Shitty Immortality

Shcheglova Olga (Boris Bidyaga)

WARD №666: ORTHODOX MILITARY PUTINISM
 Album of satirical miniatures

MINIATURE №57
SHITTY IMMORTALITY
 
Russia, Moscow, the Kremlin, the President’s office. Seated at the table are: the Russian president, Vladimir Putin, and Mikhail Kovalchuk, an old friend of his, now overseeing research in life extension and slowing aging.

Putin (almost affectionately):
– Well, Professor, report: how are things progressing with my immortality?

Kovalchuk (enthusiastically):
– There’s progress. Significant. We’re currently working on a project to preserve your… biological materials.

Putin (surprised):
– What? What does poop have to do with that?

Kovalchuk (hurriedly):
– Hold on. Don’t fuss. Hear me out first.

Putin (graciously):
– Speak.

Kovalchuk:

Putin (pensively):
— Shitty immortality. A shitty idea. Say you print me out. But who am I? Nobody. Someone else will be sitting on the throne. They will immediately bring charges against me: the war, the arsons, the bombings, the cables, everything.

Kovalchuk:
— I don’t know about that. It’s impossible to predict what political system Russia will have by then.

Putin (with emphasis):
— That’s the point. I want a different kind of immortality. I want this — my present body — to serve me forever. Is that so hard?! Heart worn out — transplant. Liver, kidneys — transplant… It’s as simple as that!

Kovalchuk (cautiously):
– But every organ has a service life – no more than eighty years…

Putin:
– Then take a heart from a schoolkid – a recent graduate. What, you feel sorry for some kid for my sake?

Kovalchuk (fervently):
– Not at all! I’d give you my own heart…

Putin (disgustedly):
– I don’t want yours. What the hell do I need your rusty junk for? Get me a young heart, with plenty of life left. And in 60 years, put in a new one. What’s so complicated?

Kovalchuk:
– At present, medicine can’t guarantee the organ will take. The probability of complications is quite high. So either wait another 20 years, or we preserve the shit.

Putin (grumpily):
– Fine, have it your way. Go on with your shit. But only as a backup. In the worst case, after my… death [his face distorted, as if in severe pain] it’ll go under the hammer for a million.

Kovalchuk (smiling):
– Yes. In the West, the shit of the powerful is highly valued. Some Italian artist, I think his name was Mandzoni, sold his poop for the price of gold. And now a 30-gram can of this shit costs hundreds of thousands of euros.

Putin (contemptuously):
– Well, if some lousy Italian shat gold ingots – my shit will go for ten million!

Kovalchuk (flatteringly):
– Maybe even more!

Putin:
– Only one condition: no greed! 30 grams?! That’s a laughingstock! What am I, a pigeon?

Kovalchuk (convincingly):
– You? No. You are a falcon. An eagle. A kite. A pterodactyl.

Putin (arrogantly):
– Exactly. And my shit must be of the highest quality. Refined. Deodorized. And make it blue. Blue blood – blue shit.

Kovalchuk:
– Of course, of course. First press. Virgin Putin shit. Or Putin virgin shit? Which is correct?

Putin (with hatred):
– Dismissed!