Сергей Огольцов
The Algorithm of Chaos

Short and sweet

Who reads Prefaces or Forewords these days? Neither you nor I or any other person smart enough to have their IQ checked frequently.

So instead of stuff in the style of your grandparents’ school teacher I’ll tell you how come this here The Algorithm of Chaos happened to pop up at all.

Things have already got somehow settled down – well, yes, after six months of the blockade (written in Stepanakert, Mountainous Karabakh, in spring 2023) you, naturally, expect to fall victim in ethnic cleansing, or humanitarian catastrophe, or in another undeclared war, aka special military operation any other day…

But while they (who? where?) are reaching for The Button, issuing orders, manning the equipment… Loading… Zeroing in on… and countless other actions – I still have to while away my share of eternity for taking all that shit, right?

Good news, I’ve got what to whittle that enormous mass of spare time with. Years ago I got hooked on writing.

By me, it’s rather a winding process. Starting a sentence, I’m not quite sure what it’ll be finished with. Both how and where are no less moot points. And getting thru a passage resembles wandering in the primeval forest. Or, better still, alike to treading thru virtual world of a computer game.

On entering a passage against the backdrop of squalid backstreet lane, you make for God know where until – after a sudden turn – your boots step onto the tiled pavement in a brightly lit casinos area. Welcome to the passage end!

There’s a stir in the air, luxuriously attired ladies of tempting paint job in their faces, gents of murky aspect, casting furtive looks at you: now what? Where to?

I wish I knew! Wait till the next passage end, we’ll see there…

That’s why I entertain a firmly fixed idea, that my writing is not quite what writing is supposed to be.

It’s not me who writes, it’s I thru who it is written. By whom? Well, at the end of some future passage. Maybe…

Call it escapism if you like. Yet, what else can I do? I'm a small man, who’s stuck in a situation where all sorts of world ends may spring up at a moment’s notice.

(To keep to my diligently cultivated optimism, the list of all possible ends is not presented, although I could. Those eager to know the details of half a dozen the nearest disasters to come might choose opening Google and – wow! Well, I mean… gasp in funk.)

Those world ends are so immense, a small fry like me has nothing to do with such ga. Let them figure it out for themselves, who’s after who in their queue.

I’ve got cares of my own, among them writing to brighten up the drag of spare time.

Firstly, you have to fix you up with a proper plot. Without the thing, it's pretty hard to grasp what you're about, after all. And what comes after what, and where.

In general, it keeps you on this side of sanity. Without a plot you’re simply lost in chaos. It’s your Load Star in too badly charted seas of creative metaphysics. In simple terms, that’s a mess of the maze from where very few were lucky come back. A negligible number, statistically.

But even those 2 sorry fools, who had somehow managed, were met with unconcealed suspicion, like, Jimmy, is that really you, bro? But why your Mom and dog refuse to admit the fact?

Hence, my brotherly advice to anyone who’s hooked, like me, on writing – no risky fumbling with chaotic shit. Find yourself a plot, nice and neat, to eschew odd troubles for both you and your custodians.

Undoubtedly, here arises a low blow question: where to find the effing plot?

To be frank with a fellow in misery, here’s a direct answer: I have no idea, Frankie!

Yet, in the same breath, I know for a fact, there are prodigies who can’t give the number of plots they are sitting on. No storage space in their attics, spilling out the gable window, the goddamn plots are. What’s more, the poor devils are just drippling them and have to restrict their walk routes to only their backyards.

How come? Well, a secret tunnel to King Solomon plot mines, by the lead of an archaeologist friend. Presumably.

There’s no time to deeper delve into the subject of alcoholism in the archaeology domain right now. However, I happened to see with my own eyes (by pure chance, and later I even regretted seeing it) the list of bestsellers by a certain author comprising above 400 items! A stable UFO connection.

More than that, there popped up already another one hot on her heels, catching up steadily: 387 printed book titles!

Not a big deal? That couple of ladies has made one King, named Stephen, plus two Alexanders, surnamed Dumas bite the dust! Well, brother, I’m fearful for the future of males in this world. Bitter tears of solidarity well up in my eyes…

Originally though, writing was my subject, not the ersatz scam for kitchen tables.

The problem, who’s tip was hardly scratched by my touch (delicate as ever not to distract busy people off their respectable routines) is not new; even Pushkin grappled with it. At the roughest moments he used to ask his serf nanny:

‘Where shall we sail?’

That was his dodge to beg Arina Rodionovna for a plot, in a way both metaphorical and cunning…

And here you are, a bolt from the blue! Though having no nanny, I had a lucky strike! A worthy plot popped up, though in Russian, sitting in my PC. Which is also for the better – no Anglophone person has chanced to be tired of it…

So, I braced up for translating to share it with my compatriots…

Not by blood, yet by the planet.

2023-05-05

Non-Epigraph

It's not what it looks like!

The 2 following paragraphs do not make an epigraph.

Nope. It is the final warning to sissy purists, pedantic SOBs of scent trained specially to tree any lively language, so as to pronounce it offensive:

„Most Honorable Miss/ Lady/ Sir!

Stop handling the book, close it, take another look at the title, try to grasp the meaning, and think again and deeper: do you really need it? Why risking your mental health? Don’t endanger the core of your snug life in a nice world miles away from our everyday reality.”

. . .

Beating about the bush for a Prologue:

a). Why Did I Kiss-Goodbye Sports?

Looks like I’ll never get it why on earth it happened that, in my whole life, a weightlifting career hasn’t hooked me on. Such a spectacular sport as it is.

Just watch in what sly way he sidles up to the glossy shaft with cast-iron bells screwed to its ends. The man is meekness itself in his velvety squat beside it, the eyes averted so as not to scare it off. And all of a sudden, a kinda wild man – heh! – he tears that bloody mass of metal off the floor, jerks up, and lifts above his head.

Then the sportsman waits for three seconds, upright, strained arms outstretched toward ceiling, coccyx a-twitching, before to slam the thing underfoot onto the platform! Some guys, of those who's not in full control over their emotions, will even yell something, like, ‘catch it!’. Or even jump in place.

The jump, of course, is not so impressive – his build isn't the right size to clear a bar set half a meter high, even with a pole vault.

The thing, meanwhile, clanks its complaints to the platform about harsh usage, before to shut up eventually.

And then the weightlifter puffs up and barges off like a proud flagship icebreaker! Or rather a bulk-carrier for his mountain of muscle meat, on his way to the podium of 3 uneven steps.

There, he’d occupy a step to stoop from it and shove his head into the noose of a ribbon with a medal dangling from it. Then follows one whole bundle of actions: he straightens up, sniffles heartily, sticks out his chest, and contort his mug in a thoughtful expression, pretending he’s a music lover.

Because at that moment there sounds the state anthem of the country, which has sent him to the competition, or of another nation whose big man sticks his chest out on the highest step of all the three.

Besides, there are also those multicolored flags hanging down from 3 poles. The all-embracing beauty of the sight just stuns you as any other on-looker…

Attractive, yes, however, the attractiveness pull was not quite constant, and I’m at a loss to put my finger on why so. Despite all the tempting beauty of the sport, I somehow felt – no, it’s not for me, all those bells on that shaft, even though polished to appealing sheen.

And later on, after my fanboy delights about the Olympics in the tv box subsided, it dawned on me that big guys there weren't just toiling away for free.

Someone was scraping an apartment out from under that damn barbell, another was trying to get a seat on the committee presidium, wherever they'd put him.

Which, by the by, is right – that not for nothing he'd spent the years of his youth in gyms working himself up to the point of stupefaction and drowning in his own sweat.

It was not for the sake of throwing a derailed mine cart back onto the rails somewhere down the gallery, under the sounds of his farts in place of the state anthem, right?

Although there are those who strained for nothing at all – no gains and the chronic hernia instead of a medal.

And so, based on the above considerations, sports failed to appealed to me in earnest. Well, maybe, rhythmic gymnastics and figure skating, to a certain extent, but then again, only for a while, until I got a taste for Rubens' forms.

Too bad. After all, sport is life. Any hockey player will tell you that.

True, it's not so easy to follow his cloud-couckoo-land lisping; the guys have too many teeth knocked out in the ice rinks, they all have a lisp, each and every one of them. Hand-picked. Like the fucking team of knights under Uncle Chernomor.

Although no, by my calculations, they oftener gurgle than hiss; being a scuba divers unit, after all, they emerge straight from the sea, like Navy Seals by Netflix.

As for the hockey teams, on leaving the harsh ice of the arena, they, of course, put their false teeth plates in, to have something to smile with. Yet even then, they noticeably mumble. Such is the hallmark of their profession.

As aptly noted R. Rozhdestvensky in his lyrics to Arno Babajanyan's music, from each one all that there is in him, to each his scars, and tolling bells’.

No, wait, wait! It was Mikael Tariverdiev, a Georgian Armenian, who wrote music for that hit:

‘tyn-dyn-dyn ty-dy-dy tyn-dyn-dyn!’

He has a cool rhythm there, by the way.

Yes, in general, I left the sports for the above reasons. We parted without knowing each other anymore intimately than that.

And after, I had to willi-nilly look for a fitter outlet where to engage my beloved self in.

. . .

b). The World for Lucky Ones

On bidding my forever-farewell to all hopes for a decent sports career or (to use a proper modern language) after it became my ex, irrevocably, I had to choose the right direction for my uncommon impulses and remarkable personal resources.

Occasionally, yet more and more insistingly, I began to ponder over the film industry: why not to apply matchless me for leading roles there? And the immediate next question: how to enter the World of Silver Screen?

There was no prospect of winning the Cannes Film Festival by cinching my metaphoric wagon to the infantile Russian cinema.

To win favors with the Palme d'Or, that ribald ficus-bitch prize, you should shoot a lesbian love story full of passionately explicit angles.

Sure enough, for the present day level in the field of plastic cutting, sewing, and ironing, there’s no foreseeable problem. You bulge a silicone bump here, revamp the organ there to give it proper ‘inside out’ looks, and – giddy up!

Toward the frames of so uninhibited frankness, which drives ISIS militants into complete stupor as stilled as by the patients in catatonia cases ward.

To scenes that kindle a wild outcry in WAP, which still campaigns for the global ban on demonstration of Cannes-winner films to octopuses imprisoned in multiple biological laboratories all over the world.

Of course, the World Animals Protection organization habitually entered a losing battle. The labs at octopus farms, where they’re recycled into canned food for humans, have already discovered the hidden quality of such films to cause the growth of an additional tentacle, the ninth; which means additional 20 cans of delicacy product from each 2-year-old head.

And, most importantly, the gain calls for no material expense, thanks to the magical power of art…

WAP argue that cephalopods are smarter than humans, therefore, eating them is a crime against the reason… A sample of usual blah-blah of losers…

And here ‘Whoa!’ I said. So said I and stomped my foot. ‘I won't let spoil so handsome a man!’

The guy (I mean myself) deserves, albeit a little bit narcissistic, yet still respect and love. In general terms, to hell them those plastic surgeons.

Now what? Maybe, to take a shot at Uzbek-Film, eh? In their trademark psychological thrillers?

Yea, not what you’d call an inspiring idea. After all, it's obvious immediately that the native directors there smoke home-grown weed… And that sort of crap works wonders deeper than Mr. Snoop Dogg can ever get in the Holy-Hell-York-City. Although, his also is not a bad connection, I admit. Look him in the eye for just 6 jiffies, and you’re in the flight just because of the eye contact…

Rather a bleak picture is drawn by summing up the present opportunities in the former home neighborhood.

Now, what's left there? Hollywood?

But Joseph Kobzon's grandnephews are queuing there three generations in advance for every starry role.

And so arrogant those offspring are! Aunt Fanya Tsiperovich – they haven't even heard of, let alone care!

So, all that's left is Indian cinema; the only pool for angling.

However, even there's not without a catch – during a two-part film, you have to pull off half a dozen fiery dance numbers and sing along the fancy feet-work.

Oh, well, of course, my choreography’s beyond praise after a couple of clear shots. Maybe, a couple of couples. But I'm amazed myself by where those knee-jerks come from.

The stumbling block is my vocal proficiency; I can only roar in the style of V. Vysotsky. All those falsetto parts, like, ‘Jimmy-jimy! A-ya! Ah-ya!’ I can't handle, if making judgment based on a sober assessment.

For that reason, I tossed this whole industry, the film-making, like a bone to dogs at a feast of the Knights about the Round Table. ‘Fight for it, you good-for-nothings!’

Though at times I get sad, when scraping the stubble off this here mug before the mirror. – ‘Dammit, bro, Belmond, Nick Nolte, and I could have rocketed the Three Musketeers the way those cute little dandelions never dreamed of.’

Well, screw them, let them mess around in their sandbox, play house, war games, and elite bohemian settings. It's all the same (dreadfully monotonous) and the same, and the same.

Whether he's pretending to be an oligarch or a bum, the difference is invariably from a costume department. But they're all great (for heaven's sake!), without exception.

And now I have to walk through life as if through a museum of fossilized giants, thanks to the archaeologists. Every day they dig up a new brontosaurus, each one more gigantic than the next.

Where do they dig up such pterodactyls?

In short, even that steppe remained out my reach. Completely.

. . .

c). Never wait for Nature’s favors; rip them off by scientific methods!

And if anyone's curious how I felt after that tragic double failure – no way to see myself in a movie, upon no hope to dangle an Olympic medal – they might consult the famous canvas by V. Vasnetsov ‘A Knight at the Crossroads’. That's exactly me only rearview, and not wearing the jeans I never part with.

There am I mounted on my Savraska horse, lost in thoughts: whether taking a turn toward science is worth it?

Certainly, why not? More over, my inner world organization so aptly qualifies for a try. I’ve never met anybody of so scientific temperament, of such resourcefulness and limitless potential, especially, when it concerns thinking. Oh! That’s where lies my prevailing predilection.

At times, gone too deep in thoughts about something, I just keep thinking, and thinking, and… I may wholly forget what it exactly was about, or what my starting thought was, yet, I still keep thinking on. Not out of inertia, but just because I love the process.

Besides, there is a streak of a researcher in me.

Let's say I get my hands on some obscure gimmick, where it's at once clear, the junk is a complete throwaway. Now, why to be in the way of natural flow of events? Just throw the crap away.

But no! I absolutely have to tear it apart, like: what's in there, huh? And once I've finished the research and realized that bunch of smaller parts remains as incomprehensible as the initial throwaway was, only then, with a clear scientific conscience, I drag it to the trash pile.

So why, I wonder, possessing all main faculties and points needful for a scientist, I stayed away from pure science?

If anyone expects here a list of scientific follies, annoyances, cranks, and freaks in the given field not answering my moral standards, then no, dear friend, you're in the wrong.

Because it starts already to look a kinda cliché here: the dude takes sports apart, bulldozes the film industry, so what holes will he pick out in the field of science?

Forget it, my friend! Your agronomic expectations are groundless. We're doing just fine in science; we do dare explore any mysteries of the material universe. We also contemplate spiritual matters during the hours established by labor laws. The only lag, annoying but inevitable, is healthcare.

Here, everything is turned upside down; we begin protecting after the fact, when disaster has already struck and all that's left to do is sprinkling ashes over our grievous heads.

Healthcare should protect proactively, not after the enemy has penetrated your borders and set up defensive lines of disease, so that the rescue strategy falls into the hands of pharmacological octopuses. And they won't let their chance slip! They'll fork out so much for the sufferer that even their own mother wouldn't recognize them if she hadn't also become addicted to pills and now everyone looks the same to her—Bruce Willis.

But to survive in our advanced world, chemistry alone is no longer enough. You need a solid spiritual foundation for your right to continue the struggle for existence. And this right is acquired through spiritual hygiene, so that you remain as healthy as a moose. This has determined my line of behavior on life's tricky crossroads.

I always keep it straight. When I start speaking, I speak the truth, without equivocation or frills borrowed from Lingua GlobBureaucratica.

This line makes my life easier later, when I have to pay with my body's resources. Sticking to plain truth removes gnawing doubts. It keeps my health intact. Prevents sinking to the same level as the scum at the particularly streamlined society strata who fall over themselves to meet market demands and the dictates of political and sexual conformity.

I do not trade myself for trendy comforts and undeserved benefits. And most importantly, I do not allow myself to spawn imaginarities. The main threat to health roots in them, when, instead of ‘I want you!’ they say, ‘You could perform at La Scala with your contralto!’ and instead of ‘Lend me a tenner till the pay-day,’ they say, ‘What a cool tie you're wearing today!’

But otherwise, as already noted, everything is going great on the scientific front.

So what exactly saved science from great discoveries on my part? Discoveries whose magnitude neither Einstein nor Tesla never even dreamed of?

For all the talents I am gifted with, and those are literally created for boosting pure science with my priceless contributions, there’s a frustrating hitch on my part.

A single point in the otherwise flawless list of my unrivaled qualities. That seeming trifle has pushed the radiant science horizons away from me and, in the same breath, made me unreachable for the bereft science.

And this is (I announce with a bitter sign) is my intrinsic restlessness. Which bitchy feature manifests itself quite, dammit, selectively.

Say, I would sit for hours – forgetful of their flight alike to that of aloof seagulls over a buoy inedible and lonely – at the computer, or over a microscope, or under the Hubb telescope (although I don't own the last 2 of mentioned items, as yet, nor a bicycle).

However, being called to take part in a meeting of any kind – be it a gardening association, or even the UN assembly (the most hateful are briefings and/or trade union election meetings, although other ones also cause a sharp drop or rise in my blood pressure, while my urinary system lives thru the peak of its activity) – I evaporate at once making my excuses up about the need to get rid of the superfluity.

It was precisely this restlessness that served the stumbling block bigger than the boulder before the long-maned mare of the knight in the V. Vasnetsov's painting. The poor beast is at a loss which way to go around it: right or left? Same case in my relations with science which is unable to progress on without get-togethers. That circumstance brought our relations to absolute standstill.

Why, there are all those symposiums, conferences, meetings, and reports, not to mention colloquiums and face-to-face confrontations… Or whatchamacallit? Well, anyway…

Let's consider a perfectly plausible case: I arrive in Stockholm to collect my Nobel Prize for quantum mechanical achievements and – welcome in for a rude surprise! – it turns out I also have to sit through the awards ceremony!

But have you inquired about my restlessness? Would it stomach it?

Hence, the entirely predictable final: sorry, humanity. Too bad you’re left without ground-breaking discoveries, but even for the sake of your upcoming merge with Artificial Intelligence, self-raping is not my cup of tea.

I am what I am, and that's what I'll stay. Ass stubbornness? Call it to your personal liking. I am damned if it’ll fix it.

Sehrgueys are hard as nails critters. The funeral boat, supposed to take the body of one of them along with the flow, floated upstream, contrary to the mutual expectations. Although, at that time, science hadn't even considered the possibility of outboard motors.

(Note to new parents: choose your newborn's name carefully, lest you lament when it’s too late, ‘Oh! What an ungovernable kid!’ Biting your own elbows is a poor snack – I share that as a well-meaning professional.)

. . .

d). Find yourself and pass the steer wheel to the foundling

And if anyone has read this far and thought to themselves, with an experienced sleuth sneer, ‘Clear as day, here we’ll have crying shame upon the education system,’ then, with your foresight, you’d better forsake gambling, dear Dr. Whatson.

I won't grab with my wrathful hand the scruff of the system which formats us not because of its being flawless and chaste – far from that! That whore has been screwed by everyone in every possible form of positioning – but because I feel a poignant pity for her. And now, filled with compassion up to my neck, I have just one word to utter: ‘Ehh!’ And those that follow are just interjections, not utterly obscene, but full of overt passion. ‘Off with you! Go have a rest, you slut, until the next reform…‘

As a self-bred gentleman, I’ve got no intention of digging deeper in the subject, firmly stop at where my ramblings along the spiral-like net of roundabout paths of reasoning has finally led up to.

Yep, my dear, you are to enter! It’s your turn, sweetie – the dessert’s being saved for the end.

Hats off, gentlemen! This isn't a harlot of the demimonde, but the peerless Lady Fiction herself!

I foresee everything – the wry grin of anyone who happened to rub elbows with me (slightly, the luckiest of them): ‘What could the guy have in common with literary matters?’; the condescending: ‘The insolence of the lout! He dares call himself a writer!’ – from the chicken farm of haughty Laureate-Nominees; and the: ‘Nimble fellow!’ – from the conveyor line of slipslop caterers; and: ‘Fucking mother-fucking-fucker!’ – from the counter-culture shit-shovellers.

What kind of writer am I?

There's no point in evasive jinks – I simply have no idea! Sometimes I like myself, sometimes I don't, depending on the dose of impression from the lines and, perhaps, on the time of day.

Yes, I stay in the dark; no one has really told me who I resemble or where I'm heading to. But my firm belief is that writers aren't born, they're DIY products.

At the same time, I don't deny the possible grains of truth in the assessments by my (up to this day) absent critics, pampered in the dynastic shadow of their family trees, and likewise absent critics from noisy dives.

Anyone and everyone can both be right, if they're lucky enough to pop up in the right place at the right time. But what pathetic fools are those trying to stake out both their right and their place, for all upcoming terms. And there still are some so completely insane! Stop staking time, buddy!

But you, citizen, don't hiccup about here with your loyal spleen. My innocent gossip concerns Muammar Gaddafi. As of yet.

Although their fate is cloned from each other’s – a sewer hole comprising the former both czar and god, turned rat food. The sorry fool is done …

And secondly, what else can I do if my heart isn't in angling, either with a rod or a jig? And besides, I don't really root for Real, Manchester, or any of the local footballers. What can I do? (Damn, I think I've heard that phrase before. Are they plagiarising me?)

Here is the straightforward answer: you're destined for the literary world, my boy. Amen.

But then again a tricky question: ‘Why?’

‘You're asking “why”? Comrades! Here a citizen is asking “why!"’

(‘Couldn't resist it, huh? Stole a line from Dovlatov!’

‘Well, saint father! That's what the great are for, so that we, mean sinners, have someone’s shoulders to stand upon!’)

‘Why’ is, of course, a legit question.

Yes, I won't hide it, there was time for me to burn with envy of the demigods having the Writers' Union badges. I did dream of living off the proceeds from the sales of my books published somewhere, by someone.

However, I gave up on that hooey (it's impossible to describe how readily the nonsense died out!) and now I write for personal pleasure. The produced books are published online for everyone to enjoy for free.

True, the Litres stamps then with the arithmetic enigmatic mark of ‘18+’, while at abroad platforms they decipher it into ‘content for adults’.

So, good night, little ones! My books will never become tools for to Alzheimerize your grannies. I and my pen is not involved in production of formatting traps for younger generations.

Yes, I write for pleasure, especially since I have a gap in my biography – I haven't mastered self-masturbation, despite Italian cinema and Hollywood persistent recommendations and promoting efforts. Well, I don't know, maybe I'm just not the right person to fill my spare time with fashionable trends.

This is where we at long last, yet nonetheless arrive in for the final question in this here dissertation: How to write?

For a quick and dirty visual response view another painting, this time by I. Repin called – Barge Haulers on the Volga, full of tension, sweat and loud farts.

The verbal answer is pretty vast, I won't be able to outpour it before the power goes out (due to the blockade, electricity is supplied in spurts of 3-hour duration, to ensure a more harmonious way of life), so I hope to examine it under the next letter in this undercover preface, in the guise of Prologue.

. . .

e). Welcome My Cat Out Of The Bag, Please!

Blessed we are having a chance to live at so enviable time.

‘Happy’s who comes to this world

at its fateful moments…‘

The world has shifted, globally. Countless streams of refugees tread along the roads on this planet, assisting to spin it about the axis. Chaos and snafu take turns at the rudder.

Yet, there can still be found spots connecting peoples as well as persons. One of such contact points is proza.ru, to which I bow low and shout ‘Long live!’.

The meeting place with the compatriots dear to my heart… er… I mean, sorry… It’s where I spread it too thick… on proza.ru I can’t see anyone qualified for being my compatriot.

Yes, the majority of us share the mutual historical past. In the same khakied columns, our ancestors marched on their long treks to the front lines, to the extermination camps, and to the demonstrations on May Day, and the day of Great October Revolution.

They knocked on each other to the murderer-investigators at NKVD, lined each other over the pits and against the walls for executions en masse.

The same chromosome has been added to our genes, useful for composing ‘bullshit’ reports and bribing the auditors from ‘above’. More than anyone, and much deeper, we were moved by N. Khrushchev's memorable address to the UN General Assembly —

… and then the good fellow hero, took his shoe off his to drum with its heel on the polished podium, shrieking, ‘I'll show you Kuzma's mother!’

That’s when the synchronous interpreters had to scratch their poor heads!

(A note for the generation M eggheads: Nikita the hero was the head of the Soviet Union. A genius accomplished! Even when fighting a severe hangover. At one of such matches he promised the USSR population to enter the paradise of communism in exactly 20 years. Another of his brushes with the same opponent saw the birth of his famous slogan, ‘US will be caught up and surpassed by us!’).

After the USSR collapsed, and fate scattered us across the far-flung remainders of the indestructible Union, I had no compatriots left, only fellow language users writing on proza.ru, each to the best of their familiarity with the grammar rules and spelling.

It is to them, my dear fellow LU with their acutely pronounced graphomaniac addiction, that my question is addressed:

How should I write? Eh?

‘Write’ as not tapping away at the poor thing, aka keyboard, with 2 fingers to reach the glorious EOF, but in terms of quality – how?

So that it shoot thru me in a hot wave to reach right down to my heels, to extort, on the way, a scream of self-admiration: ‘Oh, what a son of a gun! You did it!’ That's the kind of crap I want!

No, well, of course, it's all fine and dandy these days: the gaudy certificates, diplomas, master classes, and webinars. However, compatriots with a keen understanding of the subject won't buy into candy wrappers, we are not to get hooked on cake – it stirs our winds.

I think (even if rarely, but then for a long period) that a forum-like approach and a voluntary exchange of experience are needed here.

Everyone has their hard-won trick discovered in the process of their literary work, a gimmick that simply works!

And with this, like, preface, in my right mind and in sober (as yet) memory, I lay the cornerstone of a free distribution of know-how, accumulated while writing. It is called for assistance to the folks in love with writing: how to write so that you won't be ashamed later.

There are different approaches to the task: sober, drunk, muscular-motor…

(The third method is when such a motor takes a pen and a stack of A4 paper bought for the purpose, and starts scribbling, without even looking at what exactly he's writing there. No plan, no system, not to mention a plot. The muscles, he says, will figure it out themselves, and his task is to train himself and plunge into a state of ‘automatism’ (which term, by the way, is a shorter name for this approach).

The next morning, the writer checks what he's scribbled when his hand, equipped with a pen, danced independently over the sheets of unlined paper. Similar to figure skating performed by a pair (hand + pen) of doped-up sleepwalkers.

A close look – shit! He's churned out the fourth volume of ‘War and Peace’ in one night! Oh, my! The fourth volume, for the fourth time in one calendar month!

But what else could you expect letting things drift uncontrollably?)

I'll disappoint you right away – the tricks of such kind don't work for me, I’m forced to resort to ‘hand training’.

The idea itself was stolen from a venerable writer of the stagnation period.

He shared (I'm not revealing the guy’s name out of humane motives, but if you have any questions, send me a private message): ‘Chekhov taught me the craft. I put his stories in front of me and just copied them, line by line.’

And although Chekhov didn't bother to make him Chairman of the Writers' Union (it's his own fault; he should have modeled himself on Comrade Sholokhov who did embrace the post), the copyist, nevertheless, rose to the rank of head of the war fiction department.

What is the kernel of his truth?

The chances of getting a leg up increase significantly when you follow someone's back, step by step – your mug is saved slaps from blasts of the wind…

And now the last layers of my circular pacing have been stripped away, all that remains is to sort things out and openly proclaim – who namely will be taken for the model in production of the following fiction, when I will finally shut up with this, like, Prologue which I still can't wind up.

The delicacy of the question is on a par to its importancy.

However, first, another digression:

To just copy line after line (from whom, my naive friend?) is definitely stupid. It will be easier for me to goofily pick up a book and sillily go on with the translation.

And again the question: who?

Agreed, after translating Joyce and Pynchon, taking some 50 Shades of Harry Potter or the like shit would be…

Theoretically, a possible turn, yet, practically speaking, I'll fall asleep earlier than halfway through a page.

Oh, come what may! It's decided! I'm taking on this one The Algorithm of Chaos recently published on Smashwords. Besides, the author, personally, inspires confidence in me, while the Litres platform are, as usual, taking their time at moderating; it's in their DNA…

Off we go!

The link to the ready product will be posted on proza.ru, in the hope for a whiff of criticism.

(I know, I know, I know the result beforehand, but, still and yet, I have to retain my title in the naivety championship.)

2023-05-03

1. Can A Man Bear Monthly Whimper?

The grim croaks of buzzing Viber as always sent Vit’s train of thoughts to an unknown destination somewhere in stressful life of cavemen at the Stone Age. Those ‘zndyz-dvyn’ sounds were vividly restoring a nest of pterodactyl chicks pipping thru their eggshells.

However, Vit never rushed to join the fuss and hassle in flashy trends. There are buffs starting to fumble with electronic gimmicks before those are fully out of the wrappings, you know. The factory settings in his appliances and gizmos mostly suffered no tweaks.

(In this straightforward way we’ve introduced to you the protagonist of our story. Hopefully, you’ve liked the name. Besides, certain information on his characteristic features was also leaked. Stealthily.

What? How can the main hero be as unadventurous as that? I dunno. Yet, there are chances for him to improve and reform before the happy end.

Anyway, the outcome traditionally stays in the lap of gods. Vit may choose to set a trendier ringtone. We will see.

Still and yet, what makes him refrain from adjusting the things adjusted by lots of good guys? Hey! But it’s a good opportunity to play quick sweepstakes! Is it his laziness or aloofness? Place your bets, dudes. It’s 50/50 as yet.)

Settings from the manufacturer, simple grub out his ancient microwave made in the age of… which one came after the Stone one? Well, whatever… unpretentious blondes – he's not overly picky.

No, Vit doesn't put his nose up in the air like a cool tweak connoisseurs do. He couldn't care less about trends among the troop of advanced assholes. They'd buzz and go over to something else, a week or so newer. At least in its wrappings…

He picked up his Samsung and tapped «answer».

The screen got fully filled with a wide pancake of a face. Of course, the delicacy’s supposed to be round, but this one turned pronouncedly rectangular, it didn't fit.

The caller, so was his constant practice, held the phone way too close to the oversized face. Almost touching, like a hankie readied to catch a rolling out sneeze. Yesterday, there obviously were some dreadful drafts someplace…

‘Apch! Apch! Chhoo!’

Blessed with so generous a gift from benevolent Mother Nature (or was it God planned to share it between seven, yet, accidentally all went to only one?)

The guy could have long ago become a comedy megastar. Equipped for the career much more fitfully than Mr. Beam.

Or Boom? But definitely not Bam… but then… hmm…

Yep, Vit gave up on movies a long-long time ago…

It’s absurdly ridiculous – a guy shy of his unraveled asset! The 2 more pancakes, smaller in size, rigidly athwart to the caller’s skull. His pair of ears.

‘Dumb ass! Still feeling shy? Stuck with the teenage phase of growth. Having the trump suit cards like yours, one would have easily run for president and win by a landslide. What an amazing image! The ears so attentive, rounded, full of kind care. Slap them on your campaign poster – the bomb! 'We do hear the electorate!'– and the election’s won without fumbling with the ballot boxes. A fair play.’

Vit didn't share any bit of that with the guy in the Samsung screen. The mute comments under the moving pancake picture were his private thoughts.

On the whole, this here Vit is a rather taciturn cat, which feature characterizes him not only in the framework of the current narration but in his life too. What concerns the social sphere of life in general, there are firmly founded indications that he has none, and I suspect that Vit doesn’t participate in general elections, never votes in referendums nor partakes in rallies. And all that’s too bad, of course, but then it’s one of his rights. It should be standing somewhere within the scroll of human rights. Just like him, I’ve never opened the charter but it, presumably, does exist or else how come I hear that word collocation so too often?

Now, coming to his private life, I can tell none also. Firstly, it’s not moral to rummage in other guy’s underwear and their idiosyncratic kinks. Secondly I know nothing except his being a man in his prime, single, and not in love with the sounds of his own voice. See?

For that reason the guy hiding his ears outside Vit’s Samsung hasn’t also heard that Vit is not a shaman. And he doesn’t hire himself out as a healer of anyone's psychological trauma.

Even though he knows a remedy or two for the problems caused by a protracted virginity (from the standpoint of a society long driven mad by the tyranny of the market and the political demands for willingness to be happy with anything suggested by the guys who certainly know just because they should know everything).

However, the role of the biblical voice in the wilderness of the loneliness surrounding him did not appeal to Vit. Not at all. So he just said out loud, in a calm tone of voice:

‘What's up, Lex?’

‘Hey, Vit. Still working your ass off? Your rosy dreams to rip a green benjamin off prozzza.net, right? Dude, you are indeed a slow learner. Typing away a ton of crap a day for nothing. Forget it, bro! They only share likes to the members of their own mob, and get the bill in turns. You're not an uncle to them neither a cuz. Do you really need it? Why ramming the shell of that Qua Klux Clam?’

‘I don't give a damn about any prose mob, mind you. And both two cents or a sack of shekels will never be the objective. I use the site as a tool to hone my skills and personal style. You can’t deny, this Monthly Challenge with a $100 prize carrot serves a good incentive to break through the usual writer's block: "Half kingdom for a plot! All of the subjects are exhausted. Oh weh, a priori!" While at prozzza.net, there's no time to lament. Get your "whachabaut" and saddle up, quill riders! Bucks go to who gets the most likes. Time flows, it’s a month minus today already!"’

Stop straining yourself and clickety-click the keyboard to pieces. Tell me, how much presidents have you collected so far from these monthly runs? You spend more green on doping than that entire prize can cover.’

‘Well… a couple of times, I got position 20 at the finish.’

‘Hippety-hoppity! That’s the homeboy! So, at the start, you were 20 whippets, right?’

‘Not my fault… See, the audience is different. They think in terms of Disneyland and Steve King, any move beyond the comics plane spells a bummer. That’s why every like from over there spills a ray of hope. We can understand each other after all. Over the barriers of prejudice and idiocy inoculated into both them and us.’

‘Here, here! A standing ovation! The best speaker I’ve ever listened to! Yes, sir, in all my life! My guess is that well-off psycho patients are allowed there to graze in the internet vistas. That’s where your sorry couple of likes come from. Or maybe from a nursing home. But definitely keep hanging out there with them, bro. Moreover, it’s principles at stake. They matter, not the bucks, eh? And then: what's there in a $100 bill? It won't kick around in your pocket for any longer than the very first ownerless blonde in your way.’

‘Would you kindly shut up your sermon fire hose, Padre?’

‘Well, now, Vit, I've got a friendly offer coming up. The kind you can't reject even while rock’n’rolling in Saint Vitus dance. A fucking gold mine, oil fields that will have BP and Shell ripping hair from each other's scalp to get the right of sucking your dick for a good-night. A lullaby with elements of improvised jazz, okay? You get the beat?’

‘What hooey is this? Drilling my private parts with rigs? Oh, fuck off!’

‘Come on, man! I was just putting it metaphorically… The point is, the like opportunity comes along only once in a lifetime, if ever.’

‘Yeah. I got it. After sampling some metaphorical shit from that gold mine, you’ve got on high… Still don’t forget yourself and keep in mind – I'm a celibate.’

‘Since when?’

‘Okay, call me tomorrow morning, when you feel better.’

‘Wait, wait! I'm not kidding! There’s some business to discuss!’

‘Talk business then and don't wind things up like a startup pimp.’

‘Look, there's that story… well… the material… It'll make you famous, Vit! Overnight! You'll have as great a name as Pynchon, Joyce, Hemingway!’

‘And who was that guy in the end?’

‘Hemingway? I am damned if I know. Yet, my ex-girlfriend drenched his book with tears once a month. Regularly.’

‘Girls and books are polar things, they don’t go together, so don't push it! Maybe, a couple centuries before… But mankind has long since forgotten those days… Anyway… So, you got jealous and remembered the guy’s name, right?’

‘A girl from the virginal hinterland can keep a surprise or two up her sleeve, believe me, cuz… In short, the file I put my paws on contains something that will shutter the whole world in less than 3 days. All that remains is to edit it, sign with your name, and wake up great the next morning. Yummy enough, eh?’

‘Okay. Just to save you from overdosing on your own junk. Drop that file to my email.’

‘Forget it, handsome. I never have nothing to do with emails.’

Which is genuine truth. Lex is completely obsessed with personal data security. Stuck in his ways on that point. Irrevocably. It takes an entire week to convince him to send you a "hi-bye" including the link http://:sweet-grandmother/tales-for-grandchildren/charle-perrault.html.

And yet, at the very last flash, he'll definitely have the jitters. Probably, because of his position with some obscure Office that works for the government.

A set of squat buildings, behind a high chain-link fence. CCTV cameras on each pole. Sullen Rottweilers walk their handlers three times a day, around the parking lot perimeter.

The surest way to get a break from Lex’s usual endless chirping is to ask: how his working day was. And that's it. You won't hear a tiny peep from him for at least ten minutes. He's absolutely not there for the stretch. Reserved, gloomy, quiet…

Impressed, undoubtedly, by the fate of a Jewish couple who also worked for the government before they got electrocuted for leaking A-bomb production plans and formulas to the SU.

‘Come on, it was a gag. Don't wet your bed tonight. Everything will be fine, kiddo. There, there. Which flavor ice-cream you want?’

‘How about 2 at Uncle Tom's Cabin? Are you comfortable?’

Even big-shot billionaire guys can’t say ‘no’ to a buddy.

True, one crowned slut, a nymphomaniac perched on the Russian Empire throne, canvassed for keeping enemies closer than the most trusted of your friends.

So that you could sense the slightest stir in their souls, thoughts, intentions, and anything else that could get up, so she said.

A dumb bitch, albeit spiced with cunning. It's friends you need to keep an eye on, 24/7. Your friends know your weak spots better than you do. These guys won't miss, O, no. You won’t recover after their pointed hits. Never ever…

‘Ah! And you, Brutus!..’

Yep, you moron! Don’t look for better hands when in need to pass away urgently and cheaply. Rest in peace, you fucking idiot.

‘Seems fine to me,’ responded Vit.

2. A Cozy Nook For A Lecture

Despite the establishment’s name, no one had ever even seen Tom at the Cabin, but the fact hardly keyed up any щаеру restaurant patrons. Even the absence of his both nephews and nieces was accepted by the regulars with a seemly composure, no jitters at all.

The Cabin’s owner, Madame Harriet, for all her undeniably advanced age, retained a caustic bitchiness and the light-speed reflexes of a rattlesnake.

Not a single gunslinger in the wildest parts of lawless Old West would ever hold a candle to her, if you benchmark the milliseconds it takes the duellists to draw their weapons.

True, instead of a hefty six-shooter, the old woman kept a can of lachrymator in the lace pocket of her apron. Such armament turned the traditional baseball bat under the bar into a relic, ridiculous comically outdated.

(According to a survey by Fyrbes magazine, in the Half-Wild West, bartenders working for the Russian mafia favored gorodki bats in their under-the-bar arsenal.)

The use of tear gas aerosols eliminated the bouncer's job on the establishment's payroll.

With a mixture of emphatic grunts and rattling clicks of her tongue, this old viper disgustedly grabbed the tamed hooligan by the ear with two fingers, and personally led him out the door to point her victim the direction of the nearest water pump.

Like, she's all so soft and fluffy a dandelion. And like, the poor wretch could see a thing through the streams of tears and snot smeared all over his face.

Then she would crawl into the kitchen, this underhanded cobra, as if to get her hands washed, for hygiene's sake, but in reality – collect her usual share of fawning compliments from her subordinates…

During the day, Uncle Tom's Cabin was a cozy dining room to match the hint of family in its sign, but in the evening it transformed into a restaurant with a well-deserved reputation, because Madame Harriet kept excellent cooks and chefs.

(Without going into racist, sordid details – we're not hack writers for the Black Hundred’s fanatics – let's just briefly note that, yes, of course, the chef's skin color was appropriate ‘cause, after all, it was Uncle Tom's Cabin.

Excellent food, coupled with the enveloping, pleasant atmosphere of an old-world Southern manor: Virginia, Alabama, Georgia, which is Georgia on my mind…

However, not along with Ray Charles's enraged roar, but in the classic version of this twice-winning song of the year (1930 and 1953), as performed by the lead singer in the band of the gypsy virtuoso Django, aka Sultan, well, you know what I mean…

So, if you get the chance, visit the place, even though that bitch with her pocket sprays doesn't pay me a dime for advertising and/or word of mouth.

She might treat you for your PR efforts to tea once every six months, no oftener. And even then, no sugar to it, the stingy little gastropod!..

. . .

Taking a seat in the corner compartment, Vit leaned back against the thick upholstery, promising everyone who leaned against it the peace and serenity of a pleasant rest. And if not right now, when you’re too uptight to get the hint, then someday, but it definitely would. At least, that's the kind of thoughts inspired in anyone by it, this upholstery.

His hand stretched casually along the top of the backrest, stroking with his fingertips the leather of the color of… well, the leather in the upholstery perfectly matched the spirit of the interior.

Fortunately for those who’s too quick to get tired with following the casual flow of thoughts on any subject whatsoever, in the manner which they had flowed in during the opening passage, Lex's plump figure appeared thru the entrance. Good timing…

The awe-inspiring asset of ‘Mr. Ears of the Year’ left no place for doubts… However, enough of friendly teasing, the guy had other features too.

His double chin bulged languidly over the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. His jacket, removed, was thrown over, or rather hung from his left shoulder, draping the left side of his slowly approaching torso.

One might say it was hanging over provocatively – without a lunge or any support, even though Lex's rounded shoulder had no hooks to catch a hold. Not every jacket would dare strike such a relaxed, yet at the same time, risky pose.

On the other hand, hanging from that extremely unorthodox point gave the garment an air of dashing recklessness, if viewed from the side. Hanging like this, the jacket imparted to Lex's ample bulk a hint of the possibility of standing upright at full height, if need be to hide his stoop… if need be.

Overall, Vit's buddy looked dashing, reminiscent of a hussar from the Tsarist army in the dress uniform, into which the shock troops could only slip one arm through one sleeve, the other had to hang loose. (Can you visualize? The entire personnel of this branch of the military, every single one of them, wearing their uniform the same way, even the lefties… And what the hell could you do? These are elite troops in the service of the Emperor Magesty, dammit, and violating dress code is unacceptable.

And that half-put-on piece of crap was called ‘mentik’ (apologies to the undersize police officers in Russia, but the term wasn’t invented by me).

Yet, look at Lex! This daredevil even outdid the hussars, leaving both sleeves hanging empty! Notwithstanding that he doesn't have a mustache, so dear to the hearts of true cavalrymen and pedestrians with bandit bent in their subconscious…

‘Tell me, my friend,’ Lex said, finally finishing his ceremonial parade and throwing his jacket over the back of the long two-seater seat opposite Vit, to plop down wearily next to it (the gutsy jacket, if you like).

‘Why are Messrs. Pretty Boys so predictable? Half a block before the Cabin, I knew you'd be sitting in the corner. It doesn't matter if it's right or left: a corner is a corner. But why?’

‘To give the rabble a chance to admire a truly cool guy, I guess,’ Vit suggested.

‘O, really? And here I thought you valued the corner as a vantage point, to immediately thwart the arrival of a new cool guy. Some upstart who showed up to conduct a timing exercise – are you really that quick to draw your gun? Could that be the reason?’

‘The question “why” opens the floodgates to at least two zettabytes of all sorts of assumptions, and each of them is perfectly acceptable,’ Vit replied gloomily, like a teacher tired of treading water for the idiots.

‘O, my! A nightmare! A good news, there’s no shooting on the premises… However, let's get back to the file I grabbed, a bit, abusing my official position. Essentially, the file is something like a receipt book…’

‘Shut up! Was there a brick landing on your head? Are you out of your mind? Or a barking mad of no return? You're smashed, my friend! Loaded to the brim, personal protection gone with the wind! What if I’m wired? A sensitive microphone in my pocket? For your information: anything you say can be used against you and your doomed ass!’

Lex shook his head contemptuously:

‘Forget that bullshit, dude, it's outdated. No records count anymore, not even the confessions of the scumbag. The world moves on. Thanks to the constant science progress, my lawyer will easily prove that you simply fell for my prank. After all, your clueing in is just empty words, and even with my authentic voice, you cannot prove the malicious intent.

Rise and shine, buddy! This is the age of two-factor authentication! No court will consider a case based on words, without well-documented thoughts where I plan to pull this off. Or thoughts popping up later, as the crime unfolds. No, my dear, mere actions – in absence of two-factor authentication thereof – are no longer evidence. Even when you’re caught with a smoking gun over a riddled body, or with your pants down in front of a kindergarten class. It doesn't matter. You were the victim of manipulation, framed through retroactively falsifying causality. Yes, sir. A mocking trick perpetrated by your own sister's great-grandchildren. In revenge for not giving that idiot, that sister, candy at the age of three. And she went and cried on a video which those buggers, her future descendants, will find in the attic of their great-grandmother's house. Now, what? Have you got the drift? A crime is only what's confirmed through 2FA; anything else eschews punishment.’

‘So, if they hack my email inbox with your proposal to assassinate the president, but there's no recording of your wild thought: "Why not sendimg this crap to Vit?", they can't find fault with you?’

‘Exactly! In that scenario, I'm as clean as a 22-year-old baby of a multinational corporation owner! And let the hackers fuck each other in your inbox. Pardon my Etruscan.’

‘So that's why you didn't send me the file?’

‘The file in your inbox, plus the recording of my thought, when I was sending it, will completely incriminate me. Is so hard to grasp what 1 + 1 is?

‘Recording thoughts? Do you ever get rid of a hangover, at least occasionally?’

‘Dude, that's exactly what I do at my job. Not about the hangover though, but in regard to the thought records. Ever heard of the noosphere?’

‘?’ Shrugged Vit’s shoulders.

‘As it turns out, besides the atmosphere and/or stratosphere, they've already dug up another one – the noosphere. The thing consists of the thoughts of everyone who can think. Any thoughts, even the most secret, float openly within it, like radio waves.

But the analogy is flawed, since radio signals tend to fade, while our thoughts become part of the noosphere forever. Inextinguishable, indelible, open. True, the technology isn't perfect yet, but the threshold has been passed over, and the rest is just a matter of time. Theoretically, you could tune in and read the thoughts of, say, Leonardo when he was painting his Mona Lisa.’

‘What about your daddy's thoughts when he ejaculated you from his balls with a horde of sperm identical to you, but not as nimble?’

‘That'll be a real challenge. We need to isolate his thoughts from those of other men in the identical process. Subtract the large apes in zoos around the world and in the wild. The dodgers ignored evolution so as not to get cinched to the mutual slaving. The countless twins-like thoughts that accompany orgasm over the past five million years have covered the earth in layers – from sea level to the heights of Mount Everest. We'll need to bring in Artificial Intelligence for a proper analysis, but in principle, the task is solvable.’

‘That's crazy! Legends, myths, and the fairy-tales by the Alcoholics Anonymous group in Ward Number Six!’

‘I understand, the idea should seem as unfamiliar as mobile communications if you showed it to Genghis Khan's great-grandmother. But folks quickly get the hang of things. What? The noosphere? Just another wrapping around the same okd globe. Packed with thoughts, like the atmosphere with oxygen atoms.

Have you ever seen a sole oxygen atom? No, but you breathe them in.

A flood of thoughts: clearly formulated, unfinished, lost halfway thru, picked up anew – thoughts, thoughts, thoughts, thoughts.

‘Isn't it over-crammed there?’

‘In your head?’

‘No, in that noosphere. The starting pistol shot was obviously served by the incantation 'Let there be light!', and since then they've managed to think and rethink so many things that all the dumps, warehouses, and storage facilities have been since long left under the immense surface of the swelling flood.’

‘Looks like you're beginning to see the light, my dear friend, which is a good omen. However, you're still using the naive square-nest approach.

From that perspective – yes, it must be crammed, for all the thoughts that have emerged over the course of even a single individual's evolution, from 'Where's Mom? I want a tit and pee-pee!' up to 'Fucking nurse! I need the bedpan! Where’s she? Now, I'll just pee in my pajamas to spite her!’

They are born, but they don't disappear – millions, billions, gazillions of thoughts. Every moment. Malthus's grim admonition works on them like a stop sign on a hare, no better. Moreover, there are well-founded suspicions that all living things think – from single-celled organisms to stalagmites. Add those to the pile…

But! They're intangible, flowing through each other, one within another, no matter whose. Thought within thought! Deep, nulti-repeated implantation. More powerful than radio waves, stray quanta, and all that crap that normal dudes can't even fathom. Gettimg the idea, student? Start cramming for the test now.’

‘Well, if they're so intangible, I'm not really bothered by their Gulf Streams and Maelstroms, nested like nested dolls, one within the other, or wherever else they choose to cluster.’

‘Everywhere, buddy! In you, in me, in this very table. Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts, thoughts…’

‘You've distorted the quote. In the original, Hamlet says: "…words, words… " and so on.’

‘Words can't be stored. They're too fragile, often misquoted, broken, forgotten, lost forever. Thoughts are quite different matter; they're always there. As part of the noosphere.’

‘Thanks for the fascinating story, but as a seasoned country bumpkin, I only believe in what I can touch.’

‘And how many times have you touched a radio wave?’

‘Never had the chance. But I can turn on the radio my dad made back in the last millennium and listen to the weather forecast.’

‘The announcers read, and you, your mouth a-gaping, believe in the movement of clouds you can't touch. By the way, there are guys who make a good living reading thoughts.’

‘Oh, come on! Not a single psychic has ever managed to fool the commission from the Institute of Paranormal Phenomena.’

‘What do psychics have to do with this? I'm talking about the guys who work with me at the same lab. You just turn the dial to tune to thoughts in the noosphere, that's all.’

‘Like a radio?’

‘Kind of.’

Vit looked at his friend more closely.

To pull off such an elaborate rigmarole, you'd need a serious boost. But no – the eyes were still there, without that inspired glassy glare. And no circles, from blue to purple-red… And no nose sniffling out of inertia…

(Well, my friend, this all is not performed on drugs, he's doing it in real life. And he's doing it better than Newton himself, can you believe it? Or is it really Sir Isaac?)

‘Okay… Let's say…’ Vit began thoughtfully, ‘that this isn't a scam, planted by hostile aliens from Tau Ceti, like a trivial Trojan Horse trick. But I can't even remotely imagine…’

‘Are you willing to give up twenty years of your precious life,’ Lex interrupted, ‘to even remotely comprehend this crap? It's a pretty damn complex area of science to grasp. And underneath all this fundamental brain-twiddling, they've slapped on some kind of immutable Chaos Algorithm.’

3. The Meanest Breakage A Jiffy Before Bliss!

The waitress, Sally, approached their table. This fact was announced by the badge on her delightful left breast, over her dazzling white blouse.

(To avoid confusion for those who skim read, like me, when tired and not concentrating properly, it's worth emphasizing that it was the badge over the blouse, and not any other object of the mentioned in the same sentence.)

Abiding by his usual pattern of dealing with female staff – (regardless whether she happened at a public institution or was employed in the private sector (even the time of day had no effect on this deep-embedded well-developed reflex)), Vit deftly intercepted the involuntary signals transmitted from somewhere in her subconscious.

All sorts of "weather balloons", you know, spontaneous launches of which the person used as the “launch pad” stays unaware having no idea nor even the slightest clue of. The sigals may emanate in various forms: like a trembling gaze mixed with winks, both singles and doublets, or the stuck out lips for a deliberately slow run of the tongue. At the finish (in the corner between the two) it will hang languidly out reachimg for… (well, the sizes vary, you know), as if forgotten there, absentmindedly…

Take a breath… Relax… But who knows! The darn subconscious has countless impulses; you can’t guess where they'll hit you from… but, as always, below the belt.

Who needs phonetics and spelling? Why cramming divers Duolingoes? Be it for free, or even with a paid tutor. All that’s only a guileful veil to obscure the body language. The truest one. The richest… Especially when speaks the body like by this smart-aleck millennial, this here Sally with the badge pinned on her blouse on the left. It surely has the right to freedom of self-expression, in the fullest measure, daring all restrictions.

Even for representatives of earlier generations, branded with capital P's or M's, in their constant state of anxiety, worn out by long-term exploitation both self-inflicted and in regard to others, there always was a corner of sympathy, empathy, and of all the other synonyms for "compassion" in the large, always-ready, warm heart of a gallant knight and brave gentleman – that of Vit.

More than that! Even for an elderly lady whose virginity coincided with the antics of long-forgotten beatniks, he could easily rewind back some 60 years and sincerely admire the high step tempo of strong legs, clad in tight nylon – chic black stockings with thin arrow-straight seam climbing the whole back of the leg up from the heel. The two latest fashion critters squeak slightly as she runs, rub in between her heated thighs – well, don't rush too much, you'll be on time, everything will go fine, and he will certainly wait, lighting one cigarette from another, his Lucky Strike, and it will become the most luxurious date of a lifetime! Yes! Complete chic and glitter! To the point of dizziness! Until late at night and the following pre-dawn twilight pouring into the interior of the most luxurious of Ford models (Crestline Victoria)… on overturned seats! Ah! Baby! Oh! Oh! More! …mmm… oh, Tommy, darling… – and he smiled sadly, with the same understanding empathy, following her silly brimless hat and the skinny feather sticking out of the gathered veil that fluttered in time with the skipping that could not be kept back… she’s running… over there… too far away to hear him…

. . .

By nature (not to just show off, but simply deep inside), he's a womanizer, in love with all the women in the world, both individually and en masse. And he's ready to go on loving, relentlessly and not brazenly ("take it or leave it!" isn't his style, no), but with a gentlemanly, chivalrous laziness: yes?—fine, no?—couldn’t be better. He doesn't overdo in pressing for it, as also he does not in regard to other matters: like a calm complacent donkey, he does not protest when they sit upon him, but whether he’d carry them remains a moot question.

In short, our friend Vit is a ladies' man and a benevolent sociopath.

As for the rest of the (motley enough) spectrum of those fighting for the emancipation of anything in sight, including non-traditional preferences, which never were his hunting grounds, he doesn't go to extremes, no; keeping to equanimity is an ace in his deck of principles. He can only shrug his shoulders without comment (oftener with just his left one, laziness makes you frugal in moving your bones): well, to each his own, and let everyone manage their own affairs, but his (it's worth repeating) worldview has always been and will always be based on the principles of:

– non-interference,

– respect for the right to self-determination, and

– the inviolability of borders, in everyday life and on the international stage…

Yes, they're pathetic and, as a rule, coyly overact, but overall, it's a quiet mob; communicating with the guys without contact is piece of cake…

Yes, they can't swear and don't grasp the vitality of words, and immediately lapse into melodrama. But then, who's without flaws?

There’s no denying, tastes of any kind come from Nature (or the prevailing fashion trend), and in that case, what's going to be, is going to be, right?

Although sometimes you can’t curb pity for Her creatures, who foolishly lock a cool car in the garage. And this glossy artifact of sophisticated engineering thought is gathering dust there forever because Mother Fucking Nature forced them behind the wheel of a jalopy piece of crap. And there's nothing you can do about it, ‘cause Mommy knows better, and out of tolerance, we'll omit scrutiny of tastes.

If Lada Kalina is sweeter to them, let them get high with cans on wheels. Darn gourmets.

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