Nekrasova’s Complaint

By Redscarepiggy69

I sat at a yellow table in the outside area of Freehold on South 3d street, and I’ve been sitting there for an hour, my Cortado nestled in my palms to protect the fact that I drank it all forty minutes ago, because I didn’t want anyone to think I was loitering. Usually I’d get pissed off at someone for being an hour late but not at her - I could never be mad at her. It was pointless anyway, as she’d just brush my protests away like a noisy insect with a dismissive “Whatevs dude”. It was sweltering in Brooklyn, my shirt clinging to my emaciated yet somehow also flabby Jewish body like a leech. The waiter was beginning to stare at me at though he was a Palestinian mother and I just shot her baby.

“Yah idk”, I heard a gravelly and raspy yet somehow still high and waifish voice meowl in the direction of the cafe entrance, as if a manic pixie dream girl with throat cancer has walked in, “I only met him through Tinder, Anna! It was for research you incredible vapid cunt!”. Her laugh rolled around the sunny Freehold patio like a garbage can lid filled with cat vomit and cigarette butts.

We did meet on Tinder but of course I knew Dasha before that - we’ve had several short encounters around Brooklyn, buying cucumbers and hummus at the same store, enjoying a slice of “pizza” with friends, that sort of thing.

“Hey sorry I’m late man, traffic was a bitch, I had to come all the way from Midtown” - she plopped down on the bench next to me and brushed her cumjar-colored hair away from her face.

Dasha was wearing her famous sailor top and hat - as per my request - but her skirt was different from the InfoWars video, a red tartan number that accentuated her morbidly pallid thighs and shins. She wore white converse Chuck Taylors over what looked like thigh-high American Apparel-like sports socks. Where did she even get those?

“That’s alright”, I lied. “Haven’t been waiting long”.

“Can we start? I haven’t got much time”, she whined in a Kim K-like moan.

“Okay, well, I-”

“Oh shit hang on… Yeah hi?”, she called out to the unidentifiably ethnic waiter. “Can I have your cold brew? I crave that crunch. Thanks. Yeah, so where were we.” Dasha seemed distracted, mouth slightly ajar in an ennui-filled relaxed slav cunt face mode, eyes half-closed. She took out a little pad and a Macbook.

“Sorry, I’ve been off all week. My boyfriend’s out of town plus I’m starting this new project.”, she began typing frantically with her perfectly-manicured yet slightly chewed-on nails, the exact color of a Christian child’s intact foreskin.

“We are doing this new thing where instead of joking about financial domination we are actually doing it IRL”, Dasha mused. “I don’t know how the other girls are doing but the ultimate goal is to get Lena Dunham dressed like Hitler… It’s a whole big thing”. While she continued to type and rant on the dangers of what she called neoliberalism, I couldn’t keep my eyes off her face. The unmistakable slavicness - what she called the Slavic cunt face - was there, yet there was also a gentle and kind Belarusianness about her, like a small village tractor driver idiot who just got stopped in the middle of a busy road in Poland because he only learned what a border is a week ago and he always sold his potato by that road. #

Her little mole jumped up and down with every expletive she piled onto her story, like a sniper rifle dot sight but created for colorblind snipers.

“So that’s where you come in”, she concluded. I wasn’t listening. I was staring at this gorgeous shiksa, the product of centuries of Eastern-slavic tribal and familian interbreeding and rape and Mongolo-Tatar admixture, and tried to identify something that would make me find something of my own, ugly and swarthy Jewish self in this Aryan angel. I was tan, my arms, chest and back were covered with a moist forest of Semitic undergrowth and I seemed to myself an ugly caricature, created only to mock the jumpy and jovial creature sitting before me. “Am I even human at all? What is this hairy, ugly body I inhabit, what a parody of what I see before me.”, I thought, while trying at the same time to think of something to say.

“Yeah, I’d love that?”, I answered, not really knowing the question. Dasha, meanwhile, was chugging her cold brew, doing a satisfied “crunch crunch” sound with the ice chunks that went through the straw and somehow find their playful way leading into that most holiest of holies - her mouth, framed by small pink lips as thin as her patience for mentally retarded people.

“Great, then it’s decided. Let me just finish this ironic tweet about how I’d let Henry Kissinger and Harvey Weinstein shit on my chest and we’ll be on our way”, she said. All this time there was something in the air I couldn’t identify, a feeling or a tension of some sort, which I ascribed to Tinder tension and my own inherent Jewish awkwardness. Now I knew what it was - it was Dasha’s sweat. Her sailor shirt was visibly drenched and her small white bra shone through it brazenly like Sun on Moses’s big bald head during those 40 years of leading my ancestors round what was literally like the size of Manhattan I mean come on. Her face was covered in small droplets of sweat, too - which she routinely tried to blow away from her thick slav caterpillar eyebrows. But the smell I sensed wasn’t coming from her big-ass face or her small childlike pits, it was wafting straight from her big muscular thighs, trained and toned well first in the playgrounds of Minsk and then by running from strange creepy men in vans on the streets of Vegas. The smell was sickly-sweet, like a dead fish decomposing in a jar of Bobruisk-made honey. I nearly fainted from a wave of heat that flowed into my brain from my groin and then back down again, flooding my crotch and legs with a warmth that left them at the same moment when this beautiful, constantly angry at the internet, divine podcaster walked into the cafe.

“So, shall we go?”, Dasha asked, coyly… Or was it goyly?

“Yes… Yes of course”. I stood up, not even attempting to hide my shame. It was useless - this shiksa could see right through me. She knew exactly what she was doing. Suddenly she grasped my hand, gripping her tote bag under her fragrant armpit. My dick twitched immediately, as if to say “Oy vey iz mir not with this now!”. My hand was drier than Abraham’s balls but her was wet was the Red sea as she led me into the cafe’s interior.

To my surprise, we didn’t go outside like I was expecting, but headed left, to the counters and… Oh no, this can’t be. The toilets? Perhaps she needs to freshen up, I thought. It’s only natural, this day being so hot and her being so sweaty.

But when she led me into the female restrooms, I didn’t know what to think. Not even my genetically-superior Jewish brain could figure this one out. This must be some sort of dirty trick, I thought. Yeah, this is definitely a joke for the podcast. She’s going to open a stall door and there’ll be Anna with a polaroid camera, waiting to take a snapshot of my surprised and flushed face, laughing in her weird - somehow even higher and more feminine than Dasha - Kardashian cackle.

But there was no Anna, and no polaroid camera and no prank. Just an empty stall.

Dasha dropped her tote on the floor next to the toilet and stared at me.

“Well? We going to do this thing or what?”. I stepped into the stall with her. “Wasting my time man…”. She quickly side-stepped around me and locked the door.

“There. Now get on your knees”.

I didn't know what to think or do. The panic that swelled inside of me suddenly went out, as if someone has flicked a switch inside me. I understood it now - this is my place. I am exactly where I need to be, where G-d has put me, where my years of awkward teenage sex with Jewish girls my age, then years of hunting and lusting after vaguely European models and starlets - all these years have led me up to this, prepared me for this. For doing exactly was a C-to-D-list Twitter-famous actress and podcaster once called “thin” by MrSkin.com tells me to. To not think or do by myself, but to just think and do what a shiksa tells me to. This is my mitzvah to the world and to myself.

The well-known online personality, InfoWars interviewee and Wobble Palace star meanwhile picked her tartan shirt up and sat straight on the toilet seat, without the slightest reservations on account of personal hygiene. Her thighs at this point were so pungent, that the aroma filled the entire restroom. I was close to choking. Dasha was staring at me with her slightly cow-like eyes, that signified nothing, expressed nothing. It was a look of utter disdain.

“Okay, you ready?”

“Y-yes”. In my stupor I realized I didn’t know what I was supposed to be ready for, but at this point even if she was going to slit my throat in some Polanski-ass fetish murder, I was going to be cool with that. At least it would make for a really interesting episode of Red Scare.

The Minsk native lifted her small legs up and took off her underwear in one swift motion. “Open”. I obeyed, slightly opening my mouth. “Wider, dumbshit. Libtard dumbshit NYTimes reading fuck. Probably not even a Patreon donator Jew pig.”. I opened my trembling lips wider, accepting her panties inside, up to my throat. They smelled like Holocaust. The Armenian one.

“Good mamzer”, she whispered. “Now don’t move. Sit just like that you Chapo listening fuck!”

I couldn’t move, even if I wanted to. I was sitting shemira to myself, to my identity. This was my role from now on - to serve an slightly average looking Slavic political podcaster whose podcast is about Russia yet they barely ever talk about Russia.

The topical commentator of Belarusian origin began to urinate loudly, as if fourteen chefs were all frying shakshuka at the same time right in the middle of the National Rainstick Sair.

The sound of a million pissing stallions and the sharp smell of battery acid have assaulted my senses all at once and I wobbled, much like the palace in the title of my new mistresses recent successful movie.

“I said stay there you meme loving fuck!”, screamed Dasha as her eyes rolled back slightly.

This was a cold brew pee and she relished every moment. Suddenly she stood straight up, one hand lifting up her skirt, the other spreading her Dracula-pale pussy lips, a torrent of piss splattering across the floor of the cafe Foursquare calls “A great space”. “Take it! Take it you podcast-listening bitch! You Roth-loving asshole! Don’t move or I will complain to the management that you did this!” - this was Nekrasova’s complaint.

The stream of days-old various cold coffee drinks hit my panty-stuffed mouth like Amon Goth’s bullets hit the camp prisoners in Spielberg’s genius 1993 Oscar-winner.

It was unyielding and ceaseless. Some of the bile-smelling liquid began soaking through the underwear into my throat. It burned like a billion bright angry suns, but I didn’t mind. My eyes and my hair were soaked as well, as Dasha swerved her hips expertly to get as much piss coverage as humanly possible. After a while I was simply sitting in a puddle of the social commentatresses urine, my clothes wet and bright orange. I was at the very peak of ecstasy - exactly where I needed to be, where I would remain forever.

The stream finally began to weaken. “Ugghh you fuck… You fucking fuck.”, Nekrasova swore quietly, spittle flying from her tightly-clenched lips. I dropped my head, breathless from swallowing at least seven frappuccinos in piss form.

She regained her composure as she bent over to grab her tote, giving my a full view of her smol cloaca. I assumed now would come the time for the unfortunate repayment on my part - money, some form of humiliation or punishment, or full-on blackmail - photos of me sent to my family and co-workers.

To my surprise she pulled out her wallet, emblazoned with a photoshopped photograph of Woody Allen nutting on Soon Yi’s face.

“Here.” Dasha pulled out some money, seventy-eight dollars and some small change. “This is all I have right now but as soon as more people subscribe to Red Scare at patreon.com/redscare I’ll give you the rest… I promise.” I looked up to find her face flushed and beet-red, much like the vinegret or the herring-in-a-coat her mother presumably knows how to make because come the fuck on she probably makes that shit all the time.

“What is this?”, I asked, spitting out the slightly piss-soaked Agent Provocateur panties.

“Payment. For allowing me to do this. You see all my life I’ve been attracted to lusty dirty Jewish men like you. You would know that if you would have listened to episode 7…”, she sighed. “Or a word that I said!”

“Okay… But I’m baffled... Why this? Why here… Why me?”, I asked.

“Well you see, as a Slavic woman I need the constant change of power dynamics in my love life, so just being a stereotypical beautiful white girl ravaged by my popular comedian boyfriend and Cum Town host Adam Friedland isn’t enough anymore. I also need to exact a sort of cathartic revenge upon the Jewish race, as required by my own genetic makeup and impulses. So once a month or so I take some poor sap into a bougie Williamsburg restaurant or cafe and degrade him so I can again maintain a stable life and relationship in a late-capitalist hellhole of New York. I do it in restaurants because it makes it like performance art or something, some NY bullshit… I don’t know. Honestly I am still having doubts if it was a good idea to move here, so I am also insecure about my incontinence, deathly afraid of soiling myself on the NY subway, so this act is combined to me with the act of urination, freedom from fear, a feeling of lightheadedness and weightlessness.

The act of freeing my small Belarusian bladder combined with the act of degrading a representative of a race whose ancestors have suffered many pogroms in my own homeland gives me a sense of enormous calm and well-being. It’s fucked up but there it is.”

PUNCH LINE