Theodor Ventskevich - Buy or Die. There cometh a time of ruthless advertising

Toy was silent.

“You should visit a psychoanalyst more often,” he said finally. “Remember my word, citizen, these dogs won’t make you well. Unfortunately, your unhealthy love for animals will not be a surprise for the authorities. I see no point in informing them again.”

“Again?”

“Actually,” Toy replied calmly, “I have reported three…”

There was a barely audible click.

“… three percent discount for umbrellas today in honor of the birthday of the senior cashier in the ‘Bears and the Bees’ shop right near your home.”

Toy choked and coughed.

“Three times.”

He sighed.

“I hoped they would at least forbid you from carrying that hairy stuff with a tail in the back seat!”

He sighed again.

“How naive I was! Just see what I am carrying now!”

“Are you finally done?” asked Z wearily.

“Yes.”

“Great. Then take me to the doctor.”

“Leave me alone, eh?” requested citizen Y334XT, or simply Y, pulling the blanket back over his head.

“Boom-boom-bam-boom bam-bam-boom bam-boom bam-boom-bam boom bam bam-boom-bam, boom boom-boom-boom, bam-bam-bam bam bam-bam-bam-boom bam boom-bam, boom-bam-boom-bam-boom-boom,” in despair, the servant tapped out quarter to seven on the blanket in Morse code.

He knew that Y didn’t understand Morse code, but just in case… what else could he do? His voice unit had burned out a month ago, though it would have been of little help anyway: at night, Y used earplugs. He also used them in the daytime. The apartment was old, the furniture and appliances were cheap and, consequently, talkative. Dignity, restraint and silence were not in fashion here. The house was full of sounds. Things mumbled, whispered, advised, recommended, sang, persuaded and exhorted. The fridge was positively unbearable. Its contents kept silent as long as the fridge’s door was closed, but started to shriek in dozens of tiny voices as soon as the door was opened. Expired products were the most boisterous: they had nothing to lose. Their desperate cries did not subside even with the closed door. The bathroom had gotten into the habit of thinking out loud all the time. The toilet just could not shut up. The kitchen was even worse… So Y was rarely seen without earplugs at home.

The servant stepped back from the bed and waited for a result in vain; the Morse code had no effect on his master. Unbelievable! Last night, he put a sheet with the Morse code alphabet under his master’s pillow. Moreover, he saw with his own lenses that the master had found the sheet and even read it. And yet he did not remember.

The servant, like all robots, greatly overestimated his master’s mental abilities. Made in his image and likeness, he judged everyone by himself, and he simply could not believe that everything was so bad. The unwillingness of the master to yield to such a trifle as an upload of a miserable kilobyte of data to memory served as an inexhaustible source of frustration for the poor fellow.

The servant looked at his watch. Six hours fifty-five minutes. He went to the kitchen, borrowed some ice cubes from the fridge, returned to the bedroom, and stuck the ice under the blanket. His efforts were immediately rewarded with fierce curses. Y finally sat up in bed and glared at the dial.

“Bloody hell!” he groaned. “Five to seven! Are you kidding? We’re too late. How many times have I asked you to wake me up earlier?”

The servant bowed silently and went into his corner.

Y looked around. Tess slept soundly, not aware of Twick’s heel, which was, without doubt, very dirty and smelly, right under her nose. Twick (who had had nightmares lately, making him move from his own bedroom to his parents’ in the mornings) slept like a log, and only Tess could wake him up. Kwick slept across Twick. He could sleep until the Judgment Day, or until Twick woke up – whichever came first. And finally, like a cherry on a cake, Mick crowned the heap. He slept like a baby, was a baby, and, most importantly, was utterly content to be a baby. It was Kwick’s job to wake Mick up in such a way he immediately was in a good mood, skipping all the numerous other gloomy states.

Y gently touched his wife by the shoulder. She instantly opened her eyes.

“Just a second. Everything is almost ready,” she said vigorously, and closed her eyes again.

Y smiled and, leaning toward his wife’s ear, said clearly: “Five minutes to seven.”

There was a terrible curse in return, but in less than a minute, Tess woke up Twick, who woke up Kwick, who somehow managed to jolt Mick wide awake. The most amazing thing is that all three were in excellent spirits.

“They’re probably not my children,” Y mused aloud. “I never, never managed to smile before ten o’clock!”

“What? What? What? What? Wait a second.”

Four pairs of eyes stared at him questioningly. Four pairs of hands stretched to pull the earplugs from their ears. Y shook his head hastily.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Good morning to everyone!” he yelled as loudly as he could.

Tess herded the whole flock to the bathroom, and Y went to the kitchen to chat with the chef.

“Good morning, Poe,” he said. “What are you going to feed us today?”

In response, the cook opened the door of the refrigerator. It was empty.

“Well, I know you’ll manage somehow,” Y said. “I trust you, my friend. By the way, we’re running late.”

The cook’s lenses flashed, but he turned away silently and began to rattle some utensils.

At ten minutes past seven, breakfast was ready. The family tradition required that everyone was able to speak and hear each other at breakfast. Earplugs were pulled out.

Twick took his plate and the smile at once disappeared from his face.

“Oatmeal,” he announced darkly. “Again. I can’t stand it anymore.”

“Yeah, really,” added Kwick. “I’m fed up with it too. Do you take us for done cases?”

“For donkeys, dear,” Tess automatically corrected. “Don-keys.”

“Thanks, ma.” Kwick replied. “So, you do. I always thought so.”

Mick anxiously twisted his head, assessing the situation, but so far he was silent.

“Oatmeal is very wholesome,” Tess said with a lack of confidence.

“And if someone wants something harmful?” Twick retorted.

“It is not!” cried Kwick with his lips treacherously quivering. “It’s the opposite. Oatmeal is killing us!”

Mick frowned at this and began to push the plate slowly away from him.

“Boys!” Tess raised her voice.

“What?!” Twick exploded. “I can’t eat it, and that’s it!”

“I can’t either!” Kwick joined hastily.

Mick perked up and forcefully pushed his plate away, spilling the contents onto the table.

“Me too!” he announced happily. “Me too cannot. Oats meal is a bad meal!”

“Ma,” Twick whined, “why it is always a porridge? Why can’t we have, say, an omelette for a change?”

“Omelette! Omelette! Omelette!” the trio began to chant.

Y glanced at his watch and shook his head.

“What’s an omelette? We are already late.”

After thinking this over for a second, Kwick clenched his teeth decisively.

“Then I will not go to school,” he declared.

“If he doesn’t,” Twick added hastily, “I won’t either.”

“Me too!” Mick yelled happily. “Never ever forever!”

The adults exchanged glances. Y looked at his watch again, sighed, leaned back in his chair, and said casually:

“I bet you can’t guess what I dreamed about last night…”

The children froze.

“Jack of Air?” still not believing his luck, suggested Kwick cautiously.