At the following session of Parliament many mutant deputies spoke praising Boshmutant and proposed an amendment to the Constitution granting a life term of power to Boshmutant. Then they nominated Marshal Cats, the adopted son of Boshmutant, for the Commander of Telepathic Communication. Before the voting the deputies gave the floor to Marshal Cats who said as follows, in particular:
- Esteemed mutants and nits! It is common knowledge that I am Sir Boshmutant"s adopted son. Nobody knows who my parents actually are! But it doesn"t matter. I definitely know that I am a pure-blooded descendant of donkeys. If somebody doubts it, I can prove it.
Saying this Marshal Cats stretched out his neck and closing his eyes started braying like an ass. Then he continued:
- According to the witnesses, when I was born my parents wrapped me in a red rag with the slogan "Children are our future!" written on it (incidentally, this slogan is still kept at the local museum of Zhimland). So they wrapped me up and threw me into a garbage can. At that moment a she-dog was walking around in search of food. It licked me all over and instinctively I found her nipples. She breast-fed me and took me to her place where she had six puppies. I lived with them in a haystack along with my half-blooded brethren. It"s true that sometimes we would gnaw at one another for the nipples. Then a writer, or a journalist, wrote a thick novel about me entitled "Son of a Bitch". So I became a sort of a little hero arousing compassion among the public. The rumors about me reached the ears of Boshmutant who took me on and became my adoptive father. He gave me the name of Cats which can be decoded as Commander of Amazing Telepathic System. You see how enterprising and far-sighted our Boshmutant is! What a prophecy! Even that Frenchman, what do you call him... Adam de Michel Nostradamus could not foresee it!
The mutants sitting in the hall stood up like one applauding him: "Bravo! Bravo! Viva, Commandant!
After a long storm of applause the mutants and nits sat down, and Marshal Cats continued:
As a direct ancestor of great donkeys, a pure-blooded mutant and son of a bitch, I am grateful to you for appointing me to this high position. My mission and the task of my army consist primarily in building prisons in the air where the thoughts of healthy people will be decaying. The second task is to fix transmitter-chips into the skulls of new-born healthy babies so that we might be able to constantly read their minds.
To collect taxes for the roads that the healthy people use, we must install speedometers on their feet.
The fourth task is to install counters in the respiratory tract of healthy people so that we could see how many cubic meters of air they consume for breathing. I think that working along this line we will win your confidence which we now receive on credit.
Ibn Yamin did not want to watch that comedy, so he switched off the TV set and went out into the street. It was gloomy outside. A cold ocean wind was blowing from the North. The drizzling rain was knocking on his open umbrella. He walked down the street jumping over the pools which reflected the shadows of wistful trees and houses. Near the brown house with overshadowed windows where the authorities try healthy people he encountered Brigbattal Blokholov.
- Bad Afternoon, Your Damnation, - said Inb Yamin.
- Ah, yeah, may you be cursed! Damn you, my prodigal son! Where are you off to on this rainy day?
- I am going to work, Your Damnation! Where else can I go?
- Really? May you catch an HIV, my prodigal son! Do you remember that we are having a Boshmutant election? Whom you are going to vote for, I wonder?
- Well, well, I declare, Your Damnation! Whom else can I vote for if there is no other nominee except Boshmutant?
- Ye-ee-s, yes, you are right my prodigal son. Ok , bye!
- Bye! - replied Ibn Yamin and walked on down the side-walk.
When he reached the prison a stone wrapped in paper flew by. He looked to see where the paper had flown from and saw a man standing beyond a barbed wire fence and holding on to the
window bars. Dressed in a uniform, he was pale and thin. Ibn Yamin understood what it was and picked up the paper which had fallen down with a stone near him. He hid the paper and walked on. It was still raining. When he arrived at the fish-factory he dropped in at the smoking-room where workers smoked self-made cigarettes, that is, tobacco rolled in paper.
He sat down on a bench and began to read the prisoner"s letter. The latter turned out to be Gabigay Nairang, a journalist and reporter of the bubble newspaper Khandun which was printed on condoms. The journalist had changed in prison to such an extent that even Ibn Yahim did not recognize him. He skipped through the letter:
"I ask the man that picks up this letter not to throw it away. I want the whole wide world to know that I am suffering.
I used to be Bushmutant"s favorite journalist. But some misunderstanding occurred. It was like this. When my esteemed Boshmutant visited the unfriendly state of Kargarangs he took me along with him, as a newspaper reporter. After the plane had landed at the airport he gave an interview to journalists while I stood by his side putting everything down. I kept writing while Boshmutant spoke nonstop. In exclusive interviews and at press conferences Boshmutant was always the only one to speak while other just listened. I was untiringly writing down all he said. Once I stopped writing to give my fingers some relief. Suddenly Boshmutant looked at me in such a way that my heart went pit-a-pat. I resumed writing. I didn"t know what I was writing, but I kept writing with my hands trembling like those of an alcoholic holding a glass of vodka. Well, how do you like it? I had used up my note-book. But it was forbidden to stop writing. Then I started writing on the cover of the note-book Alas! Everything comes to an end in this world! The cover was also used up now. I told myself to take an extraordinary measure, that is, to begin to write on my shirt, my vest, then on my face, my hands, my chest and my belly. But our Boshmutant kept on talking.
After the press-conference I said that I was ill and left for home. When I arrived home my own children did not recognize me. My daughter said:
- Who are you, uncle? Father is not in. He and Boshmutant left for distant lands by plane.
- What are you talking about, daughter, - I said - It"s me, your dad and journalist Gabigay Nairang!
My daughter ran away. Soon my wife came out, pan in hand.
- Help! People, help! - she cried - they want to kill us!
- Why are you crying, Sapangul? - I said - It"s me, you husband Gabigay!
But she wouldn"t listen. She called the militia.
- Hello? Is it militia? Come quickly! A maniac has intruded into my house! He has all his body tattooed! Yes, yes! Put down: 666 Satanic Street, Apt. 13. Be quick!
I was at a loss. Now the operative group arrived as if they had been waiting for me.
I said:
- Comrade militiamen, I am Boshmutant"s favourite journalist. Don"t you recognize me? Please, let me go!
But they twisted my arms putting plastic handcuffs on me, and one of them said to my wife:
- Well, thank you for cooperation, sister. You have helped us a lot. We"ve been in quest for him. At last we have caught him. He is a dangerous criminal under the nickname of "journalist" who escaped from a high security prison camp. Thank you again.
- Not at all - my wife said - come into the sitting-room. I will treat you to tea.
- No, thank you - one of the cops said - we have many things to do. We"ll come to see you some other time, ok?
They stuck me into the car and left.
And now I am here doing time. Only healthy people are kept here. They don"t like mutants and nits. As for Boshmutant, they just hate him. Last night a negotiator came to the cell. My cellmates acquainted me with the facts. At clarifying the case it became clear that I was not the dangerous criminal under the nickname of "journalist" that had escaped from prison.
They had pushed me into the corner and said: "from now on your place will be there near the lavatory". So, please, take this letter to the editorial office of the bubble newspaper "Khandun", printed on condoms, before these disgusting healthy people killed me".
When I had finished reading the letter I was lost in thought. Then I threw the letter into the garbage can by the puddle and went away.