Friday, November 30, 2012

stanislav's atomic adventure - part 3

By some major coincidence, while Dove and I were penning our atomic soap opera, back in real life, this article popped up on my news feed:

"Colossal cap being lowered over exploded nuclear reactor to protect the world from Chernobyl's crumbling tomb."

By some MAJOR INSANE COINCIDENCE, Chernobyl made the actual news this week, for something quite significant. I mean, shut up. Get the hell out of town .

I drew the Dove's attention to it immediately.

Dove: Dude. This is gonna put Stanislav out of business. Where's he gonna get the radium from?

Peas: Don't worry. He's going to dig a hole. Underneath. Like a mole. I've got it covered.



Stanislav and Nastasja's radium energy drinks business was doing so well, that they would need to stop and mop their brows every 5 minutes, as there was so much A-Bomb In A Bottle to make. Demand poured in from the bowels of Avastar nightclub, where ravers were necking the drinks faster than Usain Bolt ran the 100 metres sprint.
It was a total hit, that Stani and Nasti decided to move into a larger abandoned apartment in Pripyat, and furnish it with decor from Habitat.

Then suddenly, one day, over the horizon, Stanislav spotted a huge, giant structure being wheeled towards Reactor 4. It was the new sarcophagus. 
Shitski. This thing was literally going to "cap" their isotope supply.

And Avastar was buying them out of business, ordering 8000 bottles of their energy drinks every hour. Ravers were latching onto the stuff like barnacles.

"Vee need to build tunnel," he said one night over a stonking, steaming bowl of boiled cabbage.

"But how, Stani, how?" cried Nastasja, who was in the middle of painting her nails metallic green, from her side business of radioactive nail polish that was doing very well in Romanian and Bulgarian markets.

"I take my shovel, and will become like mole. And dig."

He put on his lead suit, grabbed his trusty shovel and headed for the perimetre fence, where the new sarcophagus was ready to be slid over the gaping radioactive area.
And for four days, he dug. And he dug. And he dug some more. The thing that fuelled him throughout this muscular process was the caning of many many energy drinks.
His supply was starting to run short. All he had left was a few crates of 'Cuban Missile Crisis' flavour (apple & grapefruit - for the weight conscious).
Nastasja, right behind him would give him a few light slams on the arss for motivation. She'd use a paddle and a whip, just like the characters had used in 50 Shades of Grey.
The long deep, underground tunnel seemed endless and endless now.

Eventually they hit something. Hark! For what was it?
 It had to be the outer wall of the Chernobyl power plant! They were almost there, where they could once again access an endless supply of strontium, plutonium, cesium, radium and polonium and become the energy drink tycoons they once were! Supplying clubs of questionable taste with very questionable drinks!

"Vee vill have to blast this vall vith something to penetrate ze bricks!" Stani very cleverly and astutely, pointed out. 

Nastsja patted her pockets and checked her handbag, "ah, there it is!" she said, pulling out a stale stick of dynamite. "I always carry spare with me in case I run out. With my gum, lipstick and a stray Tampax."
Which goes to show, women may carry a bunch of crap in their handbags, but it's always useful.

"I keep this just in case Khrushchev comes back from the dead and declares cold war on our country."

She lit the dynamite - BOOM - and they crawled through the new hole in the foundation bricking. 
Would their source of radium actually be accessible down here, under the power plant?
They took a look around. The faint sound of opera could be heard. The voices were angelic, but nasal.
But something felt very wrong. They found a staircase and started to climb up through the building. And then, as they came into view, that they realised:


They were both standing in the bottom of the Sydney Opera House. 
They had found themselves not in Chernobyl, but in bloody Australia.


This was a problem. Nastasja hated opera – especially Pavarotti rehashes with nasal undertones.

They were bloody starving, and a hot dog in Sydney was more expensive than a house in Pripyat. They fumbled for the only staircase, and dragged themselves up it, towards a trap door.
With a giant heave Stani pushed the trapdoor open and climbed through it. Suddenly he found himself right in the middle of a Pavarotti-production of The Wizard of Oz, standing opposite the Tin Man, who looked mighty confused that there was another man dressed in a metal suit, and, thinking that his understudy had been sent in to replace him, walked off stage wishing he hadn’t been late for rehearsal for the last two and a half years.

There was silence throughout the auditorium, and the scarecrow was nudging Stani with his knee, and whispering a line in his ear. Stani, not hearing a thing due to the metal casing over his earlobe, did the only thing he really knew how to do.

He ….


...pulled down his lederhosen (he was wearing these, even though it has no relevance to his country or culture whatsoever), and did a giant crap right there. On stage. 


Now, this would have been fairly acceptable, however, Stani was unaware that the trap door was still open, and that Nastasja was climbing through it.
So, up Nastasja came with a ginormous turd, luminous yellow from the 50 gallons of Chernobyl energy drink that Stani had consumed while tunneling through to Australia, perched on top of her head.

The entire cast of The Wizard Of Oz were looking at the lumo yellow turd, thinking that they’d all completely lost their minds. Then the lion started crying. The Wizard started running for the wings. And Dorothy fucked off home.

The fumes coming from the giant, toxic turd wafted throughout the room, and two hundred wealthy, pretentious opera-goers – and five plebs who’d won tickets in a lucky draw - started to feel a renewed sense of energy in their bones, and began to follow the lead of a dwarf in the third row who’d started to tap the tune to ‘Aint no sunshine when she’s gone,’ with his feet.


Meanwhile, back in the trap door hatch, Nastasja had one massive - literally -  problem on her head. She was showered in radioactive shit, which as glowing, and warm it sounds, it was not. The pooh was cold. 

Using all her strength and might, she hauled herself up through the trapdoor to be greeted by the singing dwarf and a whole bunch of freeloading opera goers who didn't know if this was actually part of the show or not.

So she decided to play along anyway. She flicked "play" on the giant ghetto blaster that was on the side of the stage and started to dance. First she did shapes. Then she did the running man. Then she did the box. The swinging golf club. And then the bouncing ball.
For on the ghetto blaster was Rhythm Is A Dancer, and just as her favourite line came on ("I'm as serious as cancer when I say that rhythm is a dancer,"), Jason Donovan - Australia's favourite Australian and 80s Neighbours star - came in wearing Joseph's amazing techni-colour dreamcoat.

"Oy mate," he said to Nastasja, who was now pumping up the jam, still covered in atomic human effluent. 
"I theenk you'll foind that that's moi geeg, mate." he said indignantly. "Get off the stage, mate. You're stealin' moi geeg!"

Nastasja grabbed Stani who was now dry humping the dwarf, and they fled the opera house.
They jumped straight  into the Paceefeec Ocean so that the radioactive byproduct could be washed off their bodies.


An Aussie in Africa said...

I feel honoured that my home country is making a cameo in this thrilling tale. Do you know of any native Ukrainians reading this story? I'd love to hear their opinion :)

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Peas on Toast said...

Aussie - hell yeah! What's a story without Oztraylia in it mate? :)