The Story of Харапа Алба

The President, Ëсіфина, talks slowly, with brief interruptions, in the long run arriving at their intention.

"Prime Minister," Ëсіфина says in a heavy baritone, nearly bellowing, but tripping on each trepidation, "I . . . I trust that what I will ask of you won't inconvenience you and your family!"

"No worries. You won't, I trust you won't . . . ," the Prime Minister, Юстин, immediately reassures them, Ëсіфина, who bends down towards their midget-assistant, Petru, who hands them an alarming memo detailing the latest dangers (and violent sperg-like battles and donnybrooks, euphemistically labelled as Auseinandersetzung or Спор) occurring throughout the vast and fragmented Socialist States Of North America (SSONA).

Ever since the conventional and nuclear war between China and Russia (et al.) and the West (at least partially fueled by China's and Russia's murderous and genocidal animosity or ressentiment [towards the West] along with their [Global South] allies and towards the tyrannical East's dissidents [and victims] which the West had championed and tried to protect), SSONA has started its first chapters as a hellscape of angry mutants and competing warlords with official leaders such as Юстин or Ëсіфина trying (and often failing) to restore some order to the rampant chaos.

"I . . . I'm actually going under. Won't last even one year. Юстин, could you please allow one of your offspring . . . to assume my presidency when I die? Just after another sunset, of an old world, somewhere outside that wall?"

This final enigmatic sentence is conveyed to a small minor deity reclining on a desk while drinking Jim Beam.

In a haughty manner, Юстин places the phone back on the receiver and addresses his adult kids casually:

"Ti-cul, this is good. Clearly, now is our time."

"Holy cow, Юстин Трудоў! When can I go there?" Пётр abruptly interrupts.

"Hey son, go and look around! But first, take this handwritten card with my signature on it. Beware of all the new and deadly dangers out there, and make sure you have enough clothing, food, and provisions to last your journey."

"Thanks dad, our precious father . . . so incredibly considerate of you! You've constantly had the utmost appreciation for me . . . ," Пётр replies ironically, enthusiastically waving his hand to Юстин before opening the mansion door.

After the door closes with a bang, Юстин commands his other offspring to scatter to their rooms so that he can console his lachrymose grief privately.

Unbeknownst to everybody else, instead of crying and drinking booze, Юстин quickly walks to a secret, hidden bedroom, opens a closet, and locates some Halloween costume pieces on their respective hangers--

The kasavarótka hangs eerily on the wall like a ghostly silhouette. Its collar, adorned with frayed threads, seems to stretch out like bony fingers ready to grasp at anyone who dares approach. The once-vibrant fabric, now faded and stained, whispers tales of hardships endured in silence. As if woven from the very shadows themselves, the косоворо́тка (or Tolstoy peasant shirt) exudes an aura of mystery and malevolence, as if harboring secrets from a bygone era. Юстин puts it on in silence.

In the dimly lit room, the kaftan (кафтан) hangs suspended from a solitary peg, its heavy fabric swaying ever so slightly, as if breathing with a life of its own. The once-rich material, now faded and weathered, clings to the memory of opulence while bearing the scars of time. Its folds seem to whisper of distant echoes, carrying the weight of unspoken stories that have left their mark on its very fibers. Shadows cling to the creases and corners, casting an air of foreboding that lingers like an unspoken truth.

The kaftan's presence exudes an uncanny power, as if it is a vessel for emotions that dare not be uttered. To approach it feels like an encounter with a specter, an embodiment of the unknown, woven into threads that hold the secrets of ages long past. The silence that envelops the kaftan seems to resonate with the echoes of forgotten voices, and its ghostly presence stirs a mixture of unease and fascination, a haunting reminder that time has a way of transforming even the grandest of garments into relics of apprehension.

Upon the shadowed visage of the ushanka-hat (шапка-ушанка), the very essence of the winter's fury is captured and held in check. Its fur, dark as the heart of a forest at midnight, cascades down in a waterfall of shivers, conjuring images of ancient tales whispered around firelight. The ear flaps, like sentinels of borderlands, stand tall and vigilant, casting their elongated shadows over the bearer's features.

Each thread of fur, each stitch of seam, holds the whispers of forgotten snowstorms and the breath of numbing drafts. And as the wearer dons the ushanka, an air of enigma and power envelops them, as if they become the embodiment of the very winter that shaped it.

The ushanka's aura seems to seep into the souls of those who gaze upon it, stirring an eerie amalgamation of reverence and trepidation. Its presence carries a weight of history and nature's wild embrace, a reminder that even in the heart of the coldest of days, there lies an undeniable, untamed force. Like an ancient guardian of winter's secrets, the ushanka beckons curiosity and caution in equal measure, an emblem of the untamed spirit of the land.

After Юстин dons the ushanka-hat, in this secret room of his, he pushes a dusty tome a couple of inches into the center of a teak bookcase which opens a passageway into a massive garage that no one in the mansion (besides Юстин) has ever seen before.

He opens a hatch on the left side of a tank painted with a red hammer and yellow sickle. Once Юстин's inside, the garage door opens and the tank starts driving before suddenly flying into the air.

With his 20/20 bird's-eye view, Юсти quickly catches up with his only cis-male son. He lands his flying tank in the middle of the road Пётр is driving on, opens the hatch on the ceiling of the tank, climbs out, and stands up on top of the tank as his son angrily steps on the brake pedal of his old-fashioned vehicle.

"Who the fuck is this psychopath?" Пётр mutters under his breath, failing to recognize his own father dressed up in an old-fashioned Russian costume.

"I am Son of Tankie!" Юстин yells in a voice he has never used before yet has always wanted to. "Die, sinner, die!" he shouts as he raises his fist into the sky.

A profound and overwhelming concatenation of guilt and fear consumes Пётр's soul as he maneuvers his vehicle into a U-turn.

As Пётр drives away, Юстин gets back inside his tank and flies back home to his hidden garage, quickly taking off his Halloween costume and proceeding to dress up in a purple bathrobe instead. He hastens to the main living room with a glass of aged Jim Beam bourbon in his right hand.

"What happened?" Юстин asks his son when Пётр walks through the front door. "I don't understand why you're already back so soon. Did you forget something?"

"No, but a psychopathic Russian stood on top of a Communist tank and screamed at me. I'm still afraid that he might be coming for me, to be honest. I decided it's in my self-interest to come home instead of being preyed upon by psychopaths and monsters. And from now on, let the true believers go their own way. In my opinion, no one knows the whole truth. And why do I need my own empire? It is all vanity under the sun. And I don't want to make myself a slave of this broken world just to have dirt thrown in my face."

"You've really thought this cope or rationalization through, haven't you, ti-cul? It's apparent to me that you will never be a good political leader, and that the people aren't good for you either. And it's also better for everyone if you keep your distance, because this way you won't bewilder and perplex or delude the people. It's--how do they say?--by God's mercy, or providence."

"Yeah, exactly. I've got bigger fish to fry," Пётр says. "I'm going to my room to take a look at my bisexual porn before my membership expires."

"I guess you know the saying, 'March ahead for pornography; but for the battles, retreat,'" Юстин says mockingly as Пётр marches to his room, his face red as a beet.

"Daddy," says his cis-female daughter, Гайди, "I want to try to go to my aunt in Miami, America too."

"But are you sure? I mean, I support you unconditionally, Гайди, my dearest child. But you better take this seriously and psych yourself up as if this was the most important thing you've ever done in your life. You're a young woman in a violent world, and I can't always be there to protect you. So please take this gun with you, and if you are confronted by a dangerous individual trying to assault you, then press the trigger, and BANG!"

The sudden exclamation of "BANG!" from Юстин reverberates through the living room, startling his daughter Гайди. She jumps, her wide eyes momentarily fixated on her father. He can't help but chuckle at the unexpected comedic effect of his booming voice. "Sorry, my dear, didn't mean to give you a fright."

With the gun he has given her in hand, Гайди leaves the mansion and enters her sleek self-driving car. As she drives away, the car's AI activates, navigating her smoothly through the chaotic landscape of the war-ridden realm.

Meanwhile, Юстин is no stranger to his daughter's choice of vehicle. He knows its capabilities well, and in a swift sequence, he dons the Russian attire with practiced efficiency. Once again, he is transformed into a figure from another era, driven by a purpose that transcends time.

Entering his flying tank, Юстин takes to the skies, guided by a sense of urgency. His tank lands abruptly in the middle of the road, blocking Гайди's path just as he had done with his eldest son. As her car stops, Юстин's voice reverberates once more, this time with a tone of fierce determination, "Die! Die! Die!"

Wide-eyed, Гайди stares at her disguised, unrecognizable father atop the tank, the shock of the situation slowly giving way to reaction. Her trembling hands clutch the gun, and she steps out of her car, facing her father's wrath.

But as she attempts to fire the gun, a bitter truth becomes evident—there are no bullets inside it. Her weapon is rendered useless, a metaphor for the impotence she feels in that very moment. Crestfallen, she retreats back to the mansion, Юстин's fury still echoing in her ears.

Back within the mansion, Юстин has gotten back into his purple robe, his expression now one of feigned anger as his daughter returns. He chides them for their perceived inadequacies, his voice resonating with harsh reproach. However, his youngest child, the enigmatic, 24-year-old, trans-female Харапа Алба (Камăла), has reached a breaking point.

Tears stream down Харапа Алба (Камăла)'s face as they flee from the mansion, driven by an overwhelming sense of isolation. In the midst of their despair, they are discovered by an elderly woman named Люда 噪声, who extends a comforting hand and a listening ear.

Seated together, under the canopy of the ancient trees, Харапа Алба (Камăла) shares their heart with Люда. They recount their lifelong sense of alienation amongst the privileged and bourgeois, an outsider amidst a world that can never truly understand their struggles. Disrespected and disheartened, they feel an affinity for the working class, a connection that seems to resonate with their soul.

"Can politics truly change the world?" they muse aloud, their voice carrying the weight of uncertainty. "Is Marxism, Communism, the answer?" They look to Люда for guidance, as if seeking affirmation of their thoughts.

Люда 噪声's eyes twinkle with sagacity as she responds, her words carrying the echo of time-honored wisdom. "Child, politics can indeed shape the world, but it's the spirit of those who wield it that truly matters. Whether through Marxism or other paths, the key is the sincerity and dedication with which you embark on this journey."

"To me," Люда 噪声 continues, "humanity stands unified regardless of the political garbs they wear; the primal essence of human nature transcends all. The realm of politics often remains a mere surface spectacle to the masses, yet it morphs into a ruthless arena for those directly engaged, hungering for dominion.

"Upon ascending the throne of power, it's an all-too-familiar saga: power corrupts, virtues wane, principles crumble. Even the luminous minds and the most virtuous souls find themselves ensnared in the web of avarice, intoxicated by the allure of power.

"And yet, what drives us, if not the primordial currents of our own genetic code, our instinctual yearnings for survival and propagation? Such trivialities, in the vast cosmic tapestry, occupy the minds of mortals.

"Peruse the tomes of biology, ethics, self-enrichment, physics' enigmas, quantum's dance, the art of numeracy, and the profound musings of philosophy. Thus, you may carve for yourself a broader neural avenue. In contrast, the realm of politics, as disseminated by media, restrains thought within the corridors of absurdity and anxiety.

"Some of the affluent elite employ the wits of shrewd architects to fashion games for the marginalized, games designed to amplify divisions, sow chaos, and stoke flames of discord. Unity, after all, is not what they desire from the ranks of the underprivileged—proletariat, lumpenproletariat, and lower middle-class alike. The great unwashed, united and peaceably asserting their needs, pose a challenge too formidable for their stratagems."

Харапа Алба (Камăла) nods, a spark of determination igniting within them. As the sun dips below the horizon, they feel a newfound sense of purpose kindling within their heart. Their voice becomes a beacon of change, their words a rallying cry for the oppressed.

And so, with every village they visit, they begin their stirring speeches with these ten words, a clarion call that echoes through hearts and souls, transcending time and space: "Okay men, like it or not, it's time to fight..."

In the end, it is not the power of tanks or weapons that transform their world, but the power of conviction and the indomitable human spirit that holds the promise of a brighter future.

The preceding story is partially and loosely based on and inspired by the Romanian fairy tale "Povestea lui Harap-Alb" by Ion Creangă