Libertionne

“It’s rather strange, as she’s never worked, and almost never leaves the house.”

“But she says that I can’t see her personality,” Laura said with an irritated wave of her hand. “I had to take Lance with me to a meeting of the trustees. Now there’s one trustee less. You see, he didn’t like the fact that Lance made passionate love to his briefcase. What a bore…”

Laura scratched the one responsible for the change in the lineup of the board of trustees behind the ear, and leaned back on the couch. Neither she nor Michael noticed the buttons that had come undone, but Tiberius with effort shifted his gaze to the painting hanging before him on the wall. It depicted an alpine mountain ridge covered with snow, but in his mind’s eye he saw a completely different picture.

“You actually have physical meetings?” Michael said, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “There’s a thing called videoconferencing…”

“For those who want their business and private affairs to be part of the public domain? Certainly,” Laura snorted, “even you, Michael must know that the best network security is the absence thereof. I mean, the network, not the security.”

“Why not put Lancelot in a hotel for animals?” Tiberius inhaled deeply and tried to think rationally.

Two pairs of eyes, one dark-brown and doglike, the other feminine and jade, stared at him sternly and judgmentally.

“We were there,” Laura answered reservedly, “and we didn’t like it. They put them in cages – roomy ones, but still cages – and they feed them dry food. They give them muskrats.”

“Er… muskrats?”

“Yes. Rubber ones. One single toy, can you imagine? And there’s no social interaction.”

“I see.”

A blasphemous thought crept into Tiberius’s head, that the capricious Martha and Lancelot, for the modern and free Laura, were a replacement for something, something natural for a unmodern and unfree woman.

A nurse suddenly walked into the room.

“Mr. Storm, you have a visitor. Not a sick one, I mean. I think.”

“Oh,” Michael sighed, “I completely forgot. I have a commissioner today, from the ministry of health. And what do they need?”

Laura perked up.

“That’s good. I like commissioners. Show them in.”

And for some reason she opened her smartphone. A scraggly woman entered the room, resembling a moth-eaten hyena in a bad mood. A tweed suit, a tablet computer under her arm, and an unfriendly look.

“Mr. Storm!” she began in a harsh, barking voice. “We have been observing your activities for a long time, and some issues have arisen. Yes, issues.”

“How can I help you?” Michael asked politely.

The hyena stuck her long nose into the tablet computer.

“Our commission has watched your activities for the last three years and has detected excessive, I would say, loyalty. You discharge your patients too soon…”

“Clearly because they are quickly cured,” Michael smiled, but it was obvious that he was not himself.

“Today, according to our data, you received a socially dangerous, aggressive, violent psychopath. That’s right, dangerous! Yet I’ve audited the premises, and I have not seen any such patients. Where is he?”

“There,” said Michael, pointing at Tiberius, who was wearing a business suit and quietly drinking tea.

“Explain! And explain also, why your office looks so strange? This looks more like a historical museum than the ordinary office of a practicing physician.

“I can explain,” Laura said, her voice now soft and gentle, a sure sign that she was very angry. “Dr. Storm was in the middle of a treatment session for a patient, which you have unceremoniously interrupted,” she added, raising her voice.

“Yes, but…”

“In the course of one year, under the leadership of Dr. Storm,” Laura said, glancing at her smartphone, “the clinic has cured and returned to society sixteen thousand five hundred and three patients, which is two and a half times more than his predecessor did in ten years of work.”

“But this office!”

“Shock therapy for the patients. The Dr. works with each one personally. Personally! Now let’s look at the complaints over the course of eight years of work… Can you believe, not a single one. As for complaints about the ministry of health…” Laura turned the screen of her smartphone toward the woman inspector, “should I dictate the seven-figure total?”

“But wait, I…”

“That’s right, you. Let’s open your private file, Mr. Bitch.”

“What?! You cannot…”

“Why not? I truly can, as I’m the rector of the university where you were once a student. We take care of our graduates, keep an eye on them, so to say.

Mr. Bitch turned pale and jumped a little.

“Perhaps… I’ve seen everything that I wanted. I have no more questions for you, Dr. Storm. Would you allow me to leave? I will write a report…”

“I have a question – she was relentless – did you see the door?”

Mr. Bitch saw the door.

“Please be so kind as to use it right now, and to carefully close it from the other side. And also, when you have written the report, send it to me beforehand for approval. Lancelot, give the respected representative of the commission my business card.

The bulldog trotted unhurriedly across the room with a business card in his teeth. The miserable hyena graciously took the card, which was moistened with dog drool, and quickly slipped out the door after shooting Laura an obsequious smile.

“You are a monster!” Michael exclaimed in admiration.

Laura chuckled ambiguously, but it was clear that she felt good.

Compulsory Romance

Ignoring the elevator as always, Tiberius walked up his own stairway. The electronic key was acting up as usual; the green light refused to switch on. From the doorway of the adjacent apartment, the long nose of his female neighbor, Mr. Stern. The lady was of venerable age, but this in no way detracted from her enormous energy and enthusiasm. These wonderful qualities were entirely dedicated to spying night and day on all the residents of the building who had the misfortune of being her neighbor. And of the subsequent related visits. She was constantly pestering Tiberius with various requests for help, and he, out of pity for the creature, almost never refused.

“Aaaah, Mr. Crown, finally. They brought you a little package. And by the way… I have this little refrigerator I need to bring into my apartment,” she pointed to a huge crate that resembled the sarcophagus of Pharoah Seti I, standing like a monument in the center of the elevator landing.

Tiberius was so tired that didn’t have the physical or emotional strength to object, and silently he dragged the sarcophagus into the lair of the matronly lady.

“And where did you disappear to, for two whole days?” the old dame asked, skipping and frolicking around Tiberius, looking him over with quick, birdlike curiosity. “What a swell-looking suit you found. Expensive one, too. Can it be that you’ve got a new boyfriend?”

The suit was Michael’s, because when Laura took his suit to the cleaner’s, they told her that it may be of interest to a museum of criminology, but not to a respectable dry cleaner.

“I’m not judging you,” the old lady said, stroking Tiberius’s shoulder with her parchment-dry hand, “it’s a young thing, hee-hee. Does your boyfriend know?”

“There’s no boyfriend,” Tiberius replied, forcing the refrigerator into the space between the cupboard and the television. “There, all set.”

“Oy, thank you, my dear! I’m grateful to you for a hundred years. Whatever you need, just come by and ask. And where did you sleep, if you don’t have anybody…?

“First in a jail. Then in a psychiatric hospital,” Tiberius answered with pleasure. “All the best, Mr. Stern.”

And he left, hiding a smile.

Walking into the apartment, Tiberius saw that there was, in fact, a package with a card attached. Without much surprise (he was used to the fact that a locked door was never an obstacle to a delivery service), he picked up the card. Turning over the embossed square, he read: “To my best friend. Michael.”

Inside was a familiar-looking clock. His first reaction was a feeling of regret for his careless words, but then an overwhelming sense of gratitude and unusual warmth poured over him. He put the clock in the most visible place, and sat down to work, unable to think of how to thank his friend.

An hour passed. The bronze hand twitched, and with a jerking motion it jumped to six pm. A pleasant, rich tone resounded through the room, like the ringing of a church bell. Tiberius stopped writing and thought for a moment. He shouldn’t forget to mention the cult of priests in Ariccia and their golden branches. And he should certainly add the myth of Hippolytus. What a pity that this trip was going to delay the completion of a two-year project! But on the other hand, he was going to walk the cobbled streets of the actual, not ephemeral, city of Berlin – touch with his hand the time-worn walls of its great cathedrals – and see the sculptures of Rodin. And it’s no problem that there will be children with him; of course they will somewhat darken his mood, but everything in life has its price.

An intrusive ringing interrupted his daydream. On the display of his smart flashed the word “Paul”. Tiberius frowned and was about to switch off the sound, but suddenly Laura’s face appeared, reminding him of his blatant misanthropy. If not now, then when? Sighing, he pressed the Answer button. A familiar, playful, toothache-inducing voice cried out:

“Tibby, sweetheart, hel-looooo! It’s me, your sweet and nasty little Moopechka!”

“Hello, Paul,” answered Tiberius reservedly. “Please, stop calling me Tibby. How many times have I…”

“OK, Tibby, I’ll stop. So, are we going to have some fun today? Let’s go to the Gnarly Duck. Today there’s going to be a swell little gathering!”

“Fine, Paul,” Tiberius agreed without resisting.

“Really?” said Moopechka in astonishment, having grown as accustomed to Tiberius’s refusals as a business training salesperson. “And maybe we can stop into Nature’s exhibit opening? He’s a good friend!”

“Who?”

“Nature, silly. He’s the leader of the naturist movement.”

“What!?”

“Oh, come on, you’re such a barbarian, my little furrikins. Naturists. It’s the latest artistic movement. They show naturally occurring phenomena, as they really are.”

“They show photos of the sun shining?”

“Of course not, Tibby. You’re such a virgin. Moopechka will show you everything. Should we go?”

Figuring that the expansion of the cultural program would mathematically lead to a reduction in the romantic program, Tiberius willingly agreed.

“Where should I meet you?”

Like many of his contemporaries, Moopechka considered car ownership to be a heavy burden, an encumbrance, limiting his freedom and requiring responsibility and resources. But he eagerly and frequently used Tiberius’s car. This was like having a lover who you could visit for an hour, but regarding marriage…

“Ah, just come and pick me up. I’m at Freedom of Speech Park.”

“You were with those freaks again?”

“They’re not freaks. This is where the cultured members of our nation gather to protest.”

“It would be better if these cultured members found jobs. And what did you forget there?”

“Come on, Tibby – the pee-eeople here are just sooo…! And there are free sandwiches and coffee.”

“I see.”

Half and hour later, Tiberius arrived at Freedom of Speech Park. The sharp smell of freshly cut grass hung in the air; flower beds of crocuses had opened their bright yellow and violet buds; and under striped canopies, pleasant-looking girls were serving mineral water and hot coffee. The park was equipped with every possible convenience for those with a strong desire to speak in public. There were tall, colorful tribunes and open spaces for rallies and demonstrations. For aristocrats and snobs there was a very expensive restaurant, with horrible food and a strange and decidedly provocational interior. Tiberius walked through the park, listening to some of the speech of a fervent young man, his eyes ablaze as he called upon his audience to destroy it and burn all of it to the ground. What, exactly, he did not specify. Especially loathsome to Tiberius was a demonstration in support of the rights of pedophiles. Men and women held signs depicting a young Cupid, and the generic phrase: “We demand freedom!” Finally he say Moopechka. There were so many athletic boys dressed in tight red trousers, their faces almost completely hidden behind BigBen sunglasses. Moopechka stood in the shade of a wide-branched evergreen tree, holding two pink, heart-shaped balloons, clearly chosen to match the color of his shoes, which were generously festooned with rhinestones. Spotting Tiberius, he broke into a blinding smile and waved the balloons. Tiberius felt a painful tightening in his heart. Two balloons was bad. It meant…

“Tibby, dear, it’s for you!” said Moopechka, happily handing Tiberius one of the pink monsters.

He unenthusiastically accepted the gift and asked:

“Where did you get this… this marvellous thing?”

Moopechka beamed.

“I was at an anti-government rally. Everybody got one.”

“And what, my dear, do you have against the government?”

“Um, I don’t know,” grinned the empty-headed member of the opposition. “There were such nice, handsome boys there, and they called me over. We laughed, talked a bit, nothing serious. Look, they gave out pins.”

He started to look for the pin, but then, stung by the mocking glance of Tiberius, he said in a serious tone of voice:

“Well… the government… It infringes our rights… “Moopechka fell silent, then suddenly remembered something and came to life again.

“Stipends are small! And benefits. Yes! Benefits should be greater.”

“Have you tried working? Thirty-three years already.”

Moopechka took offense.

“I haven’t decided yet what I want to do in my life. And, by the way, I’m studying.

“In your sixth academic program so far. You enroll, go to a few lectures, but you haven’t finished a single one.”

“Did you meet me today to hurt my feelings?” Moopechka’s lips started to tremble precariously.

“No,” Tiberius answered honestly. “I had a different goal entirely. Do you want some ice cream?”

All of the resentfulness was suddenly forgotten, and they walked to the parking lot, chatting merrily, and the car took them in the direction of the “Garbage Factory” exhibition hall, where the latest and most relevant art was displayed. Moopechka blissfully leaned back on the leather seat of the Mercedes, and filled the cabin with smoke from a nicotine-free cigarette. Tiberius shot him a wincing look.

“Could you explain why you smoke that crap? There’s not even any tobacco in it, only a repulsive smell, and no effect whatsoever.”

“Tibby, it’s trendy. How could you not understand, you knucklehead. Oh no, another traffic jam!”

“Switch to manual,” Tiberius grumbled.

The car complied with the order, not forgetting to accompany this action with a detailed lecture on the horrible tragedies and misfortunes that could be brought down upon the unwise car owner who wishes to reject the services of the automatic chauffeur. As soon as the tires touched the roadway, Tiberius placed his hands on the steering wheel with pleasure. In about ten minutes they would be there; in the traffic jam they would have spent at least an hour. But there was another reason why manual mode was preferable.

“Paul, take your hand away.”

“Whyyyy?”

“I’m driving. You’re bothering me.”

“Moopechka just wants to do something nice for furrykins.”

“Paul.”

“How about this?” Moopechka’s hand, which had already undone the zipper of Tiberius’s jeans, continued its exploration.

“If you don’t stop right now, I’m going to hit you. We could have an accident.”

“Ye-esss! Punish me, daddy!”

“I’ll punish you, but you’re not going to like it.”

Moopechka sulked, with a pouting lower lip, for five minutes. Tiberius looked at him askance. His sagging, faux-faded t-shirt displayed a rabbit and the words “If you don’t sleep with me, I’m going to cry.” “Probably from some idiot designer, and costs a fortune.” Jeans, specially torn and dyed to look like they had been rolled in the waste material of a cattle factory, a bracelet consisting of beads from different social and material ratios (on a leather strap, gold beads encrusted with rubies and diamonds peacefully coexisted with specially-varnished balls of chewing gum and paper pellets). Trend. A mysterious god that Tiberius pictured as a cruel and radical Moloch. And who knew which god was more fierce and insatiable: one child per village became Moloch’s victim, while all children fall victim to Trend without exception.

“You forgot what today was,” mumbled Moopechka, in a completely hurt voice.

“Day?” Tiberius’s thoughts were somewhere beyond 34th street, where they were driving.

“Yes. Today, by the way, is a holiday.”

“Is that right?”

Tiberius made a halfhearted tally: Lovers’ Day was some time in February, New Year’s (the most tortuous – the rule that, according to some people’s ridiculous beliefs, at precisely twelve o’clock you need to be doing something that you want to be doing all year). As for him, he would be happy to greet the new year at midnight on some deserted island. Alone. Or with Laura, if, of course, she was not finding something to nitpick about. And she couldn’t, if she found herself in his power on that same blessed island… He was torn from his sweet daydream by stifled sobbing. Throwing a sidelong glance at the cracking voice of Moopechka, Tiberius made an unmistakeable diagnosis:

“It’s your birthday?”

“Ye-es. And you forgo-ot!”

“What do you mean, of course not. There’s even a present…”

Damn. What can I give?!

And then it dawned on him.

“Paul. Open the glove compartment.”

Afraid to believe his luck, cautiously eyeing Tiberius like a dog who is regularly beaten by his master, and given sugar bones only on major holidays, Moopechka opened the glove compartment.

“A classic Russian novel, written by Leo Tolstoy. A rare and original, ah, printing,” Tiberius said admiringly, almost not feeling any remorse. “Have you heard of him?”

“I have, from Melissa. She’s horribly intellectual, a real bohemian. I will introduce you today; she’s going to be at the party.” Moopechka proceeded to look at the illustration.

Three minutes went by in silence.

“And they say the classics are boring.”

Moopechka stared at one of the illustrations for an unusually long time, and Tiberius couldn’t help but look over his shoulder. To the photographer’s credit, if the authors of the Kama Sutra had been alive to see his creation, they would have understood how weak and modest their erotic fantasies were. Tiberius flinched and tried to focus his attention on the road.

“Perhaps I will even read this book,” Moopechka announced decisively, and suddenly fell silent. His eyes became glassy, his lips opened slightly. Tiberius recognized the symptoms – Moopechka was lost in thought. This rarely happened with him, and it was not easily achieved; nevertheless it clearly had to happen.

“What?”

“Tibby,” Moopechka began anxiously, looking suspiciously at the disastrous book. “Is this in style?”

“Of course,” Tiberius answered firmly. “The classics are always in style.”

The book was immediately photographed together with the Moopechka’s glowing face, and was quickly sent around the world to delight and shock his countless online friends. The result was an immediate reply.

“Melissa Swan. She wants us to pick her up.”

“This is the ‘horrible intellectual?’”

“No, not her. Our Melissa, the editor of ‘Young Lucifer.’”

This coincidence wasn’t surprising. Since children came into the world at the reproductive center, liberated from the bondage of family and parental oppression, and having four thousand (exclusively pleasant-sounding) variations of names and surnames, it was a common occurrence that among one’s circle of close acquaintances there appeared someone who has the same name as you.

Tough Days at Young Lucifer

The Libertionne TV building strongly reminded Tiberius of his own stomping grounds. The same concrete octopus, with numerous structures and passageways, just slightly smaller. Little-brother octopus. “Young Lucifer’ was located on the eighth floor in close proximity to Lucifer, Libertionne’s main info-entertainment channel. It was only natural, as the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. In days past, Lucifer tried with all its might to justify the proud name of the first revolutionary and the destroyer of the world order. The impression was that it was run by a gang of ruthless subversives through and through – from bourgeois family values to religion, from politics to anarchy, everything got plowed under by the channel. The films it showed were all provocational, it aired radical viewpoints, diametrically opposed to the mood of the day. But in time it started to lose steam. Of course, one could empathize with its creators – was it easy to surprise the viewer in our day and age? In the past, say a hundred years ago, if you showed society a film about a happy love triangle, what was the result? Society would be astonished and indignant, and there was progress. But now, as part of the all-encompassing freedom that had arisen, only old ladies might watch something like that before bedtime. To save on sleeping pills. There was a fragile hope for the younger generation; after all, children could still be surprised.

Tiberius and Paul opened a door with a name plate that read:

“Young Lucifer. Melissa Swan”. Melissa, a skinny blonde in a blood-curdling pink dress, sat moodily at her giant editor’s desk, sorting through a pile of advertising brochures.

“I can’t figure out,” she complained to the visitors, “how they want their ads to be viewed by millions, when those same millions are paying us each month not to see these ads.”

Tiberius looked with boyish curiosity at the monitors, which were showing humorous, educational cartoons. On one monitor was Jesus, resembling a hippy, suffering through what was not the best of times, sitting at a bar with some disreputable types; on another, two bearded gentlemen under a red banner were leading a lively, marching crowd toward the edge of a cliff. And so on.

“We are developing the younger generation, liberating them from complexes and prejudices, teaching them,” Melissa commented briskly, not waiting for the usual questions.

“And what are we teaching here?” Tiberius inquired, pointing to a monitor where a bunch of big-eyed, smiling creatures (Animals? Birds? People?) were beating each other with hammers, sawing each other, shooting, stabbing and burning. If you were to show this masterpiece of the celluloid industry to the creators of “Hammer of the Witches,” they would drop to their knees and award a medal to the worthy successors of their complicated and creative profession. The cartoon was very bright and concisely drawn; that is, it met all the hallowed standards by which cartoons were made for the very young.

“Um, this one… this is an entertainment one, for children. We can’t always be instructing them; they need to relax once in a while. Which is why adults enjoy watching these cartoons, too.

Melissa wiped her tiny little nose, which thanks to the efforts of plastic surgeons grew smaller and smaller each year. She was literally obsessed with tweaking her appearance; last week, for example, she had an operation to remove wrinkles on her wrists. Before she proudly told Paul and Tiberius about it, the latter had no idea that there could be wrinkles in such places.

“And look at this,” Tiberius said, picking up an advertising brochure for the Medea company and read the slogan out loud. “Medea will look after your children. Is this supposed to be funny?”

“What’s the problem?” Melissa said, alarmed. “That’s our main advertiser.”

“You see, Princess Medea was very disappointed when Jason, her beloved, not only didn’t marry her – he dumped her for another woman. As I said, she was a little upset, and went and killed their two sons. Then she cooked them and served them to Jason for dinner.”

Silence fell. Then Melissa sighed heavily and mumbled:

“And I thought that Medea was from the word мёд [‘honey’ in Russian]. That didn’t really work.”

“You could say that. And what does the company make?”

“Baby food…”

“Wonderful.”

“Darn it, what should we do?” Melissa said, wandering around the office. “Order a rebranding? The designers will tear the hides from three people. Listen, was there a different girl with that name?”

“Alas, after this princess, shall we say, became so grimly famous, people no longer wanted to give their daughters this name. You can understand them.”

Moopechka saved the moment. Gently stroking the unhappy editor on her recently operated-on wrists, he said that it’s all rot, stop grieving and give in to some unbridled pleasure. Melissa perked up a bit, like a deflated balloon receiving a puff of air.

“That’s true. Let’s leave everything and go drive somewhere fun. Wow, what a beautiful pair you make! Just a couple of cooing love-birds!”

“Hmmm, not sure about that,” thought Tiberius, looking at their reflection in the mirrored door of the shelf unit. It took some imagination, but Paul still could pass for a turtle dove, with his impudent, inwardly slanting gray eyes, his wicked, girlishly pouting lips, and gold-colored hair, which he dyed every week. And there was Tiberius, powerful and muscular, hair tinged with gray and wrinkles on his still young-looking face, bearing a resemblance to an Italian mafia boss who had been a professional fighter in his youth. On his jaw, a long, fresh scar, and a two-day stubble. A fine love-bird, he.

Suddenly there was shouting from the other side of the wall, the noise of furniture being thrown around, a scream and the sound of breaking glass. In other words, all the signs of a heated and constructive professional debate. Melissa didn’t even bat an eyelash.

“That’s the miniseries department,” she explained to Tiberius and Moopechka. “Creative folks, what can you do.”

Moopechka was intrigued.

“Miniseries! I love them! Can we go and see, please, please?”

They had to go and see.

Melissa pounded on the door with her fist, ignoring the doorbell and the brass plaque that read “Use the doorbell!!!” The ruckus going on inside instantly stopped, then something hit the door with a dull thud and crashed to the floor.

“That must be Lucy’s bag,” Melissa commented thoughtfully. “James’s is a bit heavier. That means the author’s pride has once again been wounded.”

“But why didn’t we ring the doorbell?” Moopechka inquired. Devoured by curiosity, he did a little dance in place and extended his neck like a goose.

“They wouldn’t have opened the door for us. That’s for visitors; our own don’t use the doorbell. Well, finally.”

The door was opened by a young man who looked like a slightly ugly gnome. A full week of stubble, red-nosed and very angry. The gnome was clearly happy to see Melissa.

“Melissa, my dear, explain to your girlfriend that if the sponsors want the main character to eat their brand of hot dogs, then he has to eat them, even if it gives him heartburn!”

In response to this, a horrible crashing sound came from the center of the room. The whole group carefully peered through the half-opened reinforced door. The situation was even more dismal than at Young Lucifer. It was practically empty: a few computer desks, an office desk piled with books, and dark, dried-up puddles of coffee. In the corner, a plastic fig tree was timidly hiding. And not without reason, its twin brother was lying next to the wall, buried underneath office folders with crumpled pieces of paper sticking out. Tiberius’s gaze followed another folder that flew past them and landed in the pile. The destruction was caused by a girl who was sitting at a computer desk, not paying the slightest attention to the visitors.

“How?” she bellowed, to no one in particular. “How is Joan going to eat your wormy… your disagreeable hot dogs, if for the last six hundred and eighty episodes she has been a vegan?”

“She gave up,” said the gnome, wringing his hands, “or gave in to temptation. In other words, think something up; you’re the screenwriter. But she has to eat them in the next episode – we signed the contract yesterday.”

“Can’t you feed them to a different main character?” Tiberius said, offering a rational suggestion.

“Alas,” said the gnome, ruffling his disheveled hair, “Joan is the audience’s favorite; her rating is the highest.”

Seeing the absence of understanding in the eyes of his guests, he motioned them over to his desk.

“Allow me to show you. Every day we get a technical order.” Panting, he dragged a sizeable red folder out of the burial mound under which the fig tree so majestically rested.

“This is from the sponsors, the advertisers, and from above, if you catch my drift. We then think up a plot for the ongoing series based on this scheme,” James pointed to a magnetic board hanging on the wall, broken into the sections “Who”, “With whom”, “Where”, “What they did” and so forth. We add the products that we are advertising, and, voilà!”

The gnome, standing on tiptoe, firmly took “Joan” and with a magnet he pinned under her name a sheet of paper that read: “Wild Boar hot dogs. Organic. Feel the flesh of a wild boar on your tongue!” The screenwriter, who up to that point was in a kind of stupor as she watched his manipulations, burst out in tears. Moopechka, in contrast, rejoiced:

“Tibby! Look, this is a nonsense game. Remember, we sort of tried it at George’s party? Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” He looked embarrassedly at James.

“It’s nothing. It’s true, actually. We make TV shows about idiots, for idiots,” Seeing how Tiberius and Moopechka flinched at this remark, he reassured them. “Everything’s fine – the system sees the word “idiot’ as a medical term. We’ve become skilled at freely expressing our thoughts about our dear TV audience.

A skinny girl resembling a mouse looked through the doorway without knocking. The gnome greeted her with a snarl.

“Sarah! Well, it’s about time. Is the poster ready for Little Red Riding Hood?

The mouse nodded, went over to the presentation stand and with her smartphone transferred an image of a languid youth in a red bonnet (he wasn’t wearing anything else) surrounded by a bizarre cocktail of muscle-bound men and just as muscle-bound werewolves. The text read: “A global blockbuster! Passion and treachery! Bestiality, rape, murder and the eating of flesh! All this and more, at all cinemas throughout the empire! For ages 6 and up.”