Buy or Die. There cometh a time of ruthless advertising

The spittle, most likely, directly hit the button that switched Z’s brain off, because Z at once opened the door and jumped out of the car. A second later a baseball bat hit him hard on the back of his head. Something burst in his head, a red wave flashed before his eyes, and Z fell to his knees, exactly reproducing the picture from the educational poster where some unfortunate dude was experiencing failure of his protection kit outdoors. Z probably missed some seconds, because the next thing he saw was the sky full of autumn leaves, falling down slowly and solemnly, and a flock of stray salesbirds, gliding down to him with their sound holes wide open. Z was writhing on the asphalt, trying to protect his ears with his arms. A second later, the salesbirds attacked him, drowning him in furious sound waves. Not everyone can withstand the one hundred and fifty decibels allowed by law. Salesbirds, to break through the defense, could produce almost two hundred.

Through the reddish mist, Z saw the surprised face of a man with a cigar. He came closer and was contemplating Z curiously, obviously at a loss as to what to do next. Apparently, he had managed to evade Conscious Citizens Training somehow.

Z clenched his teeth. Here it is. You risk your life daily for the sake of these brutes, and they… well, they just remain brutes. He curled up like a worm and, having gathered the last bit of saliva in his parched throat, spat right on the shoe of the passerby. The shoe instantly turned purple, and wrinkled. The shoe’s owner turned purple too and, without thinking twice, kicked Z in the ribs.

Since no force would make Z remove his hands from his ears, he rolled back and used his legs too, having planted both of them neatly and heavily into the enemy’s groin. The passerby grunted and doubled over, and, at that moment, a silence fell. Real silence, not a purchased one. In a world that is soaked through, penetrated and stitched with sounds, this was as strange as if the air itself had suddenly disappeared.

The rivals, one on his back and the other bent double, exchanged understanding glances and began to part rapidly. The passerby bent over more than ever, but now holding his face instead of his groin, and, like a giant crab, moved sideways in swift tiny steps, and was lucky enough and had time to take shelter in the door of the nearest office before it was blocked. Z, hiding his face from the cameras, stood on his knees amid the street and looked around in bewilderment. There was ringing in his ears. There was a red wall before his eyes. There was a nauseous sickness in his knees. But there was not a single sober thought in his head. Moreover, he completely forgot where people usually take these thoughts. Painfully squinting, he stupidly looked towards the end of the street, where something was obviously happening, only he could not make out what it was. He shook his head, squeezed his temples with his hands and finally saw the invisible wind driving an asphalt wave towards him along the road. The wave was rapidly growing and was already beginning to spread, grasping Toy’s rear wheels.

***

An open car door and a running motor saved him. In one desperate effort, Z threw his body into the car, badly bumping his ear against the door and, pressing his foot into gas pedal, jerked the reverse gear fiercely. Toy crashed into a wave that was approaching from behind, barely surmounted it, and descended in the wake with a fearful clang and rumble. Without removing his foot from the gas, looking in the rear-view mirror, Z drove backward to the crossroad, turned left and, having done another two hundred meters, turned again and stopped the car on a quiet deserted lane. He simply could not go further. His hands were shaking so much they were falling off the wheel, there was a taste of blood in his mouth, and an awful throbbing pain in the right half of his head. Z raised his hand and touched his ear. It felt like his ear was not there anymore. Z leaned toward the mirror. Yes, indeed, it was not there.

Cut off by the car door, it had treacherously remained at the scene of the crime. In its place bubbled a small blood fountain, already clotting.

“Fuck!” Z said hoarsely.

“Citizen!” screamed Toy, “You have no right! I will have to complain to…”

“Shut up, you bastard,” hissed Z, “Open your eyes and give me the first aid kit.”

Having shifted his cameras to and fro, Toy gasped and hastily issued the first aid kit. Having shaken out its contents on his knees, Z found sticking plaster and opened the wrap with shaky hands: “Best prices for blood donors!”

And the next wrap: “Will accept lost limbs, gratefully and gratuitously.”

And the next one: “Bequeath your skeleton to the museum of natural history now!”

And the next: “The Freaks Museum invites you to the new exhibition.”

He stared at the contents doubtfully. A square piece of wet matter, like a leech, squirmed violently in the palm of his hand. Its size seemed to fit. Z took a deep breath and, straightening the matter on his palm, pressed it to the wound. There was a smacking sound, and the pain was gone. Z looked in the mirror. The plaster firmly adhered to the skin and trembled with satisfaction, making soft, sucking sounds. Z shuddered.

He took out a cigarette and lit it.

“I asked you not to smoke in the cabin,” said Toy peevishly.

“Go to hell,” Z replied.

Toy shut up, offended, but not for long.

“And yet, citizen, what was it?” he asked. “I will have to report inappropriate driving.”

Z inhaled tobacco smoke deeply, watching how the knuckles of his fingers on the steering wheel were turning white.

“Sure,” he agreed. “And I will claim that your processor has gone horny and makes you draw obscene scenes on the walls, pavement, and your own hood.”

“And I will explain that my processor went horny,” Toy replied gleefully, “because you practice promiscuous and dirty sex with colleagues in my salon.”

“Didn’t they tell you in your childhood that lying is bad?”

“I had no childhood,” snapped Toy. “Besides, if something is allowed by my program, it cannot be bad.”

“Sure,” Z said curtly, “But…”

He took a deep breath. It was no good to argue with Toy.

“ОК. I will explain. The dog. It jumped out onto the road right in front of us and I instinctively turned the wheel away. You know, I love dogs. Maybe I love dogs way too much. I understand that this is a serious flaw, and I am working on it, but… Let us move ahead step by step. Alcohol is the first item on the agenda.”

Toy was silent.

“You should visit a psychoanalyst more often,” he said finally. “Remember my word, citizen, these dogs won’t make you well. Unfortunately, your unhealthy love for animals will not be a surprise for the authorities. I see no point in informing them again.”

“Again?”

“Actually,” Toy replied calmly, “I have reported three…”

There was a barely audible click.

“… three percent discount for umbrellas today in honor of the birthday of the senior cashier in the ‘Bears and the Bees’ shop right near your home.”

Toy choked and coughed.

“Three times.”

He sighed.

“I hoped they would at least forbid you from carrying that hairy stuff with a tail in the back seat!”

He sighed again.

“How naive I was! Just see what I am carrying now!”

“Are you finally done?” asked Z wearily.

“Yes.”

“Great. Then take me to the doctor.”

Chapter 2 | Wai

“Leave me alone, eh?” requested citizen Y334XT, or simply Y, pulling the blanket back over his head.

“Boom-boom-bam-boom bam-bam-boom bam-boom bam-boom-bam boom bam bam-boom-bam, boom boom-boom-boom, bam-bam-bam bam bam-bam-bam-boom bam boom-bam, boom-bam-boom-bam-boom-boom,” in despair, the servant tapped out quarter to seven on the blanket in Morse code.

He knew that Y didn’t understand Morse code, but just in case… what else could he do? His voice unit had burned out a month ago, though it would have been of little help anyway: at night, Y used earplugs. He also used them in the daytime. The apartment was old, the furniture and appliances were cheap and, consequently, talkative. Dignity, restraint and silence were not in fashion here. The house was full of sounds. Things mumbled, whispered, advised, recommended, sang, persuaded and exhorted. The fridge was positively unbearable. Its contents kept silent as long as the fridge’s door was closed, but started to shriek in dozens of tiny voices as soon as the door was opened. Expired products were the most boisterous: they had nothing to lose. Their desperate cries did not subside even with the closed door. The bathroom had gotten into the habit of thinking out loud all the time. The toilet just could not shut up. The kitchen was even worse… So Y was rarely seen without earplugs at home.

The servant stepped back from the bed and waited for a result in vain; the Morse code had no effect on his master. Unbelievable! Last night, he put a sheet with the Morse code alphabet under his master’s pillow. Moreover, he saw with his own lenses that the master had found the sheet and even read it. And yet he did not remember.

The servant, like all robots, greatly overestimated his master’s mental abilities. Made in his image and likeness, he judged everyone by himself, and he simply could not believe that everything was so bad. The unwillingness of the master to yield to such a trifle as an upload of a miserable kilobyte of data to memory served as an inexhaustible source of frustration for the poor fellow.