Putin Stalks

Supermarket 

Fidgetation runs amok [Headline]

   Black band carries buckets and basketfuls of booty

   To the blackout checkout

Blip upon blip upon blip upon blip upon blip

Yet more blips

You okay with your packing? I’m asked

Why shouldn’t I be? I think

   - Bloody hell -

   Why shouldn’t I be?

Cash or card?

Waiting for the long receipt

   The prize of financial transaction

It’s snatched from the printer and handed to me

Enjoy your day, says the girl

I reach for the bags

Tug at the loops of my family’s future tummy journey

But

   He pushes past me roughly, brusquely

   Picks up my spoils

‘These are mine,’ says He. ‘Every last item.’

He handles the bleach with unalloyed glee

   It’s Putin

   He turns his quirkily smooth face to me

     All traces of humanity have been ironed out by internal pressure

     His bulbous nose is a living drawing failure

     Steady eyes of intoxicated self-righteousness

     His squat torso relaxed in a judo master’s balanced poise

     A dictator’s keening gait

He doesn’t wait for an answer or comment

Instead he glides across the floor

   Off to Russia Land

   With my gear

A hungry week later

The park

 The nice one 

   The nice park with the cool new equipment

A setting of ancient, old world trees

Chunky, clunky

Proper gnarly branches

Acres of grass

Slopes

A paradise for kids - at least for a couple of hours

    There it is:

The slide

Warm in the midday sun

Glossy sheen

Long curve of 

Long

Long stretches at the end with a satisfying drop and soft landing

   On plastic tiles

   My kids halfway up to the top in a line

   Five in queue

   Four in queue

   Three, two, one

My first child about to slide

When

   Putin barges past

   Up the steps and pulls the waiting kids’ hands

   Off of the guide rail

   He wears his white judo suit

   Barefoot

   Blackbelt

      Grabs my kid by the scruff of the neck and hauls her off

   ‘It’s my go. My slide,’ he says, climbing onto the ledge

     He launches himself off

   When he gets to the bottom

     He puts his feet down

     There is a squeal as his bare balls stop him

        Into a juddering blockage

He volte faces and like a cunning monkey

   He crawls his way up and then slides down again

   He repeats this

   Down -  climb up - down - climb up - down - climb up …

   … {hum}

   For so long

     So, so long - the kids go home

     Crying and snivelling with parents bent by shame

The light fades

When the last family leaves, Putin shouts:

   ‘I told you it was my go. I told you.’

A blue week-ish later

Saturday night

Rented a movie

Butter popcorn

Fire in grate

Kids, wife, relaxing

Everyone in a line on the sofa

Cherry cola, ice cold beer, white wine spritzer in laps

   Opening credits roll

Knock on door

Ratta-tap-tap

   Who can it be at seven thirty on a Saturday night?

I open the door a crack

Would you believe it?

Putin with his mates

   They don’t look nice

   I mean: they’re well groomed and clean and tidy

   Too clean

   Too tidy

   It's just - they don’t look nice, if you know what I mean

   ‘You can wait in the yard until we’re finished,’ He says

   Then He turns to them - his mates

   ‘You want some nuts and crisps?’

       They nod

   ‘Go and get some nuts and crisps.’

   And a bar of fruit and nut, one of them says

   ‘Yeah, and make that four bars of fruit and nut

    Don’t be too long.

    This is our night off from being Bastards.’

My family and I troop out

Thankfully, it’s not too cold

   Wife and kids watch through the window

   As the men snack our snacks

   And drink our drinks

      They clutch each other at the tense bits

      And laugh out loud at the funny bits

My youngest has to go behind our blueberry bush

He can’t hold it in any longer

I go get the additional snacks

     Later we clear up all the mess

     Strewn savouries

     Melted chocolate in the carpet and fabric of sofa

     Drink rings

     TV splattered with food thrown at it

     There’s a whiff of expensive cologne

     It burns and rattles my nostrils

There’s a message in the toilet bowl

Putin can’t be bothered to flush

    He wipes, though

    There’s not a roll left for us to use

        It’s all stuck up around our bedrooms

         Ours and the kids

          Hanging down

            Not held up by blu tac

A fizzing, unsettled week later

Hotel room

His and hers robes set side by side

On the herculean Emperor King and Queen sized bed

   (It’s big)

Scented candle filling and mingling with

Anticipation

Bathed and clean bodies

Gentle musac

Lights dimmed to make loving forms not details

Tugs and twists of evening wear

Exploring parties of fingers and mouths and tongues

Then

Around the bathroom door

A pile of combat fatigues at his feet

Towel around his waist

Peeps Putin

   His eyes drink us and he oozes in

   As my libido fades away

He spots me spotting him

‘I’m going to fuck you,’ he says

Matter-of-factly

Fait accompli

   I don’t know how he got in

   I don’t know who he’s talking to

   I don’t know if he’s alone

   I don’t know and don’t wish to find out

   What’s hidden beneath that towel

There are things I do know:

   My well of resentment is high

   He is made of bone and blood and skin and sinew

      Like the rest of us

   Subject to physical laws

      Even though he acts like he doesn’t

   I know my anger trumps my fear of him

So

    I slide across the room and before he can talk

   Before he can move

      Before even he can plot and

         Connive and bugger

I take hold of his throat firmly

He cannot escape through his

Backdoor hatch of egotistical confidence

I raise him up and I step on the bath rim

And with all my power I launch us up

   Up through the ceiling

Plaster and fragments of brick

 And structural steel

  Shatter around us

We fly through the heavy night air

   With Putin still in my firm grasp

    We journey for a long while

The peoples of Chechnya, Syria, Georgia and Ukraine watch

In fact 

    The whole world watches open-mouthed 

   As we fly past

Eventually, we land

 And using an impressive metal hook

I fix Putin to a large, grey rock

The barb pierces his back and projects from his chest

Then I personally source twelve tanks

Carefully 

   Incrementally

        I encircle Putin

Each tank is set

  Where a five minute mark would sit on a clock

And I fire heavy artillery shell

   After heavy artillery shell at him

    Boom and recoil - reload - boom and recoil - reload - boom and recoil…

The Russian people are bemused 

   But don’t interfere

   How could they when they know his time is up?

On and on and on and on 

The pounding goes 

Until there are no more shells left in this whole world 

And any other world you’d care to consider

Every last one has been used for this purpose

To eradicate this Excuse

Even though it has taken millenia

It has taken my life and countless lives to achieve this

   But don’t think this is the end of the process

The tanks are used to roll over whatever is left of the 

Smooshed remains and residue of what was Putin’s body

Millenia earlier

Putin arrives at the gates of Hell

‘This is all mine,’ Putin declares

‘Don’t we know it,’ comes the reply. ‘Don’t we know it.’