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| The Dyatlov Pass Incident |
So when Igor Alekseievich Dyatlov approached me with the fine job of leading a team of Ural Polytechnical Institute assholes into the Northern Ural Mountains for some fucked up ski-trip, I told him to "go fuck {him}self." However, I accepted after he offered me his dog goat and hist sweet scumbag of a mother-in-law. She has a mustache like Stalin, but I let her shove some blini up my sex tunnel, while I force-fed her rolled up bits of dog goat shit.
I'd brought with me a portable dvd player I'd plundered from a doped up faggot in Tulane, which was fairly novel for a bunch of retarded buttholes from 1959. I only had one dvd though, and it was fucking Single White Female. I was actually watching the piece of shit and jerking the horse howitzer real hard when Dyatlov humped into my shithole rat fuck apartment near the Kama River. He offered me this shit piece of paper with handwriting that looked like he'd scrawled it using his dingus. You see this was before thE whole god damn fiasco in April 1959, with that fucking overhaul of the credit system. Some wing wong decided it would be a good idea to transfer operations run by the Selkhozbank, Tsekombank and municipal banks to the State Bank. That Kruschev was a real bonehead and I swear to god he used homeless fecal smear to wash his bottom. I was in the middle of the scene where Steven Weber is brushing his horse hair nono rags against Bridget Fonda's butterball thighs, so I very politely rolled my eyes upward at this mumbALOId cocksucker, snatched the bond from his crippled claw and said simply, "Try any sleight of hand with my money and I'll cut your throat." But by the time I cashed his shit check, he and all eight of the party would be dead.
This is late January, 1959.
We started out in the wee hours of the morn toward the mountain of the dead. We all go on this god damn train shit car that smelled of vodka and cigarettes. I was so bloated and hungover that I was vomiting this vile tincture of lung butter and rat filth non-stop. I recall one of our party lunging at me and begging me to stop. But you know me, I whipped him silly in the clowncakes with my flea penis. He screamed and I cried and the others turned their heads in their seats like fucked-up sealions, befuddled by this RADICAL behavior. Someone in the party uttered something to the tune of "Oh god" and I spun like a crab on steroids and howled at them that I was " THE KING OF ANGELS" and then I produced a rotting frog head and I chomped on it like a god damn corn dog. One of the men threw up and it looked and smelled like borscht. I just kept screaming my inanities whilst harassing the clown car matron with my pecker pump for more drinks.
After what seemed like forty years, we arrived in the shithole called Ivdel. Place looked like Disneyland if it were designed by Franz Kafka and then shitted out by Crang from the Ninja Turtles. I'd arranged for this piece of shit wagon to pick us up and drive our asses to Vizhai.
So it went on like this for sometime before I aimed us in the direction of Sverdlovsk Oblast. "You fiends!" I kept bellowing. Again and again, I would shout this unprovoked and indiscriminate. I also couldn't help cawing, "BAD BABY BAD BABY" whilst slurping on the burb horn. Christ.The goal of this faggot expedition was to reach Otorten (Отортен), a mountain 10 kilometres (6.2 mi) north of us and I'll tell you right now, I was fucked up. Instead of food or anything really, I'd brought with me fourteen gallons of Zima wine cooler AND I was sucking it down like it was cum from a cow. MOOOOOOOOO!! I had this dinky boombox that I'd pilfered from a real choice cocksucker at a Walgreens in 1998. Unfortunately, the only god damn tape I had for the fucking thing was a warbled UB40 greatest hits mix. "Can't help falling in love" was the only song that would play and somehow the piece of shit tape stuck on repeat not to mention I'd passed out heavily the night before and bashed my fucking stupid brain bucket on that boombox and busted the volume knob so it was stuck on high. I didn't mind though. This one asshole, Yuri, he was complaining nonstop. Waaaah Waaaah the motherfucker. Whereas not one of these dicksmears could quite comprehend the origin of this "magic box" and so asked no questions (fairly sure the very real fact that I'd had my corn blower hanging through the zipper of my over-pleated chinos didn't help) this asshole wouldn't shut the fuck up about it. "Why do you play this music again? What does this music have to do with our hike? Why do you play this?" Fucking cream hole.
Well it went on like this for some time until we finally started our march toward Otorten from Vizhai on January 27. At some point in the night, after the others had retired, I slipped into Yuri's sleeping bag and gave him a heavy dose of heroin. I shot it behind his left ear while he slept. He slipped into coma almost immediately and I spent the remainder of the night boning him in the ass. The next morning when he came to, I was still asleep. He then apparently vomited violently all over my naked muffins and went scrambling from the camp muttering something about his brother. The others were plenty confused, but no one was suspicious of me. I explained that "he might have chowed on some bad powdered eggs." They bought that. But Yuri was gone. He was too fucked up to go any further. This also meant that I could play my UB40 tape again. And that was cool. So I did. Non stop. I mean I would get looks here and there and I could read their expressions. I knew it waS driving them all bad shit crazy, which just tickled me so pink.
It took us three days of trekking along the base of that god damn mountain before we reached the edge of a highland area and got our snotty asses ready to climb. It was funny, as a prank I'd discarded all the food in a small ravine when no one was watching. I replaced it with lumps of animal turd I'd collected along the way. It was hilarious. This assfunk, Nicolai (god what a fucking retard) he goes in for dinner and shrieks like a fucking mouse rat when he pulls out his poopy paws. I seriously LOLd. When he pulled out his hand covered in rat shit, he rolled over in the snow like a sack of potatoes and began whimpering like the little pussy faggot he was. We all laughed cuz it was so god damn funny. I did a crab-like pivot and sharted in his ear and the others REALLY enjoyed that one. Although I couldn't tell if it was nervous laughter because I'd unprovokingly threatened them the night before with a small pistol I'd stolen from a cop in Vizhai. It's ok though because I'd been drinking Zimas like the fucking fucked up alcoholic troll that I am.
So by the 1st of February, the others were pretty weary of me. It went from an occasional gasp, or plea, to non-stop side glances and general avoidance. I got to farting something awful the last couple days on that mountain. My skivvies had blown open from the explosive gas and this real nasty vile was leaking down my legs like a fucking firehose. One of the two women with us vomited at least twice after taking a peek at my mansucker. So we started through the pass, but I'd brought with me a mason jar of Polonium-210 that I'd opened up early in the day you know just to huff as I walked. The UB40 was really starting to get on my nerves so I chucked that fucking boombox into a crevasse and said a short prayer before jerking off. It was during this point that I decided to murder them all because honestly I was pretty fucking bored. So I drew out in crayon new directions, which deviated us west, upward towards the top of Kholat Syakhyl. Igor Dyatlov suggested we head south to the treeline about a mile to the south of us for better cover. It was starting to snow fairly heavily by then so visibility was pretty piss poor. But fuck that, I was wearing black out sunglasses and a fake mustache so I didn't give a flying fuck. Well with the fucking weather getting worse and us now going the wrong way, I figured it'd be a swell time to get the tinkertoy spinning.
So we set up our tent and I make some hot dog porridge, cow mucus with lung butter ramen and iguana semen mixed with vinegar then a nice little cat LIVER and feces mousse that I'd fried up, you know just as an appetizer. We ate. Four of those pussy assholes barfed. The others didn't really even eat much after their first gagging bites. One of them threw his dinner on the ground and bolted into the snow where he fell to his knees and barfed his guts out. I don't know what the big deal was. I thought the food was perfect. So there were a lot of panting, gagging, stomach groaning and retching noises coming from our tent that evening from the few who'd eaten my dinner.
During the night, after we'd bunked down, was when I decided to strike. I quietly undressed. The stink coming from my growler made me lightheaded and this bitch next to me sorta scrunched her nose and moaned a little in her sleep. I then slowly slid on my elvin heels and began to sing. I chose Utesov, this bullshit jazz singer who a few years later would go on to become the first pop singer to bE awarded the title of People's Artist of the USSR. He was a mumbaloid motherfucker, but I figure if I bellowed out some of his crap, it would be more likely to freak the others out. Immediately you could hear the others squirming in their sleeping bags as they woke to this insanity, I turned on my flashlight and held it under my chin like a fucking mad man. I was shaking my hair and getting really into it when my ass began talking. The flatulence thereafter was mind-numbing. Someone belched. I heard another chorus of vomiting. Everyone was struggling in the tent and I heard low squealing. I just sang louder and began twirling my pecker like it was a fucking helicopter rotor. Dyatlov started first, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING SIR? WHY DO YOU DO THIS NOW?"
I'm not sure who it was, but one of these dinks is screaming their head off and flailing like they're falling from a building. It got serious then because I started pissing during this nasty dick spin so it was like a fucking industrial sprinkler with backflow device fucked up. I remember it was steaming. So everyone is screaming now. I mean really screaming. So one of these idiots pulls their knife and slashes their way out of the tent. "OH MY GOD" he said as scrambled into the night. The tent collapsed at this point and they all poured out, one by one. Screaming as they stumbled away into the snow. I bounded from the shredded tent like a fucked up maniac, hose still twirling like a god damn length of sweaty nunchuck. I could hear them all, still screaming their brains out, the one guy still going "OH MY GOD OH MY GOD." I lunged into the snowy darkness with alarming speed and tackled the first idiot I hit. It was Rustem Slobodin. He spun beneath me, and his eyes were wide in terror. I bashed him hard with the butt of my flashlight then frantically shoved snow down his throat until he stopped moving. He died with his eyes open.
I shined my light down the hill toward the woods. I saw Dyatlov and some other piece of shit struggling in the snow. I dove at them head first, but I'd switched to Bonnie Raitt's "Something to Talk About." Dyatlov was begging me to stop. Between the awful gagging noises he was making he would also holler, albeit muffled, "PLEASE OH SWEET MOTHER OF GOD IT SMELLS SO BAD!" (Referring to my ass of course.) I held each of their faces in the snow and sat on their heads, smothering them to death. I could barely make out the shapes of three others although I knew there were still five faggots out there. I charged the three and when they spotted me they went apeshit. "HOLY GOD SAVE US!" I again switched up my music choice, this time going with ABBA's "Take a Chance." Again, visibility was super limited, but all I had to do was follow Lyudmila, the woman's screams. It didn't take me long to catch up with them. The two bros were mumbling something about getting back to camp. I knocked their heads together with such force I accidentally crushed one of their skulls. Then I threw them over the edge into a deep ravine.
Lyudmila was on her back, hands in the air, shrieking some bullshit about her mother. I backhanded her and tore open her britches with my talon hands. My lips snarled into a menacing grin as I revealed two incomplete rows of molding teeth. She began to sob heavily. I took my time with her. The 23 year old blonde beauty. Her sobbing was really ruining my drive. After the brutal performance, I gouged her eyes out (they slid out neatly under the blade of my knife and made little popping sounds as the optic nerve split), cut the tongue out of her head and threw her alive into the ravine after her buddies. I chucked one of her eyes and her tongue over the edge as well, then popped the other in my mouth to chew on. I peed over the edge and it smelled like McDonald's as my mouth filled with Lyudmila's Vitreous gel.
I spent a good twenty minutes searching for the last two of our party on the Mountain of the Dead that evening, but had no luck, so I split. They were found later frozen to death, in their underwear, having had no time to dress when they were so startlingly awoken by my horrible helicoptering. I looted a pair of skis and headed down chugging Zimas the whole thrilling way. I did hit a cedar tree about the time the sun was coming up and may or may not have broken a few ribs. But that shit didn't matter, because I felt alive.
There are plenty of theories about what happened that night in February, 1959. But now you know.
I spent the rest of the year pretending to be a yogurt salesman, but it was actually just HORSE semen.
During the night, after we'd bunked down, was when I decided to strike. I quietly undressed. The stink coming from my growler made me lightheaded and this bitch next to me sorta scrunched her nose and moaned a little in her sleep. I then slowly slid on my elvin heels and began to sing. I chose Utesov, this bullshit jazz singer who a few years later would go on to become the first pop singer to bE awarded the title of People's Artist of the USSR. He was a mumbaloid motherfucker, but I figure if I bellowed out some of his crap, it would be more likely to freak the others out. Immediately you could hear the others squirming in their sleeping bags as they woke to this insanity, I turned on my flashlight and held it under my chin like a fucking mad man. I was shaking my hair and getting really into it when my ass began talking. The flatulence thereafter was mind-numbing. Someone belched. I heard another chorus of vomiting. Everyone was struggling in the tent and I heard low squealing. I just sang louder and began twirling my pecker like it was a fucking helicopter rotor. Dyatlov started first, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING SIR? WHY DO YOU DO THIS NOW?"
I'm not sure who it was, but one of these dinks is screaming their head off and flailing like they're falling from a building. It got serious then because I started pissing during this nasty dick spin so it was like a fucking industrial sprinkler with backflow device fucked up. I remember it was steaming. So everyone is screaming now. I mean really screaming. So one of these idiots pulls their knife and slashes their way out of the tent. "OH MY GOD" he said as scrambled into the night. The tent collapsed at this point and they all poured out, one by one. Screaming as they stumbled away into the snow. I bounded from the shredded tent like a fucked up maniac, hose still twirling like a god damn length of sweaty nunchuck. I could hear them all, still screaming their brains out, the one guy still going "OH MY GOD OH MY GOD." I lunged into the snowy darkness with alarming speed and tackled the first idiot I hit. It was Rustem Slobodin. He spun beneath me, and his eyes were wide in terror. I bashed him hard with the butt of my flashlight then frantically shoved snow down his throat until he stopped moving. He died with his eyes open.
I shined my light down the hill toward the woods. I saw Dyatlov and some other piece of shit struggling in the snow. I dove at them head first, but I'd switched to Bonnie Raitt's "Something to Talk About." Dyatlov was begging me to stop. Between the awful gagging noises he was making he would also holler, albeit muffled, "PLEASE OH SWEET MOTHER OF GOD IT SMELLS SO BAD!" (Referring to my ass of course.) I held each of their faces in the snow and sat on their heads, smothering them to death. I could barely make out the shapes of three others although I knew there were still five faggots out there. I charged the three and when they spotted me they went apeshit. "HOLY GOD SAVE US!" I again switched up my music choice, this time going with ABBA's "Take a Chance." Again, visibility was super limited, but all I had to do was follow Lyudmila, the woman's screams. It didn't take me long to catch up with them. The two bros were mumbling something about getting back to camp. I knocked their heads together with such force I accidentally crushed one of their skulls. Then I threw them over the edge into a deep ravine.
Lyudmila was on her back, hands in the air, shrieking some bullshit about her mother. I backhanded her and tore open her britches with my talon hands. My lips snarled into a menacing grin as I revealed two incomplete rows of molding teeth. She began to sob heavily. I took my time with her. The 23 year old blonde beauty. Her sobbing was really ruining my drive. After the brutal performance, I gouged her eyes out (they slid out neatly under the blade of my knife and made little popping sounds as the optic nerve split), cut the tongue out of her head and threw her alive into the ravine after her buddies. I chucked one of her eyes and her tongue over the edge as well, then popped the other in my mouth to chew on. I peed over the edge and it smelled like McDonald's as my mouth filled with Lyudmila's Vitreous gel.
I spent a good twenty minutes searching for the last two of our party on the Mountain of the Dead that evening, but had no luck, so I split. They were found later frozen to death, in their underwear, having had no time to dress when they were so startlingly awoken by my horrible helicoptering. I looted a pair of skis and headed down chugging Zimas the whole thrilling way. I did hit a cedar tree about the time the sun was coming up and may or may not have broken a few ribs. But that shit didn't matter, because I felt alive.
There are plenty of theories about what happened that night in February, 1959. But now you know.
I spent the rest of the year pretending to be a yogurt salesman, but it was actually just HORSE semen.