Valisa in the Dungeon

A tale of how the valiant warrant officer Valentin Leopoldovich Savushkin fell through three seas of sewerage, whom he saw, what wonders he beheld, and what unimaginable adventures he acquired.

Note. "The text contains statements capable of shattering all manner of templates, jokes below the belt, and a complete absence of tolerance." (c)

The year 1999 was moving uphill, neither shakily nor unsteadily. October had firmly taken hold, by morning the first frosts gripped the earth, and the short-lived foliage on the trees, withered and shriveled, was torn away by sudden, gusting winds. The earth grew quiet, cooling, awaiting the white

blanket.

A small Siberian military town with the strange name Mezhdurechye — just a dozen prefab five-story buildings and scattered shacks of the private sector around — though you couldn't walk to the rivers, was an appendage of a once-terribly secret missile unit, lost among the taiga hills. Now, due to the decline, disarray, and wavering in the country in general and the army in particular, the most valuable things left on the territory of this military unit were only five or six plywood mock-ups of secret missile launchers and three inflatable tanks under the strict accountability of the warehouse chief, warrant officer Valentin Leopoldovich Savushkin, who had given the better half of his life to his beloved work.

Valentin Leopoldovich Savushkin, more often behind his back, and sometimes directly, had the nickname Valisa. It was an old story. Once at a rowdy party, someone with a slurring tongue tried to address him grandly by his full name, but only managed "Val-liii-sa," and so it stuck. "Go to Valisa's warehouse, they say something was brought from the region yesterday" or "We need to call Valisa, where would we be without him, a useful man in every sense."

And considering that the warrant officer had a slight build, though in his youth he was clearly not bad-looking, a well-groomed face, clean-shaven, blue and intelligent eyes, this nickname suited him quite well.

The wild '90s, Valisa survived, more or less; a warehouse is like the bowels of the earth, you find one thing, then another. So he scraped by. But the hard times didn't end, they dragged on and on. And what to do next? You can't pawn an inflatable tank, and who the hell needs one today anyway, unless you find some New Russians beyond the Urals, but they're far away, you can't manage it in a day. With such gloomy thoughts, Valisa was heading home after duty, clutching a briefcase with three cans of stew to his chest. His wife, oh, she was formidable; if you don't plug the muzzle right at the doorstep, you'll be catching hell for three days, she'll nag you to death.

Road repair work on warrant officer Savushkin's native street with the grand name "Named After the 5th Army" had been going on since May, but they just couldn't finish it. Who even started it, and who the hell needed it, but they dug it up alright, but apparently they ran out of funds to fill it back in. So the mounds of earth, turned out onto the shoulders, just stood there.

Wandering thoughtfully among the mounds, Savushkin suddenly realized he wasn't going anywhere anymore, or rather, he hadn't stopped moving, but his feet no longer found support, and his body was moving on its own. Clutching the briefcase with stew tighter, Valisa strained his brain and tried to assess the situation. That's right, he was falling, but falling strangely long and somehow slowly. "Those bastards, didn't they close the manhole, damn repairmen," — his habitual vocabulary cooled the panic and directed his thoughts to solving the task at hand.

How long, how short our hero flew through the impenetrable gloom, we do not know, but everything comes to an end or an end comes to everything, it depends on your luck. Valisa, it seems, was lucky. His flight slowed strangely, and a stench and a terrible smell hit his face, as if a herd of horses, raising their tails all at once, had laid out piles of appetizingly steaming plops. His feet suddenly felt support, touching a solid surface. The briefcase, strangely becoming a counterweight, prevented him from falling on his side. Savushkin would have taken a deep breath, but the stench was such that you could only exhale. "What's ours won't be lost, it'll be lost here too," Valisa optimistically cheered himself up and set off to look for a way out.

Before him stood a huge, black, curly-haired man in overalls with three short iron pipes under his arm and said: "Hey, dear man, give me a hundred rubles, for a hangover cure, or the pipes are burning," — at these words the pipes indeed flared up with a reddish gleam.

— I don't have a hundred rubles, I swear on my soul. The bastards are delaying the salary again, maybe in a week or so. And you, dear man, aren't you a Negro? Because we've never had such in Siberia, not ever?

— Nah, not a Negro, I lay pipes here, have been for a long time, but no one gives me a hangover cure. No one's been here for a long time. How did you get here?

— Well, sort of fell through a manhole.

— Ah, then you need to go north, a lot of such have already gathered there.

— And where's north?

— Well, if I knew, I'd go myself.

— Well, screw you then, where do I go?

— And you can suck it, without bowing, how should I know?

And the huge man with the pipes slowly moved off into the darkness. Savushkin scratched the back of his head, mentally, as in reality his service cap was on. And suddenly a thought occurred to him: "If there's a north, then know, this is not there." He turned again to the four sides: "Hey, bastards, I didn't allow you to mess with discipline, come on, where's north here?" — he even stamped his foot and, clutching the cherished briefcase tighter, set off wherever his eyes looked.

A tale is soon told, but a deed is not soon done. Our hapless hero walked along a strange light path. He couldn't make out the scenery, due to the absence thereof, and finding an exit was a matter of officer's honor. A goal appeared suddenly, "ready-aim" was premature. Savushkin's breath caught in his throat. There! There it is — north, exactly, it must be north. About five or six meters ahead he glimpsed a highway. Not the kind they call a highway up top, a different one. A wide road, and on it — the most natural traffic. Carts and wagons were moving, a motley crowd stretched in both directions: men, goats, vagrants, beggars, wandering cripples, scoundrels of all stripes, fallen women, guest workers, Greeks, Chinese, and other riffraff.

Valisa rushed into the saving stream, but it was not to be. He flattened against a transparent, yet strong wall. No matter how he pounded with his fists, no matter how he pushed with his shoulder, no matter how he strained his throat, even in a fit he threw the cherished briefcase with the stew, the wall didn't yield, didn't budge. The eye sees, but the tooth can't reach. Our heroic warrant officer got upset, curled up in a ball by the transparent wall, and fell asleep, whimpering pitifully in his sleep.

He woke from strange sensations. As if everything was in place, but only from the waist up, even the briefcase, here it is, under his arm, but from the waist down something was missing. He glanced down, motherfucker, his pants were down and a hand was stroking his dick. Stroking it gently, tenderly. His balls even tightened and shriveled into a little ball. He sat up, looked. And before him a mouse stood on its hind legs, and with its front paws it was stroking his, Savushkin's, dick. Valisa jumped up, pulling up his pants, hissing at the mouse. And the mouse danced before him, as if calling him somewhere. And suddenly Valisa made out human words in the mouse's squeak:

— Follow me, follow me, to the fuck-off place, follow me, follow me, to the fuck-off place…

— What fuck-off place?

— A place where wolves fuck, that is, very far away. Follow me, follow me…

Far away is far away, maybe the cherished north will be found there. Our hero pulled up his pants, though not without difficulty, but stuffed his dick in, and set off after the mouse. How long, how short, by clear day, by dark night, in the dungeon it's all the same, but the mouse scampered ahead, and Valisa adjusted his step to it, only worried about not stepping on its tail, but the mouse turned out to be nimble. The mouse darted one last time, and

that was the last they saw of it. And before Valisa's eyes, chambers opened up, bright and high. A table in the middle, neat benches, and a feast laid out, like in the good old Soviet times, when the valiant army was denied nothing, and especially not the warehouse chief of a secret missile unit.

Sitting at the table were wondrous maidens, each more beautiful than the last. <a href="">erotic stories In white togas, one breast bare, the other slightly covered. And the one at the head of the table wasn't hiding at all. "Holy mother Russia, where have you ever seen such a thing, for women to put themselves on display like that? My Marfa Feoklistovna before the wedding, no way. And even after, only under the blanket and without light!" — Valisa's brain exploded, just exploded.

The Main One rises and speaks heartfelt words, but by her eyes you can see she's a hardened bitch.

— Tell us, friend, what brought you here?

— A mouse brought me, said wolves fuck here, only I don't need that, I'd like to get home somehow, the Negro said I need to go north, but where's north, where's south, who knows…

— We will take you home, only fulfill one condition — dine with us, with what God has sent, and copulate. With one, two, three even. As your honor allows and your strength holds out. And after, we will deliver you home, to the north, so to the north.

— I won't refuse a meal, but as for copulating… How am I to choose among you, I'm not strong in copulation, apart from my Marfa, Feoklistovna, I've never had a woman in my life.

— And we will help you, we'll choose with a counting rhyme.

The Main One at the head of the table stood up and started a strange counting rhyme:

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall in his dream.

Humpty Dumpty fell outside.

And suddenly Humpty understood,

And suddenly Dumpty understood,

That fucking in a dream,

Is worse than sleeping on a wall.

It fell on a comely, stately, young maiden. A fiery red mane, eyes sparkling green, breasts standing at attention, legs from here to there, and a mouth you could sew shut. Savushkin's head began to stir, and not the head that thinks thoughts, but the one that sometimes gives no peace in the mornings. Valisa hadn't felt such a thing inside himself for a long time, oh, a long time. With his own Marfa, well, they'd already raised the kids, put them on their feet. She rarely allowed him near her body, oh, rarely. And there were never any women at the warehouse. Tea, a military unit, only men all around, and he wasn't like that, no, not like that. He was honest. So consoled himself Savushkin, the kind warrant officer of the long-deceased Soviet army.

They were led to chambers. Canopies around, fans hung, a proper Eastern harem, no less. Valisa had only seen such in movies. Never in real life. And his maiden pulled the toga from her shoulders, remained only in bracelets on her arms and legs, and plopped onto the bed, spreading her legs. And Savushkin saw a wondrous wonder — an open pussy, positively blinding his eyes.

Oh, what a pussy it was, oh, what a little rose. What, the hell, little rose — an orchid! Once they brought this exotic flower to the flower shop in their town. When Savushkin first saw it, just before March 8th, he was amazed — well, a pussy is a pussy. Two double petals outward, two inside, just like Marfa Feoklistovna's, before she married him off to herself.

And here was a living orchid, exuding juices, before his very eyes under his nose. Savushkin fell upon this overseas flower with his lips, greedily sucking the juices, choking, he fell upon it and forgot everything in the world. Such an aroma emanated from that flower that it took his breath away, and the taste was like a general's cognac on February 23rd in a narrow circle of the most trusted. Our warrior-warrant officer did not disgrace Mother Russia and her valiant army, even though he was merely a warehouse chief. He fucked that maiden to the very ears. Oh, and he tried, oh, he roasted her to the very throat. He gave all his juices, squeezed himself dry. And when he came to his senses, he was already sitting at the table, eating bread and salt, chasing it with black and red caviar.

— Are you satisfied, warrior? — asked the Main One, when Savushkin began to become aware of himself.

— Satisfied, mother, I would stay here with you forever.

— Well, that's a hell no for you. You're neither a candle to God nor a poker to the devil for us. The job's done, walk free. We'll deliver you home. And if you plan to get to us another time, jump into the well again, but don't miss. Not everywhere has access to us. And now go in peace.

Valentin Leopoldovich Savushkin was pulled out of the sewer well only towards morning. Thanks to his wife, quite the general's wife, she raised everyone on their ears — the local police, the unit command. Even dogs were involved. Found the poor fellow. The heating main kept him from freezing, no fractures were found, he got off with bruises and scrapes, though he lay unconscious all night at the bottom of a not-so-bottomless well. They even found the briefcase under him with the cherished stew. And what happened to him and occurred, Valisa only told in a whisper, and only in a narrow circle.

But the repair work on "Named After the 5th Army" street was wrapped up suspiciously quickly somehow, in two weeks they leveled all the mounds with a grader, closed the manholes and rolled asphalt over them. It's okay that our asphalt is water-soluble. The snow will melt, the asphalt will dissolve.

And as for this tale, believe it if you want, don't if you don't. Not all lies are told in tales, and not all truth is done in life.

October, 1999, Mother Russia.