If the booster shots go on another two years
Discover more from Edward Slavsquat
If the booster shots go on another two years
A whimsical Moscow New Year tale
December 24, 2021. MOSCOW—Ever since I was a boy I have been in the habit of disappearing now and then, to restore myself by immersion in other worlds. My friends would look for me and after a time write me off as missing.
So now, once again, I vanished for a time. The present had lost its charm for me after nearly two years of “fourteen days to flatten the curve” and I slipped away to breathe different air. I left the plane on which we live and went to live on another plane. I spent some time in remote regions of the past, raced through nations and epochs without finding contentment, observed the usual crucifixions, intrigues, and moments of progress on earth, and then withdrew for a while into the cosmic realm.
When I returned, it was December 24, 2023. I was disappointed to find that the nations of the world were still under the spell of awe-inspiring stupidity.
On the other hand, great progress had been made towards equality. All countries looked the same; even the differences between rival blocs had virtually disappeared.
Globally, there was a strong sentiment against any ebb in positive PCR tests that might not last forever. Since unimpregnable public health had not yet been achieved, the governments of the world were resolutely committed to maintaining a moratorium on living.
I found my home in the outskirts of Moscow partly destroyed by looters but still more or less fit to sleep in. However, it was cold and uncomfortable, the rubble on the floor and the mold on the walls were distressing, and I soon went out for a walk.
A great change had come over the suburb. There were no shops to be seen and the streets were lifeless. Before long a humanoid robot with a flat-panel display showing Herman Gref’s face came up to me and began barking in German.
The machine demanded to know what I was doing. I said I was taking a walk.
GrefBot: “have you got a permit?”
I didn’t understand, a verbal altercation ensued, and the thing ordered me to follow it. The robot marched me to a building with a giant placard that read: “SberHealth Station No. 754314.”
Inside were the usual official premises, smelling of hand sanitizer, bureaucracy, and hopelessness. After various inquiries I was taken to Room 72 for interrogation.
The official sitting behind the desk was the first person I had laid eyes on since returning from my cosmic travels. I rushed up to him—a human being!—and reached out to embrace him.
He pulled away instantly. “1.5 meters, please! Can’t you social-distance?” he scolded me. “No,” I said. “Why not?” he replied. “Because I never learned how,” I said timidly.
“In any case,” he said, “you were taking a walk without a Sputnik Walking Booster Certificate. Do you admit that?”
“Yes,” I said. “That seems to be true. I didn’t know. You see, I’ve been away for quite some time…”
He silenced me with a wave of his hand. “The penalty: you are forbidden to wear shoes for three days. Take off your shoes!”
I took off my shoes.
“Good God, man!” The official nearly fell out of his chair. “Leather shoes! Where did you get them? Are you completely out of your mind?”
“I may not be quite normal, mentally, I myself can’t judge. I bought the shoes a few years ago.”
“Don’t you know that the wearing, eating and the general use of all animal products in any shape or form by SberClients is strictly prohibited? Your shoes are confiscated! And now let’s see your QR code so I can issue you a pair of SberSandals made from dehydrated soybean paste.”
Merciful heavens, I had no digital identification of any kind!
“Incredible!” the official groaned. “I haven’t seen anything like it in over a year!” He called in a GrefBot. “Take this man to Office 67, Room 8c!”
I was frog-marched barefoot through several abandoned streets. We went into another official building, passed through a SberTemperatureCheck machine, breathed the smell of sterile soullessness; then I was pushed into a room and questioned by another official. This one was in uniform.
“You were picked up on the street without a QR code. You are fined two thousand Sbercoin. I will charge your SberWallet immediately.”
“I beg your pardon,” I faltered. “I haven’t any money on me. Couldn’t you lock me up for a while instead?”
He laughed aloud.
“Lock you up? My dear fellow, what a lovely idea! Do you expect us to feed you in the bargain? No, my friend, if you can’t pay the fine, I shall have to impose our heaviest penalty—temporary withdrawal of your Sputnik Existence Booster Certificate! Kindly hand over your existence passport.”
I had none.
The official was speechless and entered a stroke-like state of visual physical discomfort. He called in two GrefBots—these ones armed with S-900 surface-to-unvaxxed missiles. They conferred in whispers, repeatedly motioning in my direction and looking at me with abject horror and amazement.
Then the official had me led away to a detention room, pending deliberation on my case.
There several persons were sitting in silence; a GrefBot stood guard at the reinforced steel door. I noticed that apart from my lack of shoes I was by far the best dressed and most healthy looking—odd, considering the great leap forward that had been made to safeguard the health of every Russian.
A squirrely little man sidled up to me, bent down, and whispered in my ear: “I’ve got a magnificent bargain for you. I have a beetroot at home in my cellar. A whole beetroot in near perfect condition—only one small corner gnawed away by mice. Yours for the asking. What do you offer?”
He moved his ear close to my mouth, and I whispered.
“You make an offer. How much do you want?”
He whispered softly back: “Let’s say 150 Sbercoin!”
I shook my head and looked away. Soon I was deep in thought.
After a few hours they came for me. I was taken to Office 285, Room 19f. This time the well-armed GrefBot stayed with me and stationed itself between me and the official.
“You’ve put yourself in a very nasty position,” the official began. “You have been living in the suburbs of Moscow without an existence passport. You are aware no doubt that the heaviest penalties are in order.”
I bowed slightly.
“If you please,” I interrupted. “I have only one request. I’m starting to realize now what has happened in my absence and that my position can only get worse and worse. Couldn’t you condemn me to death? I should be very grateful.”
The official looked gently into my eyes.
“I understand,” he said amiably. “But anybody could come in here asking for that! In any case, you’d need a demise card. Can you afford one? They cost four thousand Sbercoin.”
“No, I haven’t got that much money. But I’d give all I have. I have an enormous desire to die.”
He smiled strangely.
“I can believe that, you’re not the only one. But dying isn’t so simple. This is a matter of public health. I would have to report your death to the authorities, and soon enough they would be breathing down my neck—‘was it COVID-related?’ My SberHealth station could lose funding if your corpse later tests positive. Surely you must know that.”
He saw that I did not know that. He paused for a moment, then continued.
“By the way—I see you’re registered under the name of Slavsquat, Edward. Could you be Slavsquat, the blogger?”
“That’s me!”
“Oh I’m so glad. Maybe I can do something for you? GrefBot 5542, you are dismissed.”
The machine left the room, the official took off his disposable plastic glove and shook my hand.
“I’ve read your blog with great interest,” he said in a friendly tone. “Margarita Simonyan really is an insufferable schizoid. By the way, did you know she is now prime minister? Anyway, I’ll do my best to help you. But good God, how did you get into this incredible mess?”
“Well, you see, I was away for a while. For several years I vanished into the ether—like the Moscow Strain—and frankly I had rather hoped the world would have come to its senses by the time I got back. But tell me, can you get me a demise card? I’d be ever so grateful.”
“It may be possible. But first you need an existence booster. Obviously, nothing can be done without that. I’ll give you a note to Office 13. On my recommendation, they’ll issue you a temporary QR code so you can make a booster appointment. But it will only be valid for 45 minutes.”
I was overjoyed. We shook hands once again.
“One more thing,” I said softly. “May I ask you a question? You must realize how little I know about what’s been going on these past two years.”
“Go right ahead.”
“Well, here’s what I’d like to know: how can life go on under these conditions? How can people stand it?”
“Oh, they’re not so badly off. Your situation is exceptional: an Unboostered—and without an existence passport! There are very few unboostered SberClients left. Most get their monthly allowance of 20 Sbercoin and are grateful. A good many are genuinely happy. Little by little one gets used to the misery and organized food shortages. When the bug-burgers gave out we switched to sawdust gruel—they season it with tar now, it’s surprisingly tasty. We all thought it would be unbearable but then we got used to it. And the same with everything else.”
“I see,” I replied. “It’s really not so surprising. But there’s one thing I still don’t understand. Tell me: why is the whole world making these enormous efforts? Putting up with such hardships, with all these laws, these thousands of sanitary doctors and petty technocrats—what is all this meant to preserve and safeguard?”
The official looked at me in amazement.
“What a question!” he cried, shaking his head. “Did you know only 94% of SberClients are fully boostered? Global immunity against the Triple Omega Variant is calculated at a measly 86%! Our sepsis-filled red zones could be overwhelmed at any moment! What if your own mother died of a hospital-transmitted superinfection—what would you say then?”
“Yes,” I said slowly. “You’ve got something there. The vaccine, in other words, is a treasure that must be preserved at any cost. Yes, but—I know it’s an odd question—why do you value the vaccine so highly? Is it worth so much? Is it really a treasure?”
The official gave me a look of genuine pity.
“My dear Mr. Slavsquat. You’ve lost contact with the world. Go out into the streets, talk to people, if you can find them: then make a slight mental effort and ask yourself: what have we got left? What is the substance of our lives? Only one answer is possible: the vaccine is all we have left! Pleasure and personal profit, social ambition, greed, love, cultural activity—all of that has gone out of existence. If there is still any law, order, or thought left in the world, we have the vaccine to thank for it. Now do you understand?”
I understood. I thanked the official and left.
I felt extremely ill. Outside, I crumpled my temporary QR code printout into a paper ball and threw it at a GrefBot sentry. The robot fired its S-900 surface-to-unvaxxed missile launcher, vaporizing me immediately.
The above true story is based on another true story by Hermann Hesse, titled: If The War Goes On Another Two Years—End of 1917.
If the booster shots go on another two years
Excellent adaptation, Edward! History repeats itself, but as usual, in a more bizarre and grotesque way. Not sure of 2023 but certainly 2022 ahead of us will be a dark year, perhaps the darkest one in modern history since the end of WWII. Let's hope that the skies are the darkest before dawn! If you celebrate, Merry Christmas to you in cold, wintery Moscow!
I felt like I was there with you. Thanks for the tale and Merry Crisis to you!