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With the Russian Exploding Dildo Squad


by Con Chapman


A Russian bomb squad was summoned to defuse a package containing a vibrator that had been turned on by accident.

                                                 The Telegraph

 
Ready to roll!

Another day, another round of potentially deadly sex toys to defuse for me—Fedor Sergeyevich Mikhailovich—and my trusty sidekick Lev Vladimirovich Nikolaevich.  It's a tough job, but somebody's got to do it.  In today's world of rampant heterofascist terrorism none of us is safe, not even in America.  You no doubt heard about the man who was arrested in Minnesota for constructing a battery-powered sex toy loaded with gun powder, BB pellets and buckshot, which he intended to give to an ex-lover.  When I heard of that incident I thought—just let it go, man, there's too many fish in the sea!

We cruise the streets of Moscow, scanning the sidewalks for potentially lethal sex toys as Steely Dan plays on the radio.  “We used to play when we were three—how about a kiss for your cousin Dupree,” my partner sings along, and not too well, I might add.  I don't know what it is about that group—I've always loved their music, even when he butchers it.


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“Not much shaking, Fedor Sergeyevich Mikhailovich,” Lev Vladimirovich Nikolaevich says.

“It's Friday” I point out.  “Everybody's ready for the real thing, not artificial stimulation.”

“Could be, Fedor Sergey . . .”


Dostoevsky:  In a cheerful mood for Friday.

I cut him off firmly but politely.  “Can we have a ‘Casual Friday,' without the surnames and patronymics?” I ask.  It gets to be exhausting talking like you're a character in a Dostoevsky novel all day long.

“Sure, no problem,” he says.  ”Our jobs are tense enough.”

“You can say that again.”

“Our jobs . . .”

“Lev—please.”  It's been a long week, and I don't need the blunt instrument of his decidedly low-brow sense of humor as I wind down for the weekend.

“Sor-ree!”

We ride for awhile in silence, broken harshly after a few minutes by the crackle of the sex toy scanner.

“Mobil Unit 1, come in,” the dispatcher barks through the World War II quality radio.  The reception is so bad his voice sounds like he's eating potato chips without having opened the bag.

“Mobil Unit 1,” I say clearly and distinctly—if you're as proud of your job as I am, you take care to execute all your tasks with precision.

“We have a report of a pulsing, throbbing instrument of pure unadulterated pleasure on Pushkin Boulevard at 34th Street.”


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“We're on it like a teddy on Putin's mistress,” I bark as I make a 180 degree turn into oncoming traffic.

“Easy boy,” Lev says.  “Worst thing you can do as a first responder is to kill somebody on the way to a job.  Then you're down a score before the game starts.”

“Thanks,” I say sarcastically.  “I think I know how to do my job after twenty years on the exploding sex toy beat.”

“Don't know about you, but I'm committed to constant improvement,” Lev says.  “Say—I've got a riddle for you.”

I groan inwardly, but we're a team so I decide to humor him.

“Ok—what is it?”

“Do you know what sound a woman makes when she's totally, completely satisfied?” he asks, a grin of anticipation on his lips.

I think for a second, but come up empty in the comic riposte department, and simply say “No.”


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“I didn't think so,” Lev says, then breaks out laughing.

Ha-ha.  “Ok, you got me,” I say, trying to restore a tone of professional seriousness in light of the grim task that lies ahead of us.  We pull into Shostakovich Plaza, then head down Pushkin.  What I see as we pull up is every sex toy bomb squad's worst nightmare—a bunch of kids poking at the lethal package, which is purring like a kitten.  Modern sex appliances are so well-engineered you often don't hear them until it's too late.

“Hey you kids!” Lev yells as we come to a screeching halt.  “Get away from there unless you're 18 or picking out a present for Mother's Day!”

Three boys—from their looks in that constantly-curious 12 to 15-year-old age zone—jump, but don't back away immediately.

“We found it—it's ours!” one of them says.


Pierre-Joseph Proudhon:  “I meant your property is theft, not mine.”

“Property is theft,” I say, reminding them of a fundamental Marxist principle first enunciated by French anarchist Pierre-Joseph Proudhon.  “That belongs to the state.”

“Whatever happened to privatization?” one of the kids says with bitterness, but I haven't got time for adolescent moodiness right now.

“Shall we use the robot?” I ask Lev.

 

“I don't think we have time,” he says.  “This baby is hot as a firecracker and ready to pop.”  Lev picked up some rural Missouri slang during his year as a high school foreign exchange student.

“Okay,” I say, and we come to the most difficult part of our job—choosing who's going to go in to the groin of the situation and make the snatch.

We extend our hands, make fists, and I begin.  “One potato, two potato, three potato, four—five potato, six potato, seven potato MORE.”  Dammit—when will I ever learn!  The final count comes down on my right hand—I only have one left.

The second round results in the elimination of Lev's right hand—the moment of truth has arrived.  “One potato, two potato” I begin, and Lev's face slowly breaks into a smile as he sees that he will emerge victorious.  Why can't I remember to let him go first, I ask myself bitterly.

“U da man,” Lev says as if the deadly mission that lies ahead of me is the equivalent of playground basketball.  "Now get in there and bear that beating box away."  Great--he's in a bloody Yeatsian mood.

I adjust my helmet and bomb squad suit, pick up my shield and begin my cautious approach.  As I get closer I hear a ticking sound; a steady beat at first but then—do my ears deceive me?—it begins to slow.  The batteries may—just may—be losing power.

I move to within arm's length and extend an arm cautiously around to the package.  As I pick it up I hear the sound that is music to every sex toy defuser's ears—silence.

I tear open the package and find the “Hello Kitty” model, a popular Japanese product for women whose tastes haven't caught up to their sexuality.

“Can we have it, mister?” one of the boys says as he advances cautiously to see.

“No way, kid,” I say with a dispassionate tone I mastered watching Sergeant Joe Friday on “Dragnet” re-runs.  “This is going straight to the Bachelorette Party Testing Lab.”

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