Siberian Ickle

Jakov opened his front door, stepping outside to retrieve his Komsomolskaya Pravda. In the Siberian village of Khatanga, it was below zero. In many ways. But for the purposes of this story, I’m referring only to the temperature. He unfolded the paper, and the rubber band snapped his finger. “Блядь!” he cursed, shaking his hand like a large, wounded animal. It was going to be one of those days.

The headline said, Scientists Arrive in Khatanga To Examine Woolly Mammoth. “Woolly who?” he murmured out loud. Since the only woolly he’s ever heard of is Woolly Boolly Boogie, his favorite song, he dashed inside to read the article. He sat in his abused but comfy armchair, next to a raging fire inside a hearth covering the entire wall, and carefully read. By golly, by woolly, they meant a large pre-historic animal!

He heard a loud rumbling in the distance, getting louder by the second. Soon, several helicopters landed on his 20,000 acre back yard. Jakov stepped outside onto his deck, and right below, laying stretched out on the snow, stiff as a board, was the largest animal he ever saw.

“What’s happening out there?” his wife Alyona asked.

“Very bad news. Helicopters have landed on our property, and many people in long, dark coats are getting out.” If he could find that huge chunk of meat, he’d eat like a king for weeks.

But unbeknownst to Jakov, dinner tonight would consist of the usual slop Alyona prepared.

“Are you Jakov?” A woman in a long, dark coat asked as they approached.

“I am Jakov. Who are you?”

“We are a French-led team of rich scientists who want to clone this woolly mammoth here.”

Jakov saw the huge creature sprawled on the snow, about 25 feet from him. His mind raced. “Ебена мать!” he cursed. That thing outside was the pre-historic animal he saw in the paper! He went through his options. “No. It is on my property, and is my dinner, probably for the remainder of winter. Now go away.”

The scientists gathered around the woolly mammoth, poking and prodding its tough, abrasive skin and hair with various sharp, blunt, shiny silvery instruments. A man in a long, dark coat looked up. “This is about 23 tons of meat here, give or take a pound or two. It should last you the rest of your life.” He re-examined Jakov’s girth. “Well, given the enormity of your frame, maybe 10 to 15 years.”

“Please, get back in your hilarious flying machines and never come back.”

The woman in a long, dark coat smiled, and pulled out a AN-94 Nikonov assault rifle, pointing it at his forehead. “Sorry. We’re far more hungry than you are. This beast is coming back with us. It will be cloned, after we airlift it to Vladivostok.”

“Jakov! Get inside now and shut that проклятие door!” Alyona cursed. Jakov rubbed his beard. He feared Aylona more than the AN-94 Nikonov assault rifle, so he went back inside, shutting and locking the sliding glass door.

Another woman in a long, dark coat turned to another man in a long, dark coat. “Which American business is paying us millions to finance this operation again?”

“The NFL,” a different man in a long, dark coat  answered. “Television ratings are sinking. They want to create a new breed of player.”

A voice coming from the perimeter of the group, undoubtedly housed inside a long, dark coat, indistinguishable as man or woman, was heard. “What’s going to happen when they start shooting them up with steroids?”

“I don’t know,” the same man in a long, dark coat said. “Maybe the league will contract us to find a T. rex to clone.”