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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

an artist's conception - by Stevie
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.

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 myself.

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 mind.

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!