Part One
WHOSE DEATH DO YOU WANT FIRST
9.15
This lyrical story begins with a guy in a blue coat carrying a plastic case who appears on the doorstep and spends a long time turning a piece of paper in his hands, looking to see if it’s the right address, whether he has come to the correct place, whether someone has bamboozled him, in short—a gloomy, dispirited guy, with this case, on top of it all. Generally speaking I don’t know where such people come from and where they are written off afterwards. Finally he plucks up his courage, knocks at the door, enters, and sees us all—me, Vasia the Communist and our friend Dogg—we smell of morning booze and evening barf, in a word—a workday morning. The guy starts turning the paper in his hands again. Who are you?—asks Dogg. Of the three of us he i
