OK, fine—(kept he persuading himself)—let’s don’t jump at premature conclusions but preserve sane prudence and keep up approaching the whole matter logically or even arithmetically, which might suit it even better for the simplicity’s sake.

So, you’ve popped up in the city whose name you’re not aware of.

The point of your second entry coincides with your previous exit which portal is, currently, leaned on and sealed with your ass freshly kicked by that old lady. Esma or whatever it was, her name.

Ain’t it your ass? Ain’t the wall hard?

Both answers are in the affirmative. In toto so... Which makes it (+) 2 to begin with…

But why that fist time Peccy chose to drop her load off nearby the Chris’ bench? By that pear tree? That is the question wrapped wholly in absolute dark.

The problem (even when leaving aside the cause for the pear-tree dryness so as to keep things simpler) was effing enough to surprise Einstein himself if caught unprepared. Meanwhile he, this poor wretch with his ass to the wall, in his still pretty rickety and befogged state of mind, he wouldn’t rule out the need in even two fucking Einsteins.

2 + 2?

Hmm, looks fundamentally hopeful…

So, if his logical arithmaticity does not play tricks on the accuracy of his calculus, then the most consequent step would be unplugging his butt from this here Point 2's hardiness and choosing a suitable trajectory or, rather, course towards Point 1.

Conceivably, that destination was as good as any other for a rendezvous with a chance revelation or a hint at something besides his own name which, by the way, he determined single-handedly, no prompts from no Einsteins nor from any other outsiders…

If we assume this street for a line drawn between two bars in its opposite ends, then Point 1 bisects, in a manner, that line into two (yes! he knew there was one more 2 somewhere!) halves. Not a too short leg to that figured out midpoint, however, right now he's not quite pressed by any overly urgent arrangements…

He tore his ass from the wall..

. . . . .

Yep, here it is. The bench. Oh, Chris…

That old nutty babbler. Sorry for the geezer…

A couple of meters off, the chrome in the rims of a wheel-chair draws glistening supp next to the dried rind of the tree. A figure in a checkered slouch hat fills the seat. The stilled head dropped motionless onto the cover of a plain gray blanket swaddling the chest armpit-to-armpit.

The slumbering paralytic left alone to wander in his dreams of the days past… The board of Douglas VC-54C, Sacred Cow's her handle, buzzes thru the clouds transporting him to where he’ll deliver his authentic autograph… yes, three on one sheet… an ambulatory villa in the Crimea… perambulating allies…

He approached the bench, sat down. Yes, exactly over there, five meters to the right, his bare feet contacted the heat of the torrid asphalt at that his first landing.

What a naive greenhorn he was then! Yes. Breaking the back of his head before Peccy got it what was his want…

As if now he’s any cleverer except for the acquired, by pure chance, skill at driving that derelict shell.

However, it was inside her darkness that the revelation of his name came to enlighten him…

"Kenty! How’s it going! How've ya been, dude?"

As if from the synchronous bite of two tropic mosquitoes, he started vigorously, at a loss which one to scratch first off.

A furtive roundabout look… damn! I’m deranged… started to hear them those fucking voices…

"Stop jolting, bud, or They will get it. Just put on you’re baby-sitting the sparrows."

"What fuc… ahem!… sparrows! Who’re you? Where?"

"Oh, right… just a sec."

On the sidewalk around Inokenty’s feet shod in possum skin moccasins, issuing lively twits began to hop a couple of gray-brown sparrows who’ve just popped up from nowhere.

The third one impudently perched upon the silver buckle over the right foot arch.

He felt kinda fucked up… hmm, well... that is to say like fucking intoxicated (somewhat better now, and do not forget that proza.ru is a decent site of the exemplary normativeness, thru and thru so).

"That’s it. Now, be careful not to address me, we don't want Them catch a whiff. The damn hicks belief I’m good for nothing better than spoon-bending with a glare."

"How did you guess my name? Another ability thru trisomy?"

"It’s you who is a Downism boob. Mine is a different case. And there’s a hell of a lot I know of you. Even what’s written up there on your arm."

Reflexively, Kenty clutched the cloth in the sleeve of his blue frock coat – the uniform of junior navy officer in the British Navy sewn by the tailor named Trevor Priggs in Seville Row, London, in spring 1786.

"What?!"

"UF-3! That’s what!"

He startled. 2Bsure, they were the signs in the only tattoo on his whole body that often irked him to white heat by their inexplicability.

"And what’s the meaning?"

"Aramis, you fool, it means 'Aramis'. 'UltraFucker – 3' is what you are. We were three there in the team of UltraFuckers: Athos, Parthos, and Aramis. I’m marked UF-2. Wanna me show?"

"No-no! You’ll catch cold or They will dig it. And who are They?"

"For you it’s too early yet… Yo, dude, d’you indeed get amnesia-screwed so severely or there still happen some flashbacks?"

"I’ve recollected my given name."

"Oh-oh! They weren’t stingy on your behalf… Two vaccinations as a minimum… But what a daredevil UF you was! Spread them left and right in Street Fighter, both hands tied behind your back!.

So we threw our team of 3 together. Invincible UFs! It became a byword in the crowd of gamesters “UFs will make you wet your pants!” and instead ‘fuck off’ they’d say ‘Go and challenge UFs!’

Yep. That was some time…

Remember how we’ve been screwing those Mongos to pieces on Asteroid T-4?. Well, yes, you can’t… You’re vaccinated…

Then you somehow began to keep off… delved into those 2 Impassable Levels and disappeared… untraceable…"

"Yo, and how’s Athos?"

"Athos is no more, Kenty. Croaked our UF-1. Tragically and teragigabitedly…

That time a new shooter rolled they out in the Net, under the name of Warring Maya, snuffing aliens against the backdrop of Hindus mythology. Shiva, Vishnu and stuff. The soundtrack from those Basta's clips—shrieks of baboon… total jerk…

The engine itself hidden in the Cloud, G&PaaS, you know…

Well, you unavailable by that time, so we started together, two of us… Armory, ammo selected and off we go. All as always in any other shooter…

Now, we drop into some basement vault. O, those walls! I didn’t like them at once. So, I yell, ‘Athos! It’s a set up! Let’s get out!’ But he, ‘No fear! We’ll pull thru! Don't chicken out! Button 27 and God’s Might by our side! Besides, I’ve grabbed a couple of cool shortcuts from Counter Strike! Woohoo!’

That’s when it gushed. From all the walls… Green, disgusting…

Later they reanimated me in this here wheel-chair-fixed variant. As for Athos – light be the bites filling his grave, and the memory of him in ROM both radiant and undeletable…"

Nearing the tree in a gliding gait with obvious skidding due to the left leg paresis, appeared a swollen female figure in a flannelette robe of fading printed pattern depicting twining chromosomes. With audible pants and puffs, grabbed she the handles in the wheel-chair back.

An awkward movement of the clinodactyl pinkie caught on the pulled down hat.

The headpiece dropped into the blanketed lap and went on down to land onto the ground.

Moaning from the sedulity of her efforts, the pusher started to fold down, the way transformers do, so as to reach…

In terror, watched Kenty the spheroid, shaved to the bare glare, head of his buddy in radiation burns and wine stains, the legacy from serial chemotherapy.

Not a single hair in the brows, the eyelids snarled in folds above the corners of the eyes near the flat bridge of the nose and—the most horrid of all!—the absolute emptiness in smooth eyeballs: neither irises nor pupils but only flat empty spans, like those in antique statues, where the sculptor has not yet painted the eyes in.

"By the bye, Kenty, Athos thanks you dearly for the nice rags."

"What eff… else… rags?"

"The tartan jacket, black-and-yellow. Or did they impaired your short-term memory too?"

Without answering, UF-3 grimaced a warning mien in the direction of the amoeba-shaped form who, a-snarl-a-grunt, was raking the hat out from under the wheel…

"Take it easy, partner! She’s not of Them. An under-aborted. Jérôme Lejeune, from the French Resistance, der Artz in the Block of Selective Eugenics, is an ardent opponent to abortions."

"And where is Athos buried or was he cremated?"

"Yo! You’re a natural indeed! Can’t you make him out on your buckle?"

The empty eye in the wide-lipped mannequin head winked a good-bye at him from under the brim of the hat pulled askew down to his ears, and got lost behind the jerking curtain of the back robed in chromosomes propelling the wheel-chair in progressive motion.

“Fare thee well, Parthos!”, a mute poignant tear plopped from the left eye's eyelashes of speechless Inokenty after his departing buddy.

The sparrow joyously chirruped and, without ever leaving the buckle, splashed out a generous white streak of guano onto the possum’s back to teach him not to drop his fucking jaw when among chums...

* * *