Yellow submarine.
If I had to write a post-mortem for my friend Andy, I would write this: "Andy was a decent man and had a full-grown beard." It might sound like growing a beard was his most extraordinary achievement, but once you mention the nature of his death to people, most of them humbly agree to discuss his full-grown beard.
I met Andy in person once at a crowded party. He told me that he was a programmer and I noticed he fancied a full-grown beard. It appeared that Andy was taking some sort of pride in being boring: he never had a vacation for three years and now his boss finally forced him to get some rest and see the world. As a boring white person Andy did what he had to do – visit the land of his ancestors. One side of his family emerged from Kazakhstan, the other from Russia and Andy preferred the latter as the lesser of two evils. I gave him numbers of my friends so he won't feel lonely in the evil empire and drifted to the other corner of the room.
Andy arrived to Moscow one early winter morning. It was the first time he saw snow falling from the skies. He looked excited like a puppy and rigorous Muscovites greeted his inadequate joy with weary frowns.
After a few days of sightseeing Andy decided to call my friends for some under-the-table entertainment. The day before he read about an underground club where anyone could have unlimited anal sex for as low as 10 bucks a night. The opportunity of invading hundreds of willing asses made him feel warm and fuzzy. The first friend he reached, Misha, had no idea that such a place existed, however he promised to introduce Andy to a one-week Russian attraction that will rock his world. The attraction had a genuinely Russian name, it was called "the Yellow Submarine."
All Andy had to do was buy a crate of vodka and 12 packs of cheap sausages. He diligently bought the goods and carried them to Misha's flat. There he met three fellow tourists, each packed with a similar crate and a bag of snacks. Good, - Andy thought to himself, - at least I'm not alone on this strange Slavic adventure. While the crates were carried into the kitchen, Andy had a brief chance to examine the flat: it was an old 2-bedroom with flensed dirty-yellow wallpapers, Soviet-era furniture and five posters depicting Silvester Stallone in dramatic poses. All windows were sealed tight with welded metal plates, there were no clocks, computers or TV sets in sight. Basically, the entire place was shut off from the outside world.
Alright then, see you in a week, – Misha said decadently as he locked the door from outside. Andy stood in the middle of the room staring at the door with a blank glare. Behind the door was a country of snow and balalaikas, a bit further stretched the endless ocean, there a few feet away was his girlfriend bathing in the sun and reading Entertainment Weekly. Inside he stood alone with three strangers and four crates of vodka.
Slowly and carefully Andy turned and smiled to the company. He introduced himself politely and asked the other tourists had any idea what the whole yellow submarine thing meant. One of them, a bald young Pole laughed ferociously. After the welcoming roast calmed down, the Pole rose up and gave Andy a firm handshake.
I'm Pavlo, you can call me Paul, – he said grinning wide. Andy caught the wild spark in the Pole's eyes and decided to call him Pavlo just in case. So, – he continued, – you really are clueless? Andy nodded meekly. Pavlo strained his face into the wildest smile he could produce.
Have you ever thought how Beatles felt in their Yellow Submarine? – he asked strolling back and forth in front of frightened and confused Andy. You see, it all looked fun as hell, friends on a submarine, this and that. But let me tell you something – these fucking pop boys would never survive a week on an actual yellow submarine! They would tear each other throats out! We're not some stoned Brits, so we have a chance of survival. Here, where time is frozen and space is limited to these small rooms we'll have a wonderful chance to live a week of guilt-free alcoholism!
Pavlo was very proud of his speech and the effect it had on Andy. The other tourists looked as static as before. Pavlo turned to them slowly and shook their hands with the same sadistic grin he endowed Andy. It appeared that none of them spoke any English. A large dark man with long curly hair and a skinny white boy stood still. Pavlo walked around the room a few times and exclaimed – "vodka!"
The call got the Beatles into the kitchen where Pavlo energetically opened the first bottle. A few bottles later Andy and Pavlo were close buddies and felt bitter pain when their manly hugs had to broken to refill the glasses. The other two seemed to be doing fine with their silent treatment as well and the international language of aimless casual drinking spree brought the four together.
Time passed. No one could tell if it was a day or two or three, but time certainly passed. It always does, even in a yellow submarine. Even in a sealed shabby yellow flat lordly called "the Yellow Submarine."
At one point Andy got an erection. That meant two days passed. Andy was a punctual man, he had everything scheduled, even erections. He told Pavlo that by masturbating once in a while they could vaguely define the flow of time. Pavlo loved the idea and they took turns in the bathroom. Andy pictured that mystical shady underground club. It was somewhere under the bridge. No sign or address. That's fine, Andy was one of the few who know how to get there. A disgusting old man showed him the way into the cellar, Andy reached out for his ten dollar bill. A topless girl looked at the bill with astonishment. She took the American guest into the main room. There, he was surrounded to hundreds of girls, all bent over and ready to be fucked. The old man asked if Andy would like some lubricant. That day Andy made love to 32 asses. His high score was written on the board. Ahead of him was someone named Pavlo.Pavlo went into the bathroom after Andy unloaded his heavy burden. He took his pants down and pictured a young girl with soft round bosoms.
During the third visit to the toilet which was renamed into lust room Andy triumphantly beat Pavlo making love to as many as 56 asses. That marked the end of 6th or 7th day. The landing is near, – Pavlo said. Indeed, the supply of vodka and sausages was running low and a general anticipation of seeing the light of day again reigned over the submarine.
Somehow the landing was delayed. Andy became the ultimate champion scoring more than a hundred asses per session and was solemnly bestowed with a large chocolate medal that said "100" on one side and "asses" on the other. Andy came imagining the taste of gourmet chocolate.
Andy and Pavlo shared the last sausage and fell asleep.
A sharp sound awoke them: the large dark tourist was trying to rip off the metal plate blocking the window and his short silent friend was watching it with excitement. He only managed to tear off a small edge and a beam of light was now shining through the hole. The mighty tourist dropped it and let out a frustrated sigh. His short companion picked up the sharp metal edge and thrusted it into the neck of his savior. Shocked and scared he let out a shriek and hurled it into his own carotid.
Pavlo ran up to them. The big one was dead as a nail, the small one was struggling for life. Pavlo pushed the piece of metal further and the innominate tourist was gone.
The two of them stood still for a while. Then Pavlo suggested that wasting two dead bodies should be out of question. His partner humbly agreed.
Andy had a hard time eating half of the Beatles, Pavlo however found the big guy quite delicious. Needless to say, an uneasy tension was floating in the air. The crack in the window cover wasn't big enough to even reach the glass. Andy decided to hide the tool of previous two murders as a precaution, yet there was nowhere to shove it so he spent some time wandering around until he dropped it near the same spot he picked it up.
Pavlo murdered Andy shortly. Andy didn't mind, in his last moments he dreamt of heaven where all the angels are ready to bend over any time and no one can beat Andy's score. Also, he would get special caramel-coated chocolate medals for every 1000th angel he fucked.
A couple of months after locking the four tourists in his old yellow flat, Misha realized that he completely forgot about them. Thing is, he found some sort of underground club and was trying to beat some high score for weeks. He had a pretty clear idea of what awaited him behind the sealed doors, so he gathered all his belongings and moved to Kazakhstan.
Me, I don't even think Yellow Submarine is such a good song in the first place.
