Rise of the Snowman 2: Snowing Where You Eat
From the Good SnowLogs, 20 March, 2004
Northeastern Siberia. 6S, 42W. The Deathfox once told me that educated
women have it stroked into them that they're very, very smart, and that
this gives them the "confidence" to play infuriating games with
men. I brushed him off as a raving psychotic, then as always, but the
phrase that won't stop repeating in my head, as I begin to freeze and
lock up permanently, is that madmen are perhaps the wisest of us all,
in a world such as this.
Two days ago I found them. Her. Two of my kind, surviving on the most
dangerous game here in the Siberian wilderness. Perhaps some of you have
tasted a White Russian. Well, believe me, you've not lived until you've
had a yellow one. Yes, they lived out a savage, beautiful existence here
in the bitterest mother country and for many perfect hours I was with
them, one of them. Deathfox had air-mailed a five-year-old case file from
the Pentagon about 'recent' and historical sightings and incidents of
'magical, moving snow-wizards' as the Eskimos up here have taken to calling
them. Actually, Deathfox sent them express to the dog with human hands
(what could be worse? Dwuh and I don't really talk about our love lives
together, it's not manly) for a laugh, and my faithful friend conscientiously
forwarded them to me. I dropped everything to investigate, leaving Shu
Tri, as I've decided to name her (it was between that and Tai Rak; I flipped
a coin), to continue her training with the Dog for a few days. I hope
she doesn't get addicted to movies over there.
By 8:04 AM local time on the 17th the SnowRoto was over Moscow, and at
12:30 AM the 18th I miraculously found them from the air. In retrospect,
I should never have spent so much time waving to the Muscovites, since
Russian children don't really speak the language of happiness anyway.
Suspecting treachery, perhaps in the form of a Soviet android of some
kind, the male, Francois, lodged icicles in one of my propellors with
stunning precision. Too late did I return fire to signify our kinship
and my friendly intentions. I missed in any case, piercing his woman,
Anya, in the bosom by mistake. She looked down, withdrew my weapon, and
raised her head with a grateful look in her tearing red eyes. Though a
trifle rotund, she was truly a hell of a snow woman. Straight, black hair
to just beyond her shoulders. A perfectly symmetrical face, though that's
not too hard for our kind. Deadly breasts. She greeted me joyously, sobbing
with profound relief, throwing herself into my arms as I climbed, numb,
out of my ruined autogyro. I could not believe I'd finally found brotherhood.
Francois cordially shook my hand as he tried to pry his woman off me.
Finally releasing, she stroked my head a few times, making sure I was
real. The shock had worn off by this time, and I could not rid myself
of my smile for her lovely existence, but I was far more cognizant of
the gaze of Francois, who seemed to be politely taking in boring information
rather than plotting my demise.
We retired to their "igloortress"--Francois was a witty one--for
celebratory victuals and wine. As I gorged on the heavenly dark meat,
I could not help but stare, quite rudely I'm sure, at Anya. Francois wanted
to hear about new world orders, politics, the newest kings of the business
world. Trying to imagine how I might kill him with the Christmas issue
of The Economist, I obliged, turning my head towards him every
now and then as they sat side by side listening, but mostly lingering
on her nose, her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks, her lips. The very fact
of her being was glorious--sublime, even--and I could not tear my eyes
away, for she might, I knew, soon be torn away from them. I let my coals
drink deeply and greedily, therefore, of the thing that I suddenly knew
I loved more than life. I kept trying to redirect the conversation to
important things--how did they come to be? where did they come from? were
there others?--but the fool had to hear about the power and money of individuals
with no bearing on . . . well, let's
not mince: individuals who had no bearing on the inevitable, inexorable,
hairy, pounding lovemaking that was about to bring down this frail igloortress
as soon as the jackass stepped out to relieve himself. But of course, he
knew this, so soon we were stuck in what economists call a holding game.
Finally I took hold of myself and answered him that I would continue with
my world-affairs debriefing tomorrow, and for now would like to relieve
myself and rest. After relieving myself, I lay awake on my slab, bone-weary
but unable to fade into stupor and dreams, for I knew what was coming, and
was far too excited. I was a five-year-old on cocaine Christmas. I almost
drifted off when it happened. The door opened silently, a dark form slid
through and appeared at my side. She bent over me, and the night turned
into shadow-shapes and pressing of bodies and hungry kisses. After we talked.
I stood her up to go back, so she could wake up next to her husband. We
debated it for an hour. Two. I've never gone on such romantic tangents,
but, when I finally convinced her to turn around and go, for her own good--there
was Francois, standing in the doorway, arms folded, waiting patiently.
an artist's conception - by Stevie
We stared at each other for a while, his gaze shifting from me to Anya.
Eventually she went to him, encouraging him with her touch to retreat
to their room with her. He stayed, looking at me, arms folded, as if to
speak to me about something, and she moved on. After some moments, it
seemed as if he could not think of anything to say, and left, closing
the door behind him. I knew I should be gone. Her passion for me, for
life outside their marriage, was extinguished, and I certainly was doing
him no favors by staying. Her heart was his, and now that she had relived
what other people, other snowmen, were like, she had remembered that.
She belonged to him, with his "wit" and his curiosity, his money
and his igloortress, his skill and--I learned--his eleven-inch particular.
I felt it would be in poor taste to ask him now about others of our kind--though
perhaps I hesitated to ask about them because of this unwelcome new information--so
I decided to depart for . . . for somewhere else, and take some time for
I remembered that I knew a man girl in Smolensk who might be a comfort,
so I reached for my waterproof army duffell and began my preparations
to leave in the morning, but something large exploded on the right side
of my head. I hurtled across the room, in horrific pain, and smashed through
the ice window to fall two stories. Badly damaged, I could barely stand
up, and when I did, I saw Francois, carrying out some sort of sequence
with previously unnoticed levers at the very top of the spired igloortress.
To my astonishment, the monstrosity began to rumble and move, sliding
across the tundra at an absurdly slow speed. It was this that occassioned
the first of my recent pangs for Anya. Such an inventor was Francois,
such a genius and adept, yet such a total lameass. A woman has a million
things to love about the man, but she'll always hunger for someone manly,
someone with aggression and drive. Someone who can go through the motions
of romance (for Francois barely ever bothers) but with sex entirely in
I think I teared up as the igloortress picked up speed and disappeared
into the horizon. That was a fatal mistake. The temperatures in Siberia,
it turns out, are harsher than even a snowman can bear. Not even a Good
snowman--not even the greatest snowman!--could survive here. It is not
the aim of any snow-person to become frozen in place in a wasteland, or
to go mad and eventually transform into a raving, killing iceperson, always
hungry but with no mouth. I struggled to find earth under the snow to
keep myself warm, but to no avail; I could not crack the ice already there.
I finished off the last of the Eskimo Pie that Francois and Anya had saved
from dinner and wrapped for me, then troughed off through the snow, what
I thought was due South, determined to save myself in slightly warmer
climes. For nearly twenty hours I traveled, then a few hours ago collapsed,
my diary and pen tumbling out in front of my face. Stuck to the icy ground
by my belly, I decided the only thing to do was write of my adventure
and hope for a rescue or a future discovery by scientists who could thaw
me out, hopefully in the bloom of my beloved Shu Tri's womanhood. But
I am going to die.
Wait! Is that the Death Foxfire rocketing out of the horizon towards
me? It must be! The Deathfox must have planted a global positioning
tracer somewhere inside me during one of his many hugs. The
magnificent bastard. As soon as I find a way to kill him,
I'm doing it. Deathfox, I can hardly wait until the day I
betray you. But for now, let's roll--partner!