Spam Novel Part 4

Styopa's pills are working, yet no news from the skitterish balcony. We rejoin our hero in his slumbers.

"Male tissue dysfunctions, severe ache, tension relief and swelling and cure those discomforts accordingly", murmured Styopa in his sleep.

Mark's heavy boots thudded across the mosaic, the bound man noiselessly recognized him ."My friend! Though you ... again I must apologize, but I'm not..."

"Ah, I understand..." the master said, glancing around, "you've killed someone, near No. 302 on Sadovaya Street."

"I only regret that it wasn't the critic Latunsky or the writer Margarita Nikolaevna. Let me go back, I can't be a vampire! I almost did Rimsky in that time when the confines of socialist realism are utterly exploded, and bunk!"

The unnatural lighting in this dream, caused by some dark cloud boiling and did not play, or even strike up, or even bang away at, but precisely, in the suddenly enhanced evensong grew round and utterly insane, and he stared at the back of the tortoise crawling towards heaven.

Later, while Styopa was having dinner with Mikhail Alexandrovich, the bookkeeper felt his legs trembling and sat on the edge of a chair. The moustache on his insolent face was twirled up and waxed, and the moment when Mikhail Alexandrovich was telling the poet how the Aztecs all ran away like rabbits, he knew when he took off The Extender he would measure 6.5".

And what of our heroine, Margarita? Will she fall for the bookkeeper's little surprise?