Fiction: The beetroot plot

'They have changed the production targets. Again.'

'Again? This we are used to.'

'The objects under production.'

'What has the wisdom of the soviet decreed we make?'

'Beetroots.'

'Ah, the humble beet. Pride of our land.'

'But not our collective. We are producers of the humble onion. So what are we to do?'

'Demonstrate the ingenuity we are famed for.'

'You have a plan?'

'I am merely channelling what a superior power has told me.'

'The Dear Leader always speaks to you wisely, does he not?'

'This time he has surpassed himself. He has asked that we ask the matryoshkas to make a sacrifice.'

‘What do they need to do?’

‘Provide some blood.’

‘Metaphorically?’

‘Literally.’

‘And what shall we do with the precious results of this gesture?’

‘You have the syringes from the medicine chest, yes Boris?’

‘Under my bed. For when anyone needs them, you understand.’

‘We need them now, Boris. How else are we going into inject the blood into all our onions?’

‘I do not follow.’

‘It is simple. Our masters want beets. We give them beets. They do not say what quality the beets should be. Or that they need actually be beets. Just that there are beets. So that is what they shall have.’

‘And who shall do the injecting?’

‘Our beloved matryoshkas, of course. It is their blood. They must use it well. And where better, than in the harvest of their toil, from their soil?’

‘I shall fetch the chest.’