts, if you will. Watching them eat themselves alive.  

I have always had fondness for Vasili Arkhipov, who was the only of three Russian nuclear submarine commanders to refuse order to launch nuclear attack on Amerika after the Russian fleet lost contact with Moscow and feared strike by Amerika to be only explanation. That was 1962. In Cuban waters. I have picture of him hanging in my cubicle and he looks back at me without smile and with stern dark eyes as though to say, “Do your duty for the Soviet Union, Adam Peacock. It is in your blood, Comrade.”

And so I listen. And I do. Had he not refused to agree with other officer’s order to launch missiles, Amerika would be parking lot. Perhaps, the plighted Native Americans would have come back strong and retook their land and there wouldn’t be a bunch of sniveling, baby-making boobs and bozos dependent upon government welfare and Walmart, who in fifty years or less will not have ability to wipe their own asses while voluntarily giving up every meaningful freedom, including that of free thought. Those that are ruining what proud legacy remains from World War II, when our countries were allies and defeated the world’s greatest evil.

It’s funny to sit here in my cubicle and type this confession. Me, a Russian born on Cuban soil, of superior sperm and egg. Operation Bullwinkle, they called it. America thinking the KGB was dead when I, part of their long game, lived on in heart of fat American breadbasket. There are many others like me, I am sure. Tens of thousands of covert operatives once planted in hospitals across Amerika. Raised as Amerikans. On Michael Jackson, Coca-Cola, and blue jeans. To drool at fireworks and not know meaning of anything beyond that of instant gratification. To feel inferior and guilt for everything ever done in hundreds of years of history by forefathers we do not know. To be offended by everything like they wear panties and words are enemas with no lube. Split and divided so easily by race-baiters, swindlers and profiteers, like sheep are by vigilant sheepdogs. I suppose, I am one of those sheepdogs out here barking. Snarling my teeth at the wool masses of the mentally lethargic. Sent here to cause civil unrest via Facebook, which was prognosticated almost 50 years ago by KGB. As was internet and cellphone technology. Soviet Union let Amerika develop it, so to use it later against them.

Civil unrest. Race and culture wars. Closing of factories. Outsourcing labor. Gutting the middle-class and encouraging people’s dependency upon government welfare. A government that cannot sustain itself. Giving PRK nukes and welcoming China to WTO. Great Society. I love Democrats. I am registered voter and vote in every election. Bill Clinton and Monica – true Amerikan love story. I watch CNN and laugh. Or rather, laugh my ass off (LMAO), official phrase and acronym developed by KGB. LMFAO, too. We have never received any official recognition by our government, but we are recognized in our own hearts and minds. We haven’t Amerikan need for what you call participation trophy. Our victory comes when we raise sickle and hammer over White House and Capital. We have innate love of Motherland, and innate disdain for unnecessary indefinite articles and pronouns. English language is shit in cultureless diaper of Westernized depravity. When we watch Rocky IV, we laugh when Apollo dies. The ending is stupid. Or as we say it, stoo-peed.

I never learned Russian, though sometimes an accent rises up in me as though my Russian blood is not to be denied. Part of plan was to make us as Amerikan as possible. Dumb and fat. Only I couldn’t be so dumb or fat because Russian blood in me flows like lava and prevents congealing of morals and intelligence in its pyroclastic flow. I cannot be doped on T.V. sitcoms, Doritos, and gratuitous entertainment, like titties and beer. I can never be T.V. dinner and material Amerikan shopping at GAP and Starbucks. Concerned with what someone thinks of me. Whether they think I’m racist or bigot. Had we learned Russian, the danger of being exposed by CIA is clear and Operation Bullwinkle would not be obvious success it is today. We don’t have any point of contact. There is no one to fall back on, so no Amerikan waterboarding will do anything but get us wet. We are free lancers. Lee Harvey Oswald was one of us, I thought once. He went rogue. Don’t threaten us with your missile penis, Amerika. Mother Russia is not some dirty whore actress who lies on back for you.

The odd part is that so little is required of us to tear this country apart. Virtue signaling and self-guilt, that which is propagated by white liberal Amerikans, has done most of work for us and so we need only to fan those flames. Never underestimate the power of self-hate. Of shame. Shame that brands any display of patriotism as "dangerous nationalism.” They are tearing down statues and burning cities as I write this, for goddsakes. They say racist cops are killing bay-bays. Never mind bay-bays carrying guns and robbing and killing people at record clip. Violent crime rate in cities are horrific. They say the government is cruel to separate families at border. Never mind stoo-peed parents bringing kids into country illegally. To solve heroin epidemic, they say invest billions to save lives. Never mind stoo-peed Amerikans shooting heroin to begin with. “Just say no,” I laugh. If you use drugs you’re retarded and should be shot and not have bay-bays. But not in Amerika! You are given prescription drugs to replace street drugs. It is not my fault. I’m addict, they cry. Where is my government handout? My check. And they pay for every new bay-bay. Child tax credit, though they pay no tax. Rural country inbred bumpkins in dilapidated trailers with ten starving kids and a brand-new Harley-Davidson. Ghetto stars in shithole slums with guns and $200 shoes on every foot. Democrats must be part of Bullwinkle because they are doing work. They are removing all trace of personal responsibility.

But my objective was clear in summer 2016. Support Donald John Trump to become President. Rich, celebrity business mogul who loves Russia and pussy. Passionate Amerikan cut from old cloth. Who is not Amerikan pansy apologist. The person people love to hate. Rich and successful. Old and white. Who loves guns, women and Amerika. Who will cause riots in street because he gives Amerikans dose of reality and doesn’t coddle anyone. I was told to support him by voice that came over me. Spoke into my ear. Chip that had been implanted when I was baby and never used until just then. Just at right moment. And through chip, voice from somewhere in Russia told me, in plain English, “Campaign for Donald Trump. Don’t stop. Must win election. 2016. Russia needs you, Comrade!” I think chip self-destructed because there was fizzy sound in my ear immediately after and some smoke. This was my purpose.

And I did. I campaigned hard. Worked hard. Maintained job to pay Amerikan taxes to give freaks right to be freaks and parade around dressed as women or men, though they are biologically the opposite. 87 different genders, coming together to embrace social degeneration. The deterioration of family. Give women right to kill babies they call clumps of tissues and cells, unless they want them, then they are precious Amerikan bay-bays. Stoo-peed. I campaigned for Donald J. Trump by handing out signs and putting sign in my all-Amerikan front yard and wearing my “Make Amerika Great Again” hat. By putting bumper sticker on car and getting flipped off by social degenerates, some who threatened to beat me with fat Amerikan fists, despite limp wrist, or shoot me with guns they are opposed to.

I posted messages on Facebook about Secretary Clinton’s atrocious record as Secretary of State. Creating war and destabilizing Middle East. Highlighting 50 years of corruption. From Tyson foods, to Watergate, to Chinagate, to Travelgate, to Vince Foster, to Benghazi, to Uranium One, to paid Wall Street speeches. Facts on record. It was so easy I didn’t even have to make up anything. No fake news. Simple and undeniable fact.

But I was prepared for my ultimate duty. To go rogue, like Oswald, had she won. For Mother Russia. With hunting rifle I bought at pawn shop. The inbred Amerikan told me it was good gun to hunt squirrel with. He said he shoot squirrels from trees and I couldn’t help but to think of Rocky and Bullwinkle. Early American anti-Soviet propaganda. And I remember watching and feeling comradery with Natasha and Boris. I hate squirrel and moose. If she won and I took action, I would be branded as right-wing extremist and cause more chaos in Amerika. To smile in jail and see my face all over T.V. My fifty-foot exploited image in Time’s Square. My name on every talk show. My evil celebrity status in big bold lights. To be beacon for others. The war is not over. The Cold War has not ended. It rages on in hearts and minds of us coverts and we are winning as evidenced by Trump 2016 and reaction to it. The childish manner of pansy left. Their daily temper-tantrums. Sometimes, Amerika, it's not about action, rather, it's about predictable reaction action solicits. You've been played. We are 10 moves ahead in this Cold War chess match.

It is clear, Donald J. Trump won the election because we Russians, we covert KGB agents, trolled every social media outlet and influenced the minds of millions of stoo-peed Amerikans with facts about Hillary’s record and by saying good things of our candidate. Talking about freedom and jobs. About fighting China in trade war and not selling out to foreign interests any longer. Not allowing Mexican meth or heroin to flood across border, or people to get free rides for doing absolutely nothing. No living wage just to breathe air. Our Manchurian candidate, if you will, put in place by Russian KGB. Donald Trump, chosen when he was baby. Groomed 70 years for this, right under your nose. Raised for this glorious moment! Perfect bull in made in china shop.

At times, I wondered why we supported Donald Trump because he seemed not to be candidate to tear country apart, until I remembered being spanked by my Amerikan father when I was six or seven for shitting in backyard shed. I hated him after that and for years I thought of poisoning his coffee so I could shit wherever I wanted to shit, though I didn’t care to shit at all. It was my right, I felt. And I realized Donald Trump would tear Amerika apart because he would spank Amerika and that is what Amerika needed. They need hardliner. Discipline. Balls. Someone who doesn’t coddle anyone and bullshit the way last dozen ballless pansies did.

They kneel for their own fucking national anthem. Stoo-peed Amerikan swine degenerates. They worship celebrity actors who play in movies like grown children playing make-believe. They are dumb and don’t know history, but they know Harry Potter and obscure T.V. shows. And they cry and protest President and lampoon him on T.V. Geeky late-night talk show hosts who don’t have other material. Some old women like coven of witches on daytime show. I laugh. I cry. I laugh more. It’s all too much. I eat up what they post on social media. Every news channel, besides one, are shameless partisan hacks, stooping to new levels of low for journalism that is supposed to be unbiased with integrity. Every headline and story shining a negative light upon their own Amerikan president! Amerikan propaganda turned on itself like dog eating its own shit. And they say to listen to intelligence reports of CIA, and I laugh. Amerikan KGB! Same “intelligence” that said Saddam had weapons of mass destruction, say now that Russia interfered in election. I type LMFAO on my pithy Facebook comments.    

But they are right. I am here to confess! Bob Mueller is investigating Russian interference as I write my confession. I will mail him this letter before I am through. Election tampering, they claimed. At first, they said we broke into databases and breeched voting equipment in some way. At least, that is what they made swine believe. Now, it is this – Russian agents from Russia infiltrating election by posting ads on Facebook and colluding with Trump campaign. And they are spending millions of dollars to “look into it,” to tie it to President Trump like an anchor so to replace him with someone they can control. Another ballless dope like his 12 predecessors. It’s amusing. Everyone gets a hard-on and high-blood pressure when he meets with President Putin, who they call killer, bully, and dictator. They don’t know Russia. Russia loves Vladimir Putin. Amerika supports pansy opposition. They want Russians to march in street wearing pink pussy hats and safety pins under rainbow flags. Drink “Bud Light,” instead of Stolichnaya. Amerikan thought police come in night and kill babies of freedom and thought with shame and lies.

And all the old coots are on T.V. saying damn you Russia for Donald Trump, and Russia is therefore more powerful for we swayed the election and created this beautiful chaos! Senator Graham. Senator McCain. But Bob Mueller doesn’t know about Operation Bullwinkle. So, I write this confession to take credit. To restore glory of Russia! The Soviet Union! To confess my Russian pride and to laugh in his dopey-old Amerikan face.

I dated Mother Russia a few months ago, but it ended when she disappeared. She was sent to give me instructions, I suppose. She was beautiful and kind and had perfect body. If I said this all before, I apologize. But she was so beautiful it is worth mentioning again. I thought KGB sent her to me as token of appreciation for my part in election interference. All my tampering by having audacity to use facts and first amendment freedom in public forum. I wish she had stayed, but she is gone now. No one lives in house she lived at. It is empty and door isn’t locked. I went in her room and saw where her bed used to be, where we made love. It still smells like her perfume. Like her beautiful Russian vagina. There was nothing defective about her and she was the most flawless woman I have ever known. I wish to see her again, but she is gone. I fall in love with her and write her poems in her absence. I dream of marrying her at St. Peter’s Cathedral still. Maybe in 2020, when President Trump wins re-election and Moscow makes its move. Maybe that will be my reward. They will give Mother Russia back to me. Or President Trump will invite me to White House and there she will be waiting for me. In Lincoln Bedroom. He owes me that much.

Bob Mueller is ass. A gray soupy-looking man who should have stayed retired playing shuffleboard and doting on grandkids. Maybe, he thinks he is doing noble deed for “greater good,” like those CIA who killed Kennedy thought. At certain age, one should be probed and not probe. Eat prunes and go to bed early. Take cruises. Play golf. Too many Amerikan politicians are senile old farts that should retire and write boring books about their dumb lives. Bob will probably not even read this, though I am sending it directly to him. I probably will not be traced to my home and interrogated by FBI agents, because they are inept buffoons with heads in their assholes. Stoo-peed Amerikan pansies.

They shot and killed their own president in Dallas, Texas. Mother Russia told me Oswald was not connected to Russia, but duped to believe so by American CIA who recruited him, disguised as KGB agents, in Mexico City. He was one of two gunmen. The other was on famous grassy knoll. They told him he would escape. A car would be waiting – a car that never was. She said so when we were making love. Between pants and beautiful exhalations. Orgasms and operatic moans in her sweet native tongue. She gave me instructions as what to do next between now and 2020 that I keep to myself to be coy. To give Bob something to wonder about. I wonder if I will ever see her again. If I will ever know if she was robot or flesh-and-blood. So long if not, Mother Russia. It was pleasure.  

I sit and wait for further instructions for 2020, besides what she gave me. I will be at it again and there is nothing you can do besides to choose to listen to lies and elect candidate that tells you whatever you want to hear, rather than reality. You can listen to media and do what they want you to do because Rachel Maddow and Stephen Colbert probably know what’s best for you, right? Better not think for yourself. That is dangerous. Link your brain to collective Amerikan mind that hovers over country like Goodyear Fucking Blimp on nuclear steroids. Vote Democrat, I say. Democrats sew discord and chaos and shame even Boris and Natasha with the tenacity of their anti-Amerikanism. They scare people into believing someone will take their social security and that world is going to end. I wait to amuse myself with results of Old Bob’s FBI probe, that is slow as snail in molasses. I wonder if they will waterboard me. I wonder if they will ship me back to Cuba. This is my confession, Bob. You got me. Send me home. Come get me, FBI man. But bring bottle of Stoli. And the girl – Mother Russia. I am lonely as Siberian winter.