Tales Of The Gurrier

The capsule tumbled through the silent depths of space, carrying it’s precious cargo homeward bound. The gentle tug of gravity became an insistent pull as it drew closer to the Earth’s embrace. Lower and lower with each passing orbit. Finally, it skipped through the upper ionosphere, spinning end over end, shimmering and flashing in the morning sun like the silvery scales of a fish darting in clear blue pool.

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Report 14-DVA-ED-000971
Soviet Research Station G72, Ploshadka Region, Kazahkstahn.
Commandant Capt. Golubev

Subject fed quantity of serum XNA-12 mixed with grade B rum and placed in capsule. Cpl. Volkov reported subject’s vital signs as normal. Cpl. Volkov and Pvt. Zugarin instructed to secure subject in acceleration couch. Subject reported as docile and obedient. Professor Zipsin on hand to oversee launch. Thrusters 1 and 2 report complete success on test firing. Professor Zipsin ordered launch at 1400 hours.

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I remember the day we sent the pig into space. Captain Golubev gathered us on the parade ground to make the announcement. It would, he said, ‘be a glorious day for the Soviet Union’. Today we would strike a blow against the Western, Imperialist Capitalist fools that would ring out across the globe. Today, we would send a pig into space.

Kraptchin laughed into his beard when he heard this. ‘Fucking pigs are fed better than us,’ he spat a long gob of phlegm onto the frozen earth. ‘Fucking look at this little porker, he’s fatter than Fat Polotov and happier too I’ll wager.’

I looked at the pig hanging in the slatted wooden cage suspended between our shoulders.

‘Yes, but Fat Polatov isn’t being shot into space’

Kraptchin shrugged and spat again, ‘If they fed me as good as they feed that pig they could shoot me into space bollock naked for all I care. See here,’ he said, waving a bottle in my face, ‘Rum! Rum for the fucking pig! When was the last time you had rum?’

I had to admit, he was right, the last rum ration had been distributed in December. A thin, sorry mixture of rum and distilled potato juice Fat Polatov made with his illegal still behind the motor pool. It smelled strongly of diesel and I wondered aloud if Fat Polatov had been adding more than potatoes to the mixture. Everybody had laughed except Fat Polatov. Then everybody stopped laughing and threw their cups at him. Nobody spoke to Fat Polatov anymore and he sat alone in his bunk most nights, crying himself to sleep.

‘Here, taste some pigrum.’ said Kraptchin, working loose the cork with his yellowed teeth.

‘No, I hear they add things to it, stuff for the pigs.’

Kraptchin grimaced and spat the cork  onto the ground. ‘You worry too much Piotr. If it doesn’t kill the pigs, it won’t kill us. Besides, look at this little fellow, he’s in fine health,’ he rattled the bottle against the cage and the pig began to squeal loudly.

‘Looking for your pigrum are you?’ and he took a slug from the black bottle. Smacking his lips he gazed at it in wonder. ‘Lenin’s balls! That’s damn fine rum. They really do keep the good stuff for the pigs.’ He took another long swig, and a dark brown rill of liquid dribbled from his bearded chin to stain his uniform.

‘Stop Kraptchin, you’ll get us into trouble! Leave some for the pig.’

‘Listen to yourself Piotr, you sound like one of those mewling party crawlers. ‘Leave some for the pig! Leave some for the pig!’

Kraptchin tossed the bottle aside and unshouldered the long poles suspending the cage. He gave me an evil look and stalked away in disgust.

Retrieving the discarded bottle I sat in the snow beside the cage. The pig gazed out with it’s strange liquid eyes and poked a pink snout through the bars. I reached out and fed it the remaining drops from the bottle. This seemed to cheer it up, and it made little grunts of joy as it sucked down the brown liquid. I wondered what else they added to the rum.

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(This piece is a misplaced fragment of Flicker Fiction from sometime in 2008)

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