Oo-oo-oo-woo-woo-woo-hoo-oo! Look at me, look, I'm dying. The wind under
the archway howls at my departing, and I howl with it. I'm done for, done for. That
villain in a cook's hat — the chef at the canteen of Normative Nourishment for the
employees of the Central Council of the People's Economy — splashed boiling
water at me and scalded my left side. Swine that he is, and him a proletarian. Oh,
my God, how it hurts. That boiling water's seared me to the bone. And now I howl
and howl, but what's the use of howling...