MAXIMILIAN CHAPTER 1 :: THE DUDE DISCOVERS NEW SUPERPOWERS.

You wanna hear something, Droogs? It’s not a top KGB secret but it is still something quite intimate about yours truly. Well, I am not just a regular dude but also a proud master of several qualities that qualify as superpowers. Oh da! Believe me, Droogs, I was surprised myself and surprised I am still to find all these strange abilities. I wasn’t born like this, you see. I was just another ordinary Kartoshka-munching, Russian kid. But ever since the Chernobyl disaster I possess some new and unexpected qualities. 

Not bizarre defects as you might think, niet my Droogs. I don’t have any freakish, distorted limbs, no three nipples or an extra leg. Though regarding the latter, I do let some young ladies wonder about the magnitude of my Maximus, if you know what I mean. Radioactive waste can do shit and wonders to you. I find new powers every day.

Like the other day for instance, I was just hanging, you know, doing my own thing, enjoying a nice scratch when all of a sudden I felt something tingling in my belly button.

There it was, out of nowhere, a round fluffy furry ball. I examined it closely. No, it wasn’t Koshka’s, it wasn’t a cotton fiber from my shirt. I rolled it between my fingers and flipping it casually in the air, I dismissed the whole thing.

Until the next day.

Another tingly sensation, a lift of the shirt and there it was – a fresh new fluffy ball nestling inside my belly button, only this time it got a bit bigger. Again, I scoped the ball out and flicked it away. However, the mysterious incident repeated itself and every day brought with it fresh, magical and enlarged belly button produce.

Koshka became addicted.

Possessing supernatural powers, as this, may also cause some strong side effects and unpredicted outcomes. Between me, mass-producing those balls, and Koshka sucking them down his throat, something went wrong. A monster was created. It was unstoppable.

I AM MAXIMILIAN

Somebody posed sort of an interesting question the other day. He said: “Maximilian, where will you be in thirty years?” and gave a long Vodka and Herring burp. Really, that is an unusual fascinating question. Nothing like the ‘Where will you be in ten years’, which is boring and as used-up as my old Babushka’s undies. God rest her soul, her bum supporters were dated back to the Red Revolution days when she singlehandedly took over a tsar brigade using her panties’ rubber-band as a weapon.

But let’s return to the question in hand. When you spice it up with a 'thirty years' twist like this, Ach, then you have a really different issue altogether, unexpected though a tad foolish. But you know, there’s a Russian saying that goes a bit like this:

Anyhow, in thirty years I’ll probably be like this…

Anyway, it’s hard enough to predict what’s gonna happen in thirty days, let alone thirty years, but that is most definitely not what I intend to be like. Niet, ni za shto. It’s gonna be awesome all the way through. Things are gonna change for the better. You hear me, Droogs.


First, I’m gonna finally quit my day-job as the chief of instruction manuals at ‘Splendid-Stuff - Home and Gifts'. 

I’m gonna very nicely tell my boss, Mr. Bossinsky to shove his crappy job gently up his fat, furry rectum. That his sad paycheck does not mean he owns my white Russian poppa, and yes, he should really do something with that bulging potbelly and his stench of a breath.

Then I’m gonna start a magnificent career in what I have always relished doing – being the inventor of extraordinary and imaginary machines.

I’m gonna throw a line of top-notch, premium, private parties celebrating my glorious success as a contemporary Da Vinci, on my very own deluxe yacht. All the flashy peeps will be waiting in line.

I’ll be having drinks with a very special lady on my lap. We’ll be one loving couple till ever, ever after. Things are gonna be great, I can feel it.