It was the coldest winter the Soviet Union had seen in over a century. Architects of the Vyatka prison had not anticipated temperatures reaching well below -50F, which jeopardized the structural integrity of The Ice Chest, the name given by the inmates to the prison’s solid iron maximum security holding cell. The walls and bars made a terrible sound; screeching and straining as the metal constricted in the Hellish freeze, the blistering wind sounding a death whistle as it shot past any open crack in the corners of the ceiling. The cell nauseatingly swayed back and forth, back and forth, in the wind, up high on the 30 foot support struts. It resembled a look-out post.
And there, sitting in this deceptively weak structure in total silence were the two worst criminals Vyatka had to offer. Nikolai Zhabin had been a goods smuggler since 1965. He was able to illegally import everything from toilet paper to tampons through a network of international circus performers and entertainers. His connections to the Moscow Ballet proved indispensable when the demand for nylon stockings and cotton underwear shot up (the demand, by the way, was created by just announcing such products existed). And if you wanted feminine hygiene wipes, there was a Turkish midget with scoliosis Nikolai could talk to. His trade empire crumbled when he mistakenly shot and killed a Red Army soldier who was trying to buy adult diapers for his aging mother.
The other prisoner was none other than the infamous Sergei Vasiliev. A serial mass murderer who slashed a red scar through the heart of the Soviet Union, from his first few slayings at a Yakutsk market, to 5 massacres in Tula and 6 in Kyiv, finally culminating in the now internationally famous Daycare Slaughter in St. Petersburg, resulting in a total body count of 56. How he got caught is the stuff of legend; after he butchered the last child he went out and bought a bottle of vodka. He proceeded to get drunk in the middle of the day and pass out on a park bench amidst the stirring masses of the city who were just now learning about what happened in a downtown daycare center. The police apprehended him without incident.
And there the two men sat in total silence, staring at each other. It was 1977.
They each shared a mutual understanding. As soon as one let their guard down, the other would kill him. Nikolai would kill out of necessity, out of self preservation, out of safety. Sergei would murder for fun. This information was shared completely through non-verbal communication.
But their duel would come sooner than they realized, and fortune would favor one over the other. One of the 4 support struts, the west strut, finally buckled at the knee and split almost exactly in half. It started of with a creek, louder and louder, farther and farther the Ice Chest wavered high above, adding torque and stress to the already weakened leg until it finally snapped like a giant, metallic chicken bone. The metronomic movements of the shared cell ceased and finally charged towards one direction. Unfortunately for Nikolai, it was his side of the cell that no longer had any support. Without the west strut, the other 3 succumbed to the cold and top-heavy weight, and the whole structure came down. Sergei saw his chance. Jumping into the fall, he leapt towards Nikolai, grabbing him in a bear hug and held on for dear life.
“You Bastard!” Nikolai was able to shout before they hit the ground. The entire cell landed with a terrible crash and cracked open like an egg.
There was no longer any creaking, or Nikolai yelling. The only sound came from the wind running through the trees. There in the snow laid Sergei on top of the now dead body of Nikolai whom he used to cushion his fall.
Sergei took a moment to analyze his situation. He looked up at the sky, gave a small smile, and then ran off into the dark woods that bordered the prison before the guards could put on the proper winter attire and chase after him.
The prison was supplied with energy from the Kursk Nuclear Power Facility 10 kilometers away. As one of the first of its kind built in the USSR, it displayed all the problems of a bloated government prototype that was never meant for actual scale production. Aside from the glaring problems of an inefficient turbine system, a charcoal cooling system instead of graphite, and a condensate de-mineralizing system that was in dire need of new filters, the plant’s most hazardous flaw was in how it stored used uranium rods. The radioactive nuclear waste was housed in barrels. Regular, ordinary tin barrels that were then buried 60 feet underground, just a little too close to the ground water which fed the river that the plant was constructed next to.
Negligence had soon turned the surrounding area into veritable poison trap. A scorned piece of earth in which barely anything survived, and if it did, it wished it didn’t. A forest of death.
The same forest Sergei was trudging through.
Sergei’s initial burst of energy waned as the excitement of escape wore off, and the damning cold set in. Quickly, his running slowed. A mere 10 minutes had passed, but it felt like an eternity. This was far worse than prison; he would soon be encased in ice. “Why have the guards not searched for me,” he thought. It’s not hard to assume that they simply left his fate up to nature. And sure enough, he soon took his final step, collapsed at the foot of a giant, yet slightly misshapen Norway Spruce, and waited for death to arrive.
The guards did indeed intentionally forget about him. “Good riddance,” they thought. They removed the wreckage from the Ice Chest crash, gave Nikolai a proper burial, and proceeded life at Vyatka as normal.
As always, life goes on, even in prisons. Guards came and left, prisoners left and entered, and winter turned into spring. The spring thaw in Russia is quite a sight. Its climate permits rapid changes in weather. It is a time when everything is wet. The soil cannot absorb all the melted snow, so for a few weeks the environment is quite swampy.
It is here where Sergei’s frozen corpse gets a second chance. As weeks go by the ground beneath him becomes softer. First it is muddy, then cakey, and finally like a disgusting, shit textured bread pudding. It is not only the ground which changes; it is Sergei too. Swallowed up by the earth, his body is now able to properly decay, a process which winter robbed from him. Bacteria inside him are revived, feasting on his body and turning it into rot. The earth begins to digest him, warming his body, infusing it with soil. Tainted, radioactive soil…
A miracle is when God or heaven performs the impossible. There needs to be a phrase for when Satan does the same. “Hell froze over,” perhaps. Well, Hell did indeed freeze over. But it thawed out and was digging itself out of the swamp that rebirthed him.
Sergei, the nuclear abomination, not quite dead, not quite alive, powered by hate and radioactive isotopes, marched back towards Vyatka.
With the prison in his sights, Sergei picked up speed. He started jogging. When he got closer he started running. Then sprinting. Faster and faster, never slowing down, he charged the wall and perfectly scaled the 20 foot structure like a phantom. He leapt high off the wall and landed in the center of the recreation yard where the inmates were idly spending their afternoon.
A smile crept across Sergei’s peeling face.
The carnage that unfolded is the stuff of nightmares. Sergei grabbed the closest inmate and nearly lifted him off the ground. He drew him close and bit into his neck. A clean hunk of flesh was torn from his neck. Blood gushed from the giant, open wound, the prisoner unable to shout in protest; half out of blinding terror, half out of the fact that he was missing part of his throat. Sergei swallowed the skin in one fell gulp, and then dove into the prison crowd. Inmate after inmate fell before Sergei. Limbs were ripped from sockets and chewed on, faces torn off from their heads and eaten like gravy skin, ears and noses bitten straight off. Sergei was drunk on blood-lust, filling his desire and body cavity with more prison food. The guards were nowhere to be found.
When all were slain, Sergei rested. A pile of bloody dead served as his throne. The sun cast long shadows in the late evening. Sergei made himself comfortable. He leaned back and looked up at the sky, watching calm clouds drift by. His stomach was swollen, filled nearly to the brim, almost as if he were pregnant. Casually, he tore a hunk of flesh off of an inmate that was serving as an arm rest and popped it in his mouth. Finally satiated, he closed his eyes and had his first peaceful rest in months.
The sun woke Sergei up in the morning as it glistening through the guard towers. He got up. In a moment of panicked remorse, he yanked down his pants and took a humongous, wet, slightly florescent green shit in the middle of the yard. The totality of putrid damnation fell out of Sergei’s body, a flowing torrent of all of life’s sins. It was hot and burned Sergei as it exited. When he was finished, he pulled up his pants, charged and cleared the wall, and ran off into the wilderness to continue his rampage.
And there, sitting in this deceptively weak structure in total silence were the two worst criminals Vyatka had to offer. Nikolai Zhabin had been a goods smuggler since 1965. He was able to illegally import everything from toilet paper to tampons through a network of international circus performers and entertainers. His connections to the Moscow Ballet proved indispensable when the demand for nylon stockings and cotton underwear shot up (the demand, by the way, was created by just announcing such products existed). And if you wanted feminine hygiene wipes, there was a Turkish midget with scoliosis Nikolai could talk to. His trade empire crumbled when he mistakenly shot and killed a Red Army soldier who was trying to buy adult diapers for his aging mother.
The other prisoner was none other than the infamous Sergei Vasiliev. A serial mass murderer who slashed a red scar through the heart of the Soviet Union, from his first few slayings at a Yakutsk market, to 5 massacres in Tula and 6 in Kyiv, finally culminating in the now internationally famous Daycare Slaughter in St. Petersburg, resulting in a total body count of 56. How he got caught is the stuff of legend; after he butchered the last child he went out and bought a bottle of vodka. He proceeded to get drunk in the middle of the day and pass out on a park bench amidst the stirring masses of the city who were just now learning about what happened in a downtown daycare center. The police apprehended him without incident.
And there the two men sat in total silence, staring at each other. It was 1977.
They each shared a mutual understanding. As soon as one let their guard down, the other would kill him. Nikolai would kill out of necessity, out of self preservation, out of safety. Sergei would murder for fun. This information was shared completely through non-verbal communication.
But their duel would come sooner than they realized, and fortune would favor one over the other. One of the 4 support struts, the west strut, finally buckled at the knee and split almost exactly in half. It started of with a creek, louder and louder, farther and farther the Ice Chest wavered high above, adding torque and stress to the already weakened leg until it finally snapped like a giant, metallic chicken bone. The metronomic movements of the shared cell ceased and finally charged towards one direction. Unfortunately for Nikolai, it was his side of the cell that no longer had any support. Without the west strut, the other 3 succumbed to the cold and top-heavy weight, and the whole structure came down. Sergei saw his chance. Jumping into the fall, he leapt towards Nikolai, grabbing him in a bear hug and held on for dear life.
“You Bastard!” Nikolai was able to shout before they hit the ground. The entire cell landed with a terrible crash and cracked open like an egg.
There was no longer any creaking, or Nikolai yelling. The only sound came from the wind running through the trees. There in the snow laid Sergei on top of the now dead body of Nikolai whom he used to cushion his fall.
Sergei took a moment to analyze his situation. He looked up at the sky, gave a small smile, and then ran off into the dark woods that bordered the prison before the guards could put on the proper winter attire and chase after him.
The prison was supplied with energy from the Kursk Nuclear Power Facility 10 kilometers away. As one of the first of its kind built in the USSR, it displayed all the problems of a bloated government prototype that was never meant for actual scale production. Aside from the glaring problems of an inefficient turbine system, a charcoal cooling system instead of graphite, and a condensate de-mineralizing system that was in dire need of new filters, the plant’s most hazardous flaw was in how it stored used uranium rods. The radioactive nuclear waste was housed in barrels. Regular, ordinary tin barrels that were then buried 60 feet underground, just a little too close to the ground water which fed the river that the plant was constructed next to.
Negligence had soon turned the surrounding area into veritable poison trap. A scorned piece of earth in which barely anything survived, and if it did, it wished it didn’t. A forest of death.
The same forest Sergei was trudging through.
Sergei’s initial burst of energy waned as the excitement of escape wore off, and the damning cold set in. Quickly, his running slowed. A mere 10 minutes had passed, but it felt like an eternity. This was far worse than prison; he would soon be encased in ice. “Why have the guards not searched for me,” he thought. It’s not hard to assume that they simply left his fate up to nature. And sure enough, he soon took his final step, collapsed at the foot of a giant, yet slightly misshapen Norway Spruce, and waited for death to arrive.
The guards did indeed intentionally forget about him. “Good riddance,” they thought. They removed the wreckage from the Ice Chest crash, gave Nikolai a proper burial, and proceeded life at Vyatka as normal.
As always, life goes on, even in prisons. Guards came and left, prisoners left and entered, and winter turned into spring. The spring thaw in Russia is quite a sight. Its climate permits rapid changes in weather. It is a time when everything is wet. The soil cannot absorb all the melted snow, so for a few weeks the environment is quite swampy.
It is here where Sergei’s frozen corpse gets a second chance. As weeks go by the ground beneath him becomes softer. First it is muddy, then cakey, and finally like a disgusting, shit textured bread pudding. It is not only the ground which changes; it is Sergei too. Swallowed up by the earth, his body is now able to properly decay, a process which winter robbed from him. Bacteria inside him are revived, feasting on his body and turning it into rot. The earth begins to digest him, warming his body, infusing it with soil. Tainted, radioactive soil…
A miracle is when God or heaven performs the impossible. There needs to be a phrase for when Satan does the same. “Hell froze over,” perhaps. Well, Hell did indeed freeze over. But it thawed out and was digging itself out of the swamp that rebirthed him.
Sergei, the nuclear abomination, not quite dead, not quite alive, powered by hate and radioactive isotopes, marched back towards Vyatka.
With the prison in his sights, Sergei picked up speed. He started jogging. When he got closer he started running. Then sprinting. Faster and faster, never slowing down, he charged the wall and perfectly scaled the 20 foot structure like a phantom. He leapt high off the wall and landed in the center of the recreation yard where the inmates were idly spending their afternoon.
A smile crept across Sergei’s peeling face.
The carnage that unfolded is the stuff of nightmares. Sergei grabbed the closest inmate and nearly lifted him off the ground. He drew him close and bit into his neck. A clean hunk of flesh was torn from his neck. Blood gushed from the giant, open wound, the prisoner unable to shout in protest; half out of blinding terror, half out of the fact that he was missing part of his throat. Sergei swallowed the skin in one fell gulp, and then dove into the prison crowd. Inmate after inmate fell before Sergei. Limbs were ripped from sockets and chewed on, faces torn off from their heads and eaten like gravy skin, ears and noses bitten straight off. Sergei was drunk on blood-lust, filling his desire and body cavity with more prison food. The guards were nowhere to be found.
When all were slain, Sergei rested. A pile of bloody dead served as his throne. The sun cast long shadows in the late evening. Sergei made himself comfortable. He leaned back and looked up at the sky, watching calm clouds drift by. His stomach was swollen, filled nearly to the brim, almost as if he were pregnant. Casually, he tore a hunk of flesh off of an inmate that was serving as an arm rest and popped it in his mouth. Finally satiated, he closed his eyes and had his first peaceful rest in months.
The sun woke Sergei up in the morning as it glistening through the guard towers. He got up. In a moment of panicked remorse, he yanked down his pants and took a humongous, wet, slightly florescent green shit in the middle of the yard. The totality of putrid damnation fell out of Sergei’s body, a flowing torrent of all of life’s sins. It was hot and burned Sergei as it exited. When he was finished, he pulled up his pants, charged and cleared the wall, and ran off into the wilderness to continue his rampage.
...
And that shit grew up to be…
Rush Limbaugh.
Rush Limbaugh is radioactive Soviet criminal zombie shit.
And the rest, is history.
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