The evening. I go past a pavilion, in which an intelligently drunken company discusses everything that is happening around as intelligently. Compared to the elite of the area, I hear at my address a banal:
Do you need your mother’s son?
No, I do not need it! - and I am already getting fast to pass the cloud of beer smells, as comrade Gore-Kazanova rises up here, and loudly asks him:
What about Dolby?
...
The curtain.