The time has come for me now to change my name to «Comrade Z.» and to start a new life. The medieval Chinese adopted a new name every time they began a new period of their lives. One has to hide from all the old acquaintances, to go underground, to declare war on everyone.
Fighting is better than digging the ground, right? Fighting is a lot easier. It's just the risk of being killed.
«Mister Zed.» The millionaire's housekeeper – she has remained my closest friend – told me that Americans will pronounce my name as «Zee.»
Wonderful you are, oh bullet! Avenging! Hot!
It feels good to fire point-blank into the flaccid, protruding belly of the President of the United States of America protected only by a farmer's checked shirt, to get him right in between the two broad backs standing in the muggy exhibit of the farmers' achievements in Iowa, somewhere among the gigantic corn cobs and bulls who irrigate the soil with their yellow streams making holes in the ground. To run in the direction of new tractors, to burst into an experimental cottage and shut the door…
And while they push through the doors and windows, I can stand upright on top of the fireproof roof and put a hot bullet into my temple.
Farewell!