It was rare that a Monday morning did not attack Thomas, who was deserted on the ill-fated Islands of Misfortune, with a severe bout of the blues. He found himself torn by internal and external tensions, spontaneously at first, in a fit of hungover despair, but then they became orderly. This was in no way due to his growing courage, but because of his ingrained habits. Finally, carefully constructing counter-arguments in his defense, he proclaimed a note of protest against the evil clauses of his “marriage contract” and announced a change of power.

Then boldly, Aquinas sought out the dictatorial smirk, only to find at his bedside a piece of paper on which the matriarchal government had scribbled a list of instructions written in bold marker. Spewing caustic comments, the jailbird carelessly ran through the text, barely reading the words. He furiously crumpled the Dictator’s Bulletin and with the practiced technique of an NBA player, launched the paper ball through the open window. The angle made the shot difficult – only about three out of every ten hit their mark. Sometimes the paper bounced mockingly off the wall, and he was forced to make a free throw. He’d seen worse: once an impromptu ball had fallen between the panes of the transom, and Thomas reverted from sports superstar to an ordinary laborer. Thus went his Mondays.

The beginning of this week was special. With a cough, Aquinas breathed in fumes and angrily gritted his teeth, recalling the final phase of last night’s drinking episode. It had been halted for the most banal reason: the missus, disregarding his suffering, took away the unfinished bottle and sent him to bed under the armed escort of a hot iron. Thomas angrily tore the edict off the wall. In black and white it was reported that: “We,” meaning Her Majesty – the one and only, “have gone to the supermarket.”

“Fuck it all, this has dragged on long enough.”

Furthermore, in large block letters she recommended that in order to avoid trouble, he had a two-hour period to fix the leaky faucet in the bathroom, put his appearance in order, and, in compliance with the census being conducted in the country, prepare for a decent meeting with an agent. Working on the vegetable garden was recomended after lunch. Going to work was graciously allowed to be postponed until tomorrow.

“Right. Bite me!” Thomas cleared his throat with a powerful “ahem!” and harshly evoked the “Marseillaise:”

“You are an infection, one shaved eyebrow

What are wearing, bitch, your blue beret!

And where are you going, hag, get your ass home now…”

His mood leveled. The census subjectively belonged to the category of national holidays, and a criminal, unlike the common worker in the construction of the national economy, couldn’t participate, so as not to pinch off of social benefits that are due to h

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Census Seduction

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