Brian McKenzie en kyrzbekistan SVP Patient Integration • MEDx Ehealth 11/2/2018 · 5 min de lectura · +100

Kyrzbekistan: Part 50

Kyrzbekistan: Part 50

We were ready to cue up the next game. It was a version of Reverse Redux of Pin the Tail on the Donkey,  the girl "Donkey" would be blindfolded, and she would have to guess who was spanking her ass. If she got it right, she was able to trade out being 'Donkey' – if not, the spanker got to slap her other cheek, and the line would continue until she got it right – a perfect punishment.

So a round of  Schmackeboom  was on deck. Oooopa !


We were all set to wind up a good slap fest,when a staff member brought us the next round of Champagne bottles and Local Kyrzbeki Vodka. A the new girl in uniform brought a host of giggles and stares as the girls devoured her body in turn, and I could not blame them, she was delicious.


She asked if we had heard the news from Bishkek? And we all shook are heads in the negative. It seems that a band of students at the University dressed in hoodies had sacked the snack bar, robbing it of pastries, sandwiches and soft drinks while shouting 'Democracy NOW'. Ah, the globalist miscreant fucks have started early, I thought I had another few days before the shit show kicked off; apparently not. I claimed the Hello Kitty phone again – I sent Mama Lambchik a note – I needed to definitely get the car situation set early tomorrow morning. To sweeten the pot, I sent her a group selfie of the girls and invited her to join us. <SEND>

It is indeed time to put the foot down, ram the line and kill a few of the henchmen; and then move onto senior local management. Checking quickly – Dick was still in his spot, an easy mark. Friday is indeed his last day of sucking air and pushing this globalist shit show production. I spooled back on the alcohol, I need to be fresh and ready for an early morning roll out – a 5 mile run should clear the line and get the brain to the right sizzle. It is time to put the Shadow Games into play – time to put some stooges into Hawaiian shirts with slugs in the head or with their throats slit. Time to torture and remove pawns from the board. I know that my drop package was en bound – but it was still a three day wait.

Korochee Korochee   It is time to fast forward through the sex games and grinding grope fest.


Mama and I rolled up to the long gated road to what would be considered to me a very familiar sight, a big weather worn house that looked like it stumbled right out of my rural childhood, and a barn that had seen better days to match it. For acres, or versts or whatever they called them on this side of the planet, it was the only house standing in view.


We were greeting by a gauntlet of running barking dogs and a scowling plump figure on the nearing porch. He could have been nearly every red-neck I ever met. Shabby clothes that had a show of dirt on them from actual working and surrounded by a field that had the all too pungent aroma of fresh manure. Well – at least the boys from Monsquanto aren't getting any of his money. In the States, he would be a Budro, a Jethro, a LeRoy or even a Kleitus – but here in the Kyrzbek world, his name was Gleb – not to be confused with Xleb (as that is Bread in Russian)


Gleb: Ny sto zhe – 'What da ya want?' is the best translation – and it seems there is a near world-wide distrust of 'city folk' among farmers, ranchers and anyone that works the land for a living.

Mama: - Ya zvonila o Vawa Mashinka - I phoned you about your car.

Gleb looked at her – ay yes, Mama Lambchik – it is long since I zgladul tebya, ya pomnuy ti taka skooolnichka. (the dimunitive for kindergardener did not sit well with Mama – but we needed the car)

Mama: da davniym, davnao – since Papa otkazalcya Bac. Oysht – she just put the formal back into the conversation and reminded him of his place in town....and his face showed the effect. This was a business call and not a social 'How do you do' event.

He turned and headed off to the barn, motioning with the globally famous wave of the arm and grunt that says 'Follow Me' without the verbal mish & mash of actual words.

We got to the barn, and as he slid open the doors, I was expecting to see a dirty little Lada Niva.... I could not be more wrong. It seems that the red-neck fascination of mounting tractor tires upon inappropriate things is not purely American. There sat a little hatchback on tires that were every bit as big as the equipment I drove on our farm back at home in my teens. These things were damn right huge. It looked like Big Foots illegitimate Soviet Spawn. It was even tarted up and festooned with a horde of stickers and logos. All I could muster was a long slow whistle.... which set the pack of dogs to barking again.


I looked at Gleb – Um, Bozhe moy – sto za cheyrt. (My God, what the fuck)

He laughed – ooooysht – dental hygiene and care were not good rurally here either. He said Niva na Neva.... the Russian word Niva translates to 'Field'....and he was indicating that he worked the field with this beast. Walking around the back of the little pill-box confirmed it – a massive trailer hitch – capable of humping any damn farm accessory you could think of or want.

Gleb said in a narodniy drawl in his native tongue Kyrzbeki tongue that was a patch work of Russian, Arabic and probably Maurauding Mongols that real tractors were hard to come by out here – but the little Niva was damned everywhere..... so with parts from his brothers junk yard – he pieced this mutant together to grind out the tillin, plowin and harvestin'. Pure Red Neck ingenuity – hats off to him. I had to say I was right impressed with the set up – but this would not do for the needs that I had at hand. It would never blend in scooting around Bishkek and I imagined the gearing would make it struggle to do over 35. While that is great for churning the dirty plow field – it is shit for evading, running, and dodging.... which I had the feeling I would have to do when I finally get to the 'school zone'.

Before I fully informed Gleb that it was off my list – I asked to climb up in it. He agreed. I am a short inseam bloke, so I was glad that there was a step rung to get in and a grab bar to assist. Inside – it was exactly like every other Lada Niva I have ever had the chance to occupy.... except for the smell. It was clear that it had not been hosed out in a very long while. I asked Gleb what he grows out here.

He gave Mama Lamba a look that said – 'Can this puke be Trusted?' …. ah, body language needs no dictionary. Mama nodded. Gleb said he doesn't grow any crops.

I was dumb founded. There was a fresh field fertilized with manure and the tractor was set up and showed well use.

He said that he makes NaczVai. um.... what the hell is that ?


NaczVai is a local narcotic that is fermented and distilled from dried Chicken Shit. ….. Either I didn't quite understand his rending of the sentence in Kyrzbeki or I fully didn't understand how Chicken Shit could be a narcotic. I got out of the Monster Niva and he led me to the back barn sliding door. He opened up what was a cook lab that looked just like what we used to bust back in Team Green when we were shaking down Meth Labs. It looked part Tweaker part Dr Frankenstein. It seems Carol Shelby is not the only crazy chicken farmer gear head.

Mama explained that NaczVai is like a 'snuff' that you can either snort like cocaine or put in your mouth like a chewing tobacco – for either iteration – I was disgusted. But each to their own. It is a centuries old local drug that has hallucagenetic kick to it. It is rumored to give you the power to speak to your lost love ones and for some users – prophetic future sight. But most are only in it for the buzzybuzz as Mama said. Augmented Reality 1.o, Centuries before PokeMon Go. Interesting.

I let Gleb know that the Niva was impressive, but it was not my kind of ride. I needed something more generic and faster. He gave an irritated look to Mama – I could see that he was not happy. He did not like having his afternoon intruded. I turned and offered him some Myed credits for his time, but he was disgruntled and in a huff. We walked around from the back side of the barn back to the little Mercedes. Out behind the house was another weird creation. It was a Soccer Mom's MiniVan-esque thing sitting again on some meaty tread and beefy rims. I looked Gleb and pointed – do you 'Monster' everything? He laughed.


No, that eez Delica. They come that way. They nothing interesting. My curiosity was piqued. It is a Mitsubishi model that we don't get in the States. It is a 4x4 Mommy Van. All the room I could ever need for what ever I wanted to carry and still blend in with near anonymity. Perfect. I told Gleb I would take THAT. He said – Not for Sale, Flatly. Without any hint of even wanting to have a further conversation about it.

Fuck – I hate these walk off the lot moments. I never liked them when I was selling, and I never like them when I am buying.

more later - I have to stew up a solution to get Gleb to fork over that minivan.