A fairy-tale about talks

I still cannot understand the hysterics about the “talks” among opposition members.

It was just another attack of a thirst for loans – it was the old man’s slip of the tongue inspired by an unsuccessful Bulgarian intermediary. But everyone made a dead-set. Some are staring at the horizon nervously whispering “let’s see, let’s see”; some are calling all their friends to say “It is liberalization”; some are jumping round the room scaring their neighbours with shouts “hurrah, talks!”

What talks? Have you seen at least one precondition for talks? The Tsar is run out of money? He is not normal – lack of money is not a signal to pack bags for him. He is just playing the game called “shop”. It’s like on the children’s playground: he made sand “cakes” and sells them. But he wants hard currency for these cakes: “Who will understand they are made of sand? They are fools.” He is right – they are fools shouting “Hurrah, talks!”

Will he release the “Decembrists”? Yes, he will. In late September or early October. In exchange for a new IMF loan and promises of billion-worth investments. However, there’s a probability that he will not free them. He may see a nightmare, hear his son Viktar’s report and grumble: “Let these lowlifes remain in prison.” He will not care a damn about talks, Bulgarians, Europe and loans. The tsar is mad, but politologists, ideologists and politicians thinks he is not mad but cunning. He is so cunning that he is already polishing his shoes in his residence to look handsome on the talks.

The Tsar enters the meeting room, sits down in his red velvet armchair and sees Kastusyou, Nyaklyaeu, Rymasheuski, Milinkevich opposite him. Lyabedzka, Padhol and Yanukevich, the “brains”, stand behind them. Traitors and secret aides, Ramanchuk and Dzmitryeu, hide behind the curtains. Tsyareshchanka remains in the corridor defending the rear, but god knows whose. “What do you want from me, my dear?” the Tsar asks. “We want you to go to prison and give us your kingdom,” they reply. “Sure,” the Tsar says and goes to his cabinet to take his favourite roller skis to ski to prison. The rest begin to divide the kingdom and make it a prosperous land, a land of milk and honey.

On his way to prison, the Tsar understands that he was wrong during these years. He skis to prison and locks himself up in solitary cell for the rest of his life.

We will live happily ever after, die on the same day and thank participants of the talks. Until we get tired of them during the next 17 years.

Mikalai Khalezin