Belarus scrambled a jet fighter to divert the flight of Roman Protasevich, a blogger critical of its government, and sentenced him to eight years in prison when he was captured.
The Wall Street Journal
Freedonian Miklukmorb-29 “Weasel” fighter jet
If you’re catching “flak,” as we say in the world of blogging, you’re over the target. Look what happened the other day: Belarus concocted a bomb threat and scrambled a jet fighter to force down a Ryanair flight with a blogger critical of its government aboard. The international blogging community was outraged, and lodged a protest on the internet, where Belarus promptly ignored it and continued to watch cat videos and search Russian dating sites.
But some of us bloggers aren’t backing down. We’re going to continue to expose corrupt fictional governments run by malign despots around the world. I don’t know who’s taking care of Ruritania, but I’m all over Freedonia like a duck on a June bug.
Queen Anastasia of Ruritania: I saw her first, get your own queen.
I’m cruising at 30,000 feet over Dos Fledens, the capital of Freedonia, biding my time. I’ve long been critical of Freedonia, but only because–as if it were an errant child of mine–I love it so much. While Prime Minister Gorz Blexkapf lives in the lap of luxury, his people go hungry, often sharing a turnip with their livestock, making it last through a week by mixing it with naokelx, a seven-line poetic form that is tough but rich in protein. Many Freedonian women have been wearing the same pair of L’eggs panty hose since the early 1990s, then using the brand’s distinctive egg-shaped container for sustenance.
Blexkapf has taken to the internet himself to counter my constant stream of folklore and history, which brings to long-suffering Freedonians pride and even a little bit of glomrietz–a word that cannot be translated precisely into English but is a cross between the Yiddish “chutzpah” and the American “b.o.” In his daily “Blexkapf Briefing” he has described me as an “enemy of the state,” a “noxious nuisance” and a “sebaceous cyst on the scalp” of Freedonia. His efforts to rile his oppressed people against me have failed, as shown by the number of “likes” I get for my posts–sometimes, 2–even 3 in a day!
“Weasel approaching at 4 o’clock,” my trusty co-pilot Vlado Murmurak says from the seat behind me, and as I look down and to my right, I see what he’s talking about. Not an actual weasel, the flimsy backstop to Freedonia’s paper currency, but a Miklukmorb-29 “Weasel,” the fighter jet Freedonia has fashioned out of discarded soup cans, duct tape, and Revell model kits botched by future liberal arts majors in their youth.
“Roger,” I say.
“My name’s Vlado,” Vlado replies.
“I know, that’s an aeronautical expression of affirmation, like ‘I copy you.’”
“Why would you copy me?”
“‘Why would you copy me?’” I reply sarcastically. “Good question, you’re not worth copying. It’s just cool pilot talk, okay.”
Our not-so-witty badinage is interrupted by a radio transmission from the Weasel. “Hello my friends,” a deep baritone voice says. “Are my noble adversaries ready for a little ‘Top Gun’ today?”
It is Flohemik Drvke, the “Ghost of Dos Fledens” celebrated in song and story, lusted after by Freedonian virgins. Unlike the mythical “Ghost of Kiev,” Drvke is real–and deadly.
“Drvke is such a dreamboat!”
I gulp a bit, then put on my best blood-and-thunder voice. “We outnumber you,” I say sternly. “I have a co-pilot, you have maybe few bags of weasel jerky.”
Vlado laughs, and there is silence over the radio for a moment as Drvke collects his thoughts. They are few, so it only takes him a second to produce a lame come-back.
“You rebel forces . . . what are you rebelling against?”
“I don’t know,” I say channeling Marlon Brando in “Rebel Without a Cause.” “Whadda ya got?”
“So weak,” Drvke says. “Freedonia is the most powerful fictional nation on earth. Our women are busty, our crops are abundant, our tractor crank-shafts are well-lubricated.”
“How do you know–did you take one up the butt?” I say, and the implication that he is a catamite goads the Ghost into an attack.
“What’d you go and do that for?” Vlado asks.
“I want to make him lose his cool.”
The Ghost screeches up from under us to a position at 10:00, hoping to use his rear guns on us, but I am two moves ahead of him. “Now he’s in our sights,” I say, as we bear down on him from behind. “Get ready for a classic dogfight.”
“I didn’t bring a dog.”
“That’s another expression,” I snap grimly as I execute a barrel-roll and end up underneath the Ghost, where I pick off his landing gear like low-hanging fruit. “Now you won’t be able to land, my friend,” I say over the radio.
“That is what parachutes are for–if you’re man enough,” the Ghost says.
“Ooo–so tough,” I say. “I will write that flimsy machismo into my next blog ‘post.’”
“I’m afraid your forty-leven readers will be disappointed tomorrow, because there will be no more stupid posts about Freedonia technology, or motion picture stars, or baked goods–when I send you to a coward’s grave!”
With that, Drvke executes a loop-de-loop and comes up behind us. Little does he know that I am flying with a retro-fitted crop duster, and as he edges closer, I position my itchy trigger finger on the pesticide release button.
“Why don’t you fly in a little closer, so you can see my license plate number?” I say in a voice dripping with sarcasm.
“I think I will,” the Ghost says. “I want to be able to see the disgusting hair that is growing in your ears.”
He accelerates until he nearly has the nose of his plane up my fuselage–and I release.
“Gak!” I hear him scream over the radio. “What is that foul, noxious gas you have used in violation of the Geneva Convention?”
“It is Air-Wick Chlorophyll–the home air freshener that kills kitchen odors–and flying aces!”