But why that fist time Peccy dropped him out nearby Chris’ bench? By that pear tree? That’s what he is in the complete dark about. The problem, leaving aside the cause for the pear-tree dryness so as to make it simpler, still was enough to fucking surprise Einstein himself. And in his still pretty rickety state of mind he wouldn’t rule out even two fucking Einsteins. 2 + 2? Looks fundamentally hopeful...

So, if his logical arithmaticity does not play tricks on the accuracy of his calculus, then by the very next step he should break his butt's contact with this here Point 2's rigidness and choose a suitable trajectory or rather course for Point 1.

Conceivably, that place 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 or 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 2 somewhere!) halves. Not a too short leg to that figured out midpoint, however, right now he's not quite pressed by 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 away, the chrome in the rims of a wheel-chair draws glistening circle-and-a-half next to the dried rind of the tree. A figure in a checkered slouch hat fills the seat. The head dropped motionlessly onto the wrapping of a plain gray blanket that swaddles the chest armpit-to-armpit.

The slumbering paralytic left alone to wanders in dreams of the 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 got seated upon the bench. Yes, exactly over there, five meters off, his bare feet felt 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 a synchronous bite of two tropic mosquitoes he started vigorously, at a loss where to scratch first.

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 proza.ru is a decent site of the exemplary normativeness, thru and thru so).

"That’s it. Now, be careful not to address me so that They do not catch a whiff. The damn hicks belief I’m good for nothing else but bending spoons 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 to show?"

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

"For you it’s too early yet… Yo, dude, d’you really get screwed up with amnesia 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!.

Then 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 background of Hindus mythology. Shiva, Vishnu and stuff. The soundtrack from Basta's clips—shrieks of baboon… total jerk...

The engine 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. Now 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 power for 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 radiant memory in ROM..."

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 of twining chromosomes. Panting, she grabbed 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 lap and went on traveling to the ground.

Moaning from the sedulity, 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 from serial chemotherapy.

Not a single hair in the brows, webbed folds of the eyelids 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: no iris, no pupil, but only a flat empty field, 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 ef… 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 that, with puff-and-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 him good-bye from under the brim of the hat pulled askew down to his ears and got lost behind the jerking curtain of the robed back propelling the wheel-chair in progressive motion.

“Fare thee well, Parthos!”, speechlessly plopped a poignant tear from the left eye's eyelashes of 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...

* * *