Kabak Durum

Troubled times have come. And hazardous ones, I must say.

The katsaps are invading our land, showering Mother Ukraine with rockets and drones, the sons of Israel have started a war with Iran, Trump is rerunning the States, and Yushchenko didn’t win a second term in 2008… Kyivans and city guests are afraid to fall asleep every night because a rocket launched by pigs could strike anywhere.

And here I am, lying in the hospital for the fourth day, realizing that humanity has no clue where the real threat is coming from. I had one hope—that the chief doctor of this institution would be a respected and honorable person, a professor of medicine, an expert in biology, biochemistry, and the natural sciences, with immense experience. She would undoubtedly find a way to stop the growing threat.

But my hopes were shattered the moment I walked into her office. Her first question was:

— “Do you often experience hallucinations?”

I immediately realized how what I was about to tell her would sound. I know it’s not hallucinations… but how can I prove it? The situation is extremely worrying and nerve-wracking. Maybe one of the readers can suggest where to run and whom to ask for help.

I live in a village. In spring, I got the idea (oh, I wish I hadn’t…) to plant a vegetable garden. It's just a mix of things you can pick fresh, rinse, throw into a bowl, and eat with kvass or, forgive me, vodka. So in late March, I sowed carrots, onion sets, dill, radish, and corn. When it got warmer, I added watermelons, melons, cucumbers — the more delicate crops that need soil temperature to hit 15°C before they start growing. One of the last things I planted was zucchini: just five plants, a single row — enough to make fritters or grill a few slices.

I should’ve stayed in the gazebo instead of going out there. I should've let the dog eat the seeds, which he did with the leftovers.

The weather has been miserable for plants since March. Unexpected frosts destroyed the peach and nectarine crop, and one young tree even died from stress… In two months, the corn grew about 3 cm. Only 2 of 18 melons/watermelons sprouted. The carrots got overtaken by weeds, and the onions couldn’t reach the sun and just sulked. And yet — why didn’t it strike me right away? Five zucchini bushes grew lush and proud among this barren land, like clouds in a clear sky. Their pale shoots waved in the wind like Donald Trump’s hairstyle. The first bush, closest to the path, waved toward me with a strangely hostile air. I felt a shiver inside. It looked like a commander… or even the leader of the zucchini. Perhaps even the potatoes obeyed it?

It was hot. I forgot my cap—I must’ve gotten sunstroke. A cold shower helped, but I forgot all about the incident.

Then came June. Our pig-like neighbors launched another batch of drones and rockets. Hearing the alert, I stepped outside and silently watched the sky flash from our air defense systems. Though it was 3 a.m., I saw movement across the river by the greenhouse guard post — a glowing red cigarette tip.

It was a sad night. I had no one to share the moment with, so I decided to walk over and chat. I opened the garden gate and took the narrow path to the river, consistently eerie at night. The silence there was… aware.

I had my trusty Fenix flashlight. But suddenly, it died. It was not dimmed—just gone. Maybe the battery was dead, or maybe electronic warfare was hitting the village hard. Even the drones that buzzed overhead all night — gone. I was alone in pitch dark and complete silence, where you could hear Colorado beetles crawling from leaf to leaf on potatoes.

My heart pounded. Thankfully, I hadn’t taken in my Polish-made Cellfast shovel (light blue, like all their stuff). I gripped it tightly in both hands.

The humidity was unreal. You could snap a flash photo and see every droplet hanging like a curtain of invisible rain. Then a spotlight reflection hit… it.

That same first zucchini bush. In the middle lay—no, not just lying, it was resting — The Zucchini.

I got closer. It was wet, not from dew like the other veggies, but sweating—sweating intellect. It was clearly the dominant lifeform among all nearby organic matter (within at least a radius of Bila Tserkva).

Terrified, I raised the Polish shovel overhead.

— “Drop it, moron,” came a voice from below.

I dropped the shovel. My flashlight flickered on dimly. On the chernozem soil — once looted by the Nazis — were the words:

“DO NOT TOUCH THE HEAD OF THE COMMUNITY.” The Zucchini remained in place, calm. But the words — they had to come from somewhere. Then the last letter started to move. I saw a potato—yes, a potato—in sunglasses, trampling or rolling out the letters. Realizing I saw it, it paused, nodded silently, and I noticed its nametag: “Advisor.”

I knew I should’ve cut that nettle patch… But I was, in short, too lazy to change. So when I fell butt-first into a tall nettle bed, the pain brought me back to my senses. I jumped up, lost a slipper, and bolted for home.

Honestly, I was afraid to return until morning. When the sun rose, I checked the site. Instead of zucchinis and potatoes, I found a note: “Slippers are returned through the Complaints & Suggestions Department. Respectfully, Head of the Community“. Nearby was that same smug potato.

How could a potato become an advisor? Sure, the nodding, the silence gave it a mysterious, superior air. The sunglasses and blazer demanded respect. But still — it’s a potato! And why was it earning a higher-than-average salary?! Idiocy.

Next to the zucchini head lay a white sheet. I gathered the courage to pick it upЮ “Decree No. 16.5-K of the Head of the Community.”

These were current orders, short and sharp:

• “Do not harvest zucchinis without the head’s permission. To apply, use Form No. ZUC-A40K.”
• “Hold weekly Zucchini Day with a military parade, songs, and a lying-down championship. Winner gets respect and a greenhouse for winter. Losers — turned into caviar.”
• “Establish diplomatic relations with Turkey.”

Wait, what?? Next to that — Erdoğan’s fresh signature. And below — the photo began to develop (a Polaroid!). The Head with Erdoğan. A woman was also in the photo, her face slowly forming. I didn’t recognize her. Below, words of mutual respect, mention of fertilizer delivery… Then I saw four Turks carrying sacks of fertilizer from the neighbor’s side, bowing and disappearing into the cornfield.

That was my breaking point. This is a hallucination, I thought. Stop. Go rest.

Walking back, I noticed my garlic patch had been rearranged. A closer look — the cloves formed a QR code. I scanned it. It led to a Facebook group: “Zucchinis of the World, Unite!” My head spun. I staggered back to the gazebo and collapsed on the couch.

When I woke up, of course, none of it was there. Just hallucinations. So I lie, wondering: should I tell the chief doctor about this? Screw how it looks — this might be the only chance to save the world. Better to speak and regret it than to stay silent and regret that.

I found a moment when the chief doctor was alone and told her everything in detail. She smiled kindly and explained that my medication dose was too high; hallucinations were inevitable. That’s why she asked about them on day one.

I returned to my room with mixed feelings. Good that there’s no threat to the world. Sad that I’ve lost my mind a bit…

I decided to sleep and plan in the morning. But I couldn’t fall asleep — someone outside played Mendelssohn’s military march for over an hour. I got up to shut the window. Something fell from my pocket. I picked it up. It was that photo of Erdoğan and the Zucchini Head — and now the third person’s face was obvious.

It was the chief doctor.Holding a packet of First-Generation Zucchini Head Seeds. In that moment, everything became clear. I smiled. Accepted the inevitable. Went to shut the window and try to sleep one last time. But as I reached it, I realized — no one was sleeping tonight. Outside, under the sound of the military march, thousands and thousands of young zucchinis were marching in formation.

Stay strong. Be ready.