by Detergent
[Disclaimer: This work is written somewhat tongue-in-cheek as a way for the author to cope with the tragedy in Ukraine. It is written as a show of support and is in no way intended to minimise the horror of war or the atrocities that have been committed.]
Yeyette had left her laptop on the coffee table again. Backlit by the winter sun drizzling through the picture window in the living room, Noodles sat staring at the screen, his expression more concerned than it had ever been.
"Hard food," he breathed. The page he viewed was a live feed from the Guardian regarding the Russia-Ukraine war. He deliberately stepped on the keyboard and the tab switched to an article featuring a heavily-Botoxed man who scowled into the camera.
"Hard food!" he growled at the photo of Vladimir Putin.
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Sauron mopped his face with his hand, heaving a deep, gusty sigh. Several days ago, he had found himself in a deserted parking lot resurrecting his idiot son after the good-for-nothing had set himself on fire playing around with candles, cords, and powdered crab shells, of all things. Meth production had taken a substantial hit as Larry recuperated in the home the boy shared with Sauron's favourite child, his daughter Juniper. And, of course, the girl was nowhere to be seen when Larry required nursing. Even the boy's mother was absent, convalescing after several failed laser hair removals had resulted in minor burns on her back and rear. Luckily, Jane could still help him channel sorcery into the meth they created, though it was not as potent as usual. Sales were down. The meth was weak and could barely turn a mouse, let alone a human.
And then there was Vladimir, one of his Ringbearers. He had gotten too greedy and now he was the butt of jokes the world over.
"I made you My servant because you had such promise. All you needed to do was wait. I turn My back for one moment to attend to My own affairs and you behave like a little piss dog. You are making Me look a fool, Vladimir, and this is something I will not tolerate. You are unworthy."
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President Putin stood in front of the mirror in one of the many bathrooms of his vacation home. His left pointer finger began to burn. He flinched and looked down, clamping his mouth on a scream- The beautiful white-gold ring that had appeared to him several years before started to heat, the pain piercing down to the bone. In a panicked scrabble, he tore the ring from his finger, burning the digits of his right hand in the process. He fumbled with the now red-hot metal and watched in anger and despair as the ring dropped onto the blush marble countertop with a plink! and rolled into the marble sink basin. Putin reflexively jumped after it, knowing that it would char his fingertips black, desperate to retain the power granted by the magical band. He snatched at the air as the ring fell on its side and, rather too conveniently, slid under the drain plug and vanished.
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"What are 'awfrins'?" Ramen asked Eugène.
"I think awfrins means things that you have that you use to bribe people," said Eugène after a moment of thought.
"Like this!" Edmée dragged up a roll of toilet paper, torn in places. It was her favourite toy.
"That's definitely an awfrin," Eugène judged.
"I have an awfrin then." Ramen left the room and bought back three zip-ties. "These are so fun and Papa DeKalb is always looking for them. People want these."
"Greenies!" everyone looked over to see Mibal on the basement stairs with half a carton of treats.
"That is a lot of treats," said Edmée, bounding up the stairs, ready to eat as many as she could get.
"It is a 'mergency," chastised Mibal, using the Force to raise the carton into the air.
Edmée whined a bit but left the treats alone. "You're right. The bad Pootin man has to go."
"Hard food," sang Noodles, who had booted up DeKalb's gaming rig and had accessed an article displaying what Maman had called "the dread Fart Runes".
Eugène leapt up onto the desk beside him and studied the screen.
"This is the only curse I know. Maman and Uncle Sören laughed about it, so it probably doesn't work but we can't let Putain go unpunished. I hope the alfar like Greenies."
"Who doesn't?" Edmée's tail swished back and forth. "If they don't like Greenies, they may as well not exist."
Noodles knocked a local farming ad onto the floor and, over the picture of an antique tractor, they used the Greenies and the zip ties to recreate the Fart Runes with the roll of toilet paper nearby.
"Pootin, we hate you!" yowled Ramen.
"We hate you! We hate you!" the others joined in.
"Make the Fart Runes!" growled Mibal.
"My curse upon the bad Putain man. Our curse upon you. Alfar, we have Greenies! Make Putain fart until his ass falls off!" declared Eugène. He read off the runes.
"I hope a tractor drives through your asshole!" screeched Mibal.
"Can that happen?"
"If it's a magical elf tractor, why not?" harrumphed Mibal.
"Are the alfar going to come to eat their awfrins?" asked Edmée after a few moments.
They waited a bit longer.
"No," declared Mibal. With that, the cats began helping themselves to the treats.
"Vroom vroom, hard food," Noodles pawed a Greenie up and ate it. "Vroom."
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Vladimir Putin felt decidedly unwell. He had felt tired most of the day and attributed it to grief over losing The Master's ring and the stress of his campaign in Ukraine. He had taken two baths in reindeer horn extract to counteract this but to no avail. He had dined sparingly and soon found himself in another one of his bathrooms. He had sealed up the blush marble room after the ring had practically leapt down the drain. He felt that entering the room would be unlucky.
He was bilious and unusually bloated. His guts collided against each other in an ominous churning. His sphincter clenched; he barely made it to the toilet in time. Great farts ploughed his bowels, each more ghastly than the last. Panting, he strained, unable to hold his emanations in. Pain jolted through him.
From far away but seemingly also within his belly, he heard music; a man seemed to sing out...
"Oyu luzi chervona kalyna pokhylylasya*..."
A Ukrainian march?
"Master, help...."
But The Master ignored him.
An enormous fart tore his asshole open; the scent of diesel fuel filled the bathroom. The fart sounded like a huge engine revving.
"Chohosʹ nasha slavna Ukrayina zazhurylasya..." the strong tenor continued to sing.
Putin fell forward onto the floor, spasming as a John Deere tractor burst from his ass, its radio blaring.
"A my tuyu chervonu kalynu pidiymemo..."
The great piece of farm machinery broke through the wall as it exited Putin's rear. Seemingly indestructible, it broke through several more walls as it turned about. As if it had a mind of its own it came back around and ran over the prostrate Russian dictator. It backed up and ran over him again as if it held a grudge. It ravaged the mansion and then drove away serenely from its devastation to other fields, its radio blaring triumphantly.
"A my nashu slavnu Ukrayinu, hej-hej, rozveselymo!
A my tuju červonu kalynu pidijmemo,
A my našu Slavnu Ukrajinu, hej-hej, rozveselymo!"
_
* Oh, in the meadow a red kalyna has bent down low,
For some reason, our glorious Ukraine is in sorrow.
And we'll take that red kalyna and we will raise it up,
And we shall cheer up our glorious Ukraine, hey - hey!
And we'll take that red kalyna and we will raise it up,
And we shall cheer up our glorious Ukraine, hey - hey!