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Boris Zolotov & The Kyshtym Dwarf

Boris Zolotov & The Kyshtym Dwarf

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Published by Michael Eckels
Strange experience with zany Russian alien cult.
Strange experience with zany Russian alien cult.

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Published by: Michael Eckels on Jun 19, 2011
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial

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06/19/2011

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Boris Zolotov & The Kyshtym Dwarf 
A human chain 100 people long intoning an old Sovietfavorite snaked its way through the water and onto thebeach. It stopped to meet me. "Boris Yevgenyevich.""Michael.""I'm just going to dry off and we'll talk in a fewminutes."He shook my hand and walked on. Being the leader therest of the chain followed suit, greeted me and went toget dressed. For most of them that meant from scratch,not changing out of a wet suit. They were lined up boy-girl-boy-girl, a mix of ages 30 to 70, with all appendagesfully extended, reaching out to the person ahead in line.And that's how they marched on, removing a hand fromsomewhere to shake mine and moving along. Soon itwould begin to be truly strange.Through a friend of a friend I had taken a quasi-undercover assignment for Russian channel NTV'sprogram "Profession Reporter" in the Black Sea townYevpatoria on Ukraine's Crimean peninsula. My task was to hunt down the mummified body of Alyoshenkathe Kyshtym Dwarf, document its whereabouts anddebunk cult leader cum alien-tamer Boris Zolotov.Over a drink in central Moscow a week beforehand, theprogram's host Andrei Loshak explained that Zolotovhad refused to give an interview to his program and thusit was necessary to employee me in the guise of anEnglish Channel 4 investigative reporter."The story began in 1996 in the village of Kaolinovynear Kyshtym in the Ural region when a crazy alcoholicgrandmother found a small humanoid in the woods,"Loshak began. As he recounted the convoluted history analien schematic fell out his notebook. I was alarmed, buthe exchanged a knowing smile with his colleague —which alarmed me further. So I held my breath, andtongue, with trepidation for 30 minutes of arduous tale.Coming to the end, he paused, turned to me andconcluded, "Of course this is all nonsense." I sighedthankfully.The history is long so I won't repeat it. I suggest doingsome searches for the “Kyshtym Dwarf”, the story of the “Kyshtym Catastrophe” and “Boris Zolotov” to getan idea of what’s really going on.NTV was filming a documentary about the KyshtymDwarf. They had completed all the links in the chainalready, except the last, Zolotov. The last personsupposedly to have seen the corpse.So there I stood. Hidden microphone taped to my nipple,lip cocked in disbelief. With me were two real NTVcorrespondents one with a pen camera in his breastpocket, the other with a hidden camera in her purse. We,actually I, was meant to buy the little pruned boy if possible, or at least see it and get it on tape. Whatever itwas, whatever was left. I hoped they had caught the sexcongo-line.We took a seat under a tarp and began to chat aboutAlyoshenka. Zolotov adores lecturing. He has no formalset of educational tools at his "Academy of FrontalProblems." To the best of my knowledge he has neithersyllabus, nor curriculum in any formal sense. He's hisown oral tradition. Without access to the tapes of ourinterviews it's impossible to quote these lectures directly.Which is a shame because his rhetoric puts the bestpoliticians, spin-doctors, and PR gurus to shame.His phrases are gems of needless elaboration —labyrinths of thought that wind needlessly out of controllike the Celtic knot work of an epileptic monk. Themainstays of his phrasing were life form types: liquid,solid, gaseous and crystal. Also all-powerful universalproteins that can do everything including cure cancer.The refraction of light rays for transporting informationetc. etc. throughout time and space. And his matrix of points, each with their own distinct idiosyncraticmetaphysical value, which sit on the corners of a cube aswell as at the mid-points of the cube's edge lines, in themiddle of the planes on the faces, and in the exact center,27 total, that interrelate as Zolotov feels necessary. Theeventuality of any conversation with Zolotov was alecture with these concepts intertwining like an orgy of pythons."What happened to Alyoshenka?" I asked. Zolotovfeigned sadness and made the sign of the cross. "Where'sthe body now?" He pointed upward. "Where's that?Heaven? The cosmos?" He was non-committal. Aftersome hemming and hawing and much insistence on mypart it was concluded that the prune boy was not to behad but fortunately there was a similar alien body wecould take a look at buried not too far away. The child of a human, alien and dolphin. What luck.Zolotov informed us that we were free to shoot all of thevideo we wanted. Take pictures and ask anyone anyquestion we felt like. We went back to the car and tradedin the hidden cameras and microphones for real ones. Iwas glad I had brought my camera "just in case" becausethis was certainly a case of something.He lined up his followers for a march 500 meters or so toa small tide pool in the shadow of a large radar satellitedish. Along the way the group sang more Soviet classicsand veered off the path to help push a car stuck in a rut.
 
Zolotov's followers were a variegated lot. The selectgroup, the ones with the nicest butts, were in on the take.When we got to the tide pool, the group lined up asZolotov barked orders to his "Funeral Team." Theystepped forward then turned their backs to him, and me.He demonstrated his powers by wiggling his fingers at afew of the girls.
 Magically
the girls were pulled to himand started to perform questionable modern dance. "Yousee those movements?" he said. "Those are not earthlymovements." I nodded my head.There was a bit more lecturing and explanation of therelevance of the radar station. It, like Zolotov, wasstrategically located where refracted rays were bestcaught. This was no coincidence. He has special skin hesaid that is more sensitive to these rays and was thusdrawn here to hold his lectures on facilitating contactwith aliens. In a place like this aliens are more apt toshow up, and they do. He invited me to contact alienswith his group that night after sundown.It was not by accident that Alyoshenka had been drawnto this spot from the future for universal proteins Zolotovsaid. But more importantly he added, "You too have aninner dwarf. And it has led you here." I certainly wasthere, no denying that.He explained the Chernobyl tragedy as the result of animbalance in a certain toxic substance under alien controlthat is distributed equally over the planet lying in wait just underneath the surface of the earth.Finally it was time to disinter the alien. The NTV cameraman took some close-ups of the butts and we waded intothe tide pool with our pants rolled up. The tide pool wasa layer of soft black clay covered by a thick layer of saltcrystal. It was extremely salty water and as we walkedaround I had visions of my feet pickled in a jar on theback shelf of a junior high science classroom.It was slow going because it was hard to find stablefooting. Occasionally Zolotov would reach under thesurface and break off a large chunk of salt, examine it,then put it back. One piece he showed to me saying thatit was the skeleton of an alien. The refracted light hadtransported the alien here. The alien had turned it self into a gaseous life form, evaporated away and left thisskeleton. He gave it to me to hold. I held it for as long asI thought seemed respectable and then gave it to the guywith the nice butt who promptly threw it away.My feet ached. When I exited the water later I wouldfind them punctured and bleeding. But I wanted to findthe alien dwarf body. Despite the fact that his crew hadburied it there the night before in expectance of ourarrival, it was difficult to find because every step kickedup a black cloud of silt that obscured our vision.Zolotov finally stopped and beckoned me over. He hadfound the grave site. I had my camera at the ready butthe wily old guy was already a bit suspicious. First, Ididn't ask questions like a journalist, because I'm not.And second, because I was running around taking lots of pictures like a photographer, because I am. I reallywanted a picture of Alyoshenka's dwarf cousin but I hadto play it safe. Blowing my cover of unethical intentionalmisrepresentation would have been unprofessional.The whole thing was a farce. A show of actors includedme, playing their roles. I was good for Zolotov. I addedto his legitimacy in the eyes of his followers, the realaudience. Who shelled out 10 euros a day for ring-sideseats and got pummeled in the head with his nonsense.With about 100 people, Zolotov was pulling in about1000 euros a day. It's a huge sum in a place like Crimeawhere living costs are next to null."Come closer," he said. He took my hand and placed itinto the murk. "Feel this." I felt a plastic garbage bag butcould see nothing. He looked at me and looked around.His crowd of followers had lost patience. They had longfallen out of attention and were sitting chatting, notminding their leader. Only the generously-bosomed andovertly nubile funeral team remained at the ready. That'swhat they get paid for.Zolotov took it all in. "Yes that's it." He said a few timesand churned his course of action over in his mind notpulling the dwarf carcass out of the water. "He doesn'twant to show himself," he said after a few moments."We should have watched the film first." Zolotov hadwanted us to watch a film about the burial before goingto the gravesite but we had convinced him we didn't haveenough time. Which we didn't because we would havehad to have gone back to their campground by foot about2 kilometers away and it was already getting toward theend of the day. "We should have performed the rituals,"he said. "That's why he won't appear for us." He waggedhis head over to the group on the beach. "They're beingdisrespectful. When you go to a cemetery do you act likethat? No. You pay your respects properly. That's why hewon't show himself." That was that and we hobbled back to the shore where he berated the group for theirbehavior. "That's good," he said looking down at myfeet, "you gave blood."We returned to the original point of contact on the beach.As the sun set, the camera rolled and once again Ibattered Zolotov with the same set of questions to whichhe once again battered back with a completely novel andplucky set of answers.He admitted one-time possession of Alyoshenka'smummified remains, recounting conducting severalexperiments on it whose absurd names I regretfully

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