But at that moment silent thunder shook our universe. We came to our senses. The door opened, and Fedor Simeonovich and Christobal Joséevich stood before us.
Their rage was indescribable. They were terrible to behold. Their gaze made walls smoke and windows melt. The poster about the people and sensationalism went up in flames. The house shook and shuddered, the parquet floor buckled, and the chairs squatted on their terror-weakened legs. It was impossible for even the Troika to endure it.
Khlebovvodov and Farfurkis, pointing at each other with trembling fingers, howled in unison: “It wasn’t me! It’s all his fault!” and turned into yellow smoke and disappeared without a trace.
Professor Vybegallo yelped “Mon Dieu!” and dove under his table. Pulling out his large briefcase, he handed it over to the thundergods—“C’est, all the materials, that is, I have the goods on these scoundrels, all here!”
The commandant tore at his collar and fell on his knees.
As for Lavr Fedotovich, he sensed some discomfiture around him. Turning his head anxiously, he rose, leaning on the green baize.
“Get out.”
Lavr Fedotovich slowly registered surprise.
“The people…” he said.
“OUT!!!”
They eyeballed each other for a second. Something human flickered across Lavr Fedotovich’s face—maybe shame, maybe fear, maybe anger. He slowly put his accoutrements of chairmanship into his briefcase.
“Forever,” said Christobal Joséevich Junta, laying his cane on the table.
“Harrumph,” said Lavr Fedotovich doubtfully.
He majestically circled the table, without looking at anyone, and went to the door. Before leaving, he announced:
“There is an opinion that we shall meet again in another place and at another time.”
“I doubt it,” said Junta with disdain, biting off the end of his cigar.
But, of course, that’s another story.