Fuggerstein & Co.: Lost Lands

The General’s Order

Russia, early morning—2:00 AM. Somewhen in glorious drunken haze of Soviet times. At district headquarters, absolute chaos erupted. The commanding general urgently needed to issue an order, yet nobody could decipher a single furious scream emanating from him. In the midst of panic, one officer recalled: There was an old secretary, a true relic, legendary for her mystical talent in decoding “emergency situations.” A battle-hardened veteran of the ancient Slavic black magic known as interpretation. Without hesitation, a fresh-faced lieutenant was catapulted through the night straight to her crumbling apartment, Lieutenant (nervously knocking like a man about to wrestle a bear): "Apologies for disturbing your dreams, ma’am, but we’ve got a situation hotter than Chenin’s sauna. The general's screaming in some kind of Babylonian gibberish again—no one understands a single cursed syllable from his mouth, but he demands his glorious orders written now!" Secretary (calmly, already lighting a cigarette with yesterday’s match): "Of course, dear. As God and three broken typewriters are my witnesses—this is exactly why I delayed my damn retirement”. Swiftly, they returned to headquarters. Inside, the general stormed about, eyes bulging, frothing at the mouth, completely incomprehensible. The secretary set up her trusty typewriter, ready to translate this verbal storm into official language. The general began his furious dictation: General:"f**k your mothers!!!" Secretary types:"Comrades Officers!" General:"no one is doing f*****g anything!" Secretary types:"Military discipline has significantly deteriorated." General:"everyone is lying around jerking off!!" Secretary types:"Commanders have utterly abandoned their responsibilities." General (face reddening further):"copper-headed fuckups, dammit, crawling like pregnant lice, getting drunk, breaking order, screwing everything that moves!" Secretary types:"Educational activities have ceased entirely; drill proficiency is severely lacking, with increasing incidents of drunken disorder and abuses against civilians." General:"f**k everyone!!!" Secretary types confidently:"I hereby order:" General (turning purple):"that new condom who thinks he’s a f*****g dirigible—shove an enema filled with phonograph needles up his ass instead of parade stripes!" Secretary types, maintaining professional poise:"Division Commander Colonel Ivanov is formally reprimanded for partial dereliction of duty." General (final explosion):"let the rest of that herd get f****d by him!" Secretary smoothly finishes:"All other guilty personnel shall be disciplined at the discretion of Colonel Ivanov." General (collapsing in chair, panting):"total fuckup!!" Secretary closes the order elegantly:"Commander of the District, Colonel-General Petrov." Ah, I see now," growled Fuggerstein thoughtfully, scratching his green, scarred head. "Swearing feels like the fastest shortcut, yes? But actually, friends , it's a slow poison—vodka brewed badly. The more we spit curses instead of speaking clearly, the less we understand each other outside our cozy little madhouses. Soon enough, this lazy tongue will become a weapon pointed straight back at your own ass. Khuysivchyk and Chlenin exchanged a long, squinting stare—then shrugged in perfect, and now trading barbs with a far less limited profanity lexicon, strode onward to a café nestled beside the gleaming prototype of the latest Starship. Its polished hull scattered solar rays like shards of glass across the plaza—this very rocket was to carry them to their chosen constellation. But before we board that vessel, let us pause and acquaint ourselves more closely with our illustrious misfits.