Tuesday, January 12, 2016

Erotic Fan Fiction in place of Musical Explanation 1/12/16: Shostakovich Symphony no. 10

(combines a musical explanation with a little something I've written for a friend's event: Erotic Fan Fiction involving people from history...)

It was early in the morning of March 5th 1953, and Dmitri Shostakovich was dozing off in his study. Every day, he rose up before dawn to begin work on music, but there was no point in working too hard these days. Ever since his denunciation five years ago, he was person non grata in the Soviet Union. He was even sacked from all his teaching jobs so he had nowhere to go in the morning. For seventeen years, ever since the last round of denunciations, Mitya slept in his apartment building's hallway rather than in his bed. In case KGB came to take him away to Siberia or to be shot like nearly every one of his artist friends, he didn't want to wake his family up. Next to the staff paper on his desk was yet another half-cleared bottle of vodka, just his first of the day, and a carton of cigarettes, his fourth in a week.

It would be an unseasonably warm day, roughly 2 degrees centigrade, and it was early March. In a few weeks would come the beginning of that part of the Russian year when it's cold but not too cold to snow, it lasts seven months. Nevertheless, in spite of this massive heat wave, a gust of wind blew open the shutters and sprinkled cold rain upon Mitya's Harry Potter-like visage. Wetting his hair and fogging his thick bifocals.

Shostakovich thought to close the shutters so as not to wake up his children, but this damp, grey rain season was so pleasant to the touch and sight that he simply wanted to enjoy that above freezing heat for thirty seconds.

And then came the miracle. A suspension of belief in the heavens and the earth so profound and so miraculous that all things in the world must be true and false... Yet here, I must digress for a moment to tell you that the Soviets had outlawed miracles according to the Fifteenth Bi-Annual Commissar Conference of the Second Politburo Comerades of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics in September 1927. Lenin's two closest former assistants gave contradictory interpretations of Marx's diktats on miracles. Comerade Kamaniev ruled that miracles were outlawed by Marx in article 17 paragraph 2 sentence 131 of Das Kapital Volume 3 Book 4: entitled Conversion of Commodity Capital and Money Capital into Commercial Capital and Money-Dealing Capital (Merchant's Capital). Meanwhile, while Comerade Zinoviev agreed with Comerade Kamaniev in principal, he nevertheless testified to the fact that Dear Comerade Lenin had performed many miracles which would not be made manifest until such time as the Worker's Paradise be brought to the Earth, as while he personally had not seen Comerade Lenin perform them, they would be made manifest as according to article 15 paragraph 51 sentence 32 of Das Kapital Volume 2 Book 3: The Reproduction and Circulation of Aggregate Social Capital. Comerade Stalin was later to rule that the idea of miracles was a Jewish-Trotskyist conspiracy, and accordingly had Comerade Zinoviev and all his associates shot. He then suspected Comerade Kamaniev of being in league with Western Powers for not believing the Soviet Leader capable of miracles, and accordingly had Comerade Kamaniev and all his associates shot.

And yet it was at this very moment, this unseasonably warm, 2 degree centigrade morning of March 5th 1953, that Comerade Stalin definitively proved Comerade Kamaniev wrong, and as if upon wings, flew through the window of Mitya's study with a majestic gust of wind so forceful that entire piles of music flew through the air in a fit of disarray. The greatest composer of the 20th century was immediately despondent that five years of unperformed work was in a state of irreparable disorder, but he did not dare upbraid the General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics for his impertinence.

"Dobrye Ootro Dimitri Dimitrievich!" The despot, settling mid-air at five-and-a-half feet above ground,  greeted his once favored composer with the beneficent friendliness he was renowned for bestowing continually upon all Mother Russia.

"Comrade Stalin!?"

"Yes, it is I. Rat tibya veedet." which means nice to see you.

"Comrade Stalin. It... It... It..." Dmitri Dmitrievich was fumbling for lack of confidence. Seeing the man who inscribed life or death for him every day for the last thirty years, levitate in the midst of his study did not do much for self confidence."

"Daaaaa????" Stalin answered with the same small hint of mischief that let his underlings know that they were to starve eight million Ukrainians to death.

"Please forgive me for asking something so importunately..."

"Dear Comrade Shostakovich," Comrade Stalin respnded with utmost sincerity, "when have I ever begrudged another comrade for being importunate?"

"Comrade Stalin..." Mitya Shostakovich could barely look his heroic leader in the face. "Are you flying?"

"That I am Dmitri Dmitrievich. I have come to bid you a final goodbye."

"A... final...?"

"Yes, a final goodbye. For I am dead."

"You are dead...." Shostakovich tried as best he could to suppress his smile, and yet he could not.

"This makes you happy Comrade?" Stalin said, with indifferent irony.

"No, it does not." Shostakovich protested in a raised voice. The mere possibility of Stalin's death sent shockwaves of glee through Shostakovich, yet he was seeing Comrade Stalin with his own eyes, as solidly flesh as could be. Like billions worldwide, he wanted this desperately to be true, but could not believe in the death of someone he sees with his own eyes, mid-air or grounded.

"Comrade, we had a wonderful relationship over these years did we not?"

"Yes Comrade Stalin. Of course!"

"We must have one last conversation before we go."

"What do you want to say to me Comrade Stalin?"

"Pull your pants down."


"I said pull your pants down." The General Secretary said with icy matter of factness.

"You want to have a conversation with my pants down?"

"Pull your pants down and bend over!"


"You heard me."

At the command of the leader of the enslaved world, Dmitri Dmitrievich Shostakovich pulled his pants down and was ready to submit to one final act of humiliation from him.

And yet, in a gust of sound as majestic as Comrade Stalin's entrance had been a few minutes earlier, he heard the bells and sirens ring around Moscow as they never rang before. The Czar was definitively, decisively, determinately, dead, deader than Dostoevsky, deader than Gogol's Dead Souls, deader than the House of the Dead.

"No comrade, I will not."


"Comrade Stalin is dead. He cannot tell me what to do any longer."

"You are mistaken. I have ascended to godhead. I am more powerful than ever before. The universe bows to my command. The world is a face, and I am the jackboot!"

"You're just a flying Yurodivye now."

"How dare you Comrade! Is this any way to treat a leader who's been so generous to Mother Russia?"

"I will not submit" And at that moment, Shostakovich found courage welling up within him he had not known since he was a student composer at the Leningrad Conservatory, and he grabbed at the feet of Comrade Stalin."

"What are you doing Comrade?"

He uttered again, this time almost spitting it out with vehement vengeance, "I will not submit!" and lunged upon Comrade Stalin's feet and grabbed hold. Stalin was beginning to get nervous and tried to dart away, but Shostakovich's grip was too strong from years of holding pencils and writing on composition paper.

Comrade Stalin flew out of the apartment and up through the sky over the streets of Moscow. Shostakovich climbed up the body of the General Secretary, loosened the belt buckle of his uniform, and while Comrade Stalin made every evasion through the air, Shostakovich would not let go.

And suddenly, Comrade Stalin found that he was wearing no pants, and as Shostakovich entered Comrade Stalin's Trotshole, he shouted "Your business is rejoicing!" over and over again.

A few streets over, Sergei Prokofiev was at his samovar, preparing a strong cup of his morning tea.

He was about to take a his first sip when his second wife called to him, his first wife having been sent to Siberia a few days before.

"Milaya Moya! I think you'd better come to the window."

"Not now Mira, I'm drinking tea."

"Bozhe Moy, I think you'll want to see this!"

"Not now!" said Sergei Sergeyevich with his customary irritation. "Comrade Stalin is dead and soon I'll be performed again and can collect my profits from the West. There's a lot of work to do!"

"Actually, he's alive."

"What?" Sergei said as he took a large sip of piping hot chai.

"Comrade Stalin is flying through the air right now! And he's being sodomized by Shostakovich."

And at that moment, the tea went down the wrong whole, Prokofiev choked on his tea and within forty-five seconds he was dead.

And Shostakovich rode through the air, triumphantly stuffing the deceased Stalin like a Chicken Kiev, and as he did, he cried out for all Moscow to hear: "NOSTROVIA MOTHERFUCKER!"

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