"Don't write anymore!'

pages 149-150, 152

"So they will kill him...?"

pages 321-322

"But the whiskers?..."

page 273

Pastiche (Runaway Knight) p.115

And an hour later, just as Timofey Kondratievich, fairly gulping with pleasure, was recounting to the other tenants how the chairman had gotten what was coming to him, an unknown citizen appeared in Apartment Number 11 and beckoned him out of the kitchen into the hallway. There he said something to him, and both disappeared.

Chapter 10: News From Yalta

Kvastov had undoubtedly been frightened by the initial appearance of the newcomer’s physiognomy, which seemed to have appeared from the thin air. It was assuredly brutish, and was only augmented by the presence of his flaming red hair and single protruding fang. His anxieties, however, were for some reason completely assuaged by the stranger’s name.

 “You may call me Azazello”, he had admonished to Kvastov. He then iterated bluntly that there might be other tenants of the building suspected of wrongdoing.

These words plucked at the Kvastov’s heartstrings; he had always suspected, indeed, even known that the other tenants of No. 302-b on Sadovaya were miscreants. Altukhov’s droopy eyelids and somnambulistic demeanor hid malicious eyes and tendency for belligerence! Of this, Kvastov was certain! No longer would he be able to conspire with that woman a floor below him to cheat on their taxes and dress improperly! Of this, he was just as certain.

Kvastov found that he instinctively trusted his new acquaintance, if only because he had so quickly accused his neighbors of twelve years of such heinous crimes. And so it was that Kvastov found himself accompanying the loutish man across the city, as the sun dimmed and the moon rose behind them. It seemed to Kvastov as though his mind had been wandering the entire journey, as though he were being pricked by many small, tiny, needles, so that by his arrival at Patriarchs’ Ponds Park, he felt as though he had vanished from his apartment, only to reappear instantaneously in this locale.

“So, my dear little man”, murmured Azazello, “you’ve demonstrated a keen loyalty and enthusiasm for your country. I can’t help but admire the delight with which you turned on your neighbors, decidedly nasty folk, who you’ve known for years and with whom you’ve had no major qualms.”

Timofey Kondratievich was delighted. He reveled at his luck: having encountered this like-minded and obviously intelligent comrade, he felt he could finally lower his vigiliance. A cool, relaxing mist seemed to waft over him and he began to feel light-headed; the light of the moon reflecting off the ponds exacerbated the fog, which covered Kvastov’s visage like a plastic bag. Despite this, or, perhaps even because of this, Timofey felt liberated! No longer would he be looked upon with distaste! No longer would voices quiet and eyes fall downward at his arrival! Everyone would realize now that he was justified in his suspicions.

Kvastov eventually managed to pull himself from his reverie, and recalling the presence of Azazello, composed himself, so that his new friend might not find him suspicious and call the militia.

“Thank you”, he practically whispered, “my good man…”

At these words, Azazello’s eyes flashed, a smirk creeping slowly across his face. “Why is it”, he replied, “that you say I am a good man”? As Timofey sputtered, he continued: “We are none of us good men, fellow. There is something within each and every citizen of our nation that precludes the title of ‘good man’. There is sin in everything; doesn’t the generous man propagate avarice? Doesn’t the humble man allow others to better display their arrogance?”

Kvastov could not believe what he was hearing. How could this man imply that even he, Timofey Kondratievich, was villainous; he would not support this. Fighting back the urge to launch himself at the scoundrel standing next to him, he began to pant ferociously. The park seemed to envelop him, and the stars and moon oscillated until it seemed as though he was a prisoner inside some great dome. He looked at Azazello next to him, and reached out… his hand struck some translucent barrier, leaving a smudge. From the smudge began to spread an iridescent film, which proliferated to coat the entire surface of the globe that surrounded him. It confounded his view of the world, distorting it to the point where objects were barely recognizable.

“Is that grass?”  thought Kvastov, gazing through he bubble, “or the hair of some maiden, weaving in the breeze?”

He began to cry desperately, hoping vainly for someone to hear him and grant him refuge from the uncertainty which subjugated him. For him, as for any proper Soviet citizen, ambiguity was among the most frightening aspects of life; the world would be so much better off if everyone’s behavior were uniform and avoided impropriety as if it were the devil himself.

It appeared to Kvastov that his globe was shrinking, and he with it. He was eventually contained, the height of a sheath of grass, within it. Azazello, whom he could no longer see, pushed it out onto the lake with one toe, and it vanished from sight

Timofey did not realize that this was the way of the world, that he had not been deceived; his eyes had merely been opened. Azazello had granted him, or cursed him, depending on your viewpoint, a vision of the world as it truly was. The world is full of things we can never achieve, never reach, and not even begin to comprehend.

Perhaps, one day, Kvastov will realize the knowledge he was granted, that the world revolves around no man, that related and unrelated events occur simultaneously. But we will never know, as he was never seen again.

At the moment when disaster struck Nikanor Ivanovich, two men sat in the office of the financial manager of the Variety Theater, which was also on Sadovaya, not far from No. 302-b. They were the financial manager, Rimsky, and the house manager Varenukha, (Bulgakov, 116).

Woland and Behemoth Thumb Wrestle

Filmed by: Cracked Wristwatch

Characters: Woland (Apricot Soda's thumb)
                                 Behemoth (Powdered Whiskers's thumb)

Voices: Woland (Apricot Soda)
                           Behemoth (Powdered Whiskers)

Comments: Behemoth challenges Woland to a thumb duel!

With a Touch of Style

"Little Extras" is just our way of continuing our interaction with the novel even after finishing it. In the sidebar, you'll see a series of media clips, audiobook excerpts (which we made ourselves of dialogue we really like), as well as links to all of our pastiches. The idea behind the pastiche was to seamlessly insert into the novel our own addition to Bulgakov's story. We all tried as best we could to imitate Bulgakov's style, which was both incredibly challenging and great fun. We'd love to hear what you think after you read them. Feel free to comment!

Cheers!

Pastiche (Black Poodle) p.104

 Chapter 8: Dual Between the Professor and the Poet

There was only the gay spring wood across the river behind the grating in the window, and the river sparkling in the midday sun.

Chapter 8 ¾: How Kerensky Saved Likhodeyev

The man to whom Styopa had been so piteously pleading now stared at the fallen Styopa with contempt. The man had the distinctive growl of a war general, his hair whitened from stress rather than age. He must be drunk, the general thought, more out of spite than out of genuine belief, searching Styopa's surroundings for hidden spirits.

“Ah, men these days are all weak-hearted drunkards,” the general snarled. “Looks like the devil took him.”

A lone seagull flew in circles in the sky across the sea. Locating its target, it swooped down to clamp its beak around a silver shining fish. But as the general watched, the seagull did the strangest thing. As it flew back, it seemed to pause for just a moment, as if in remorse, and then opened its beak to let the fish fall into the sea.

The general threw down his cigarette butt and spit onto the ground. Using his heel, he slowly ground ash and saliva into the sand. He walked away as he muttered, “Even that half-bastard son of the astrologer-king...”

But his words were swallowed by the sound of waves hitting rock.

A few minutes later, Styopa began to stir. The consistent spray of the ocean did not allow him to lie unconsciously for too long. But Styopa did not want to wake up, even though his bed seemed to be made of hard grain and rock, and he could feel the periodic mist of water wash over his face. To the latter, he concluded, that either Berlioz or Grunya had taken to new methods of trying to wake him up. By showering him in bed! None the matter, he wouldn't wake up. That acute naseau was again turning over his stomach, and his head boomed with each crash of the waves.

Here, dear reader, I would interject that Styopa might have noticed his position by the waves and smell of salt air. But details like these never seem to bother a man who has just woken up. Indeed, the poor fellow was far too disoriented to think rationally.

But as Styopa slowly opened his eyelids to see whether it was Berlioz or Grunya, he was immediately struck by the sun hanging in the sky directly overhead. Of course, the spray could easily be explained. But the sun in the middle of his room! This was too much. At that instant, Styopa suddenly remembered his utterly horrifying condition. In fact, so suddenly and so horrifying was this memory, it caused poor Styopa to jump up in a frenzy, only to topple back down from the lack of blood in his head. It must also be noted that Styopa performed all these realizations and frenzied actions blind, for the sun was too bright for him to open his eyes.

“Yalta!” he thought. His mind fumbled for explanation, but all it screamed back was, “Yalta! Yalta!” Until finally, trying hard to bypass the ache in his head, Styopa also remembered “Woland!” From there, the memories came easier. And they came something like this: “Yalta! Woland! Caviar! Hypnosis!”

At hypnosis, Styopa was once again sent into a flurry. “That's it! I've been hypnotized. Suffered hypnosis! Yes, yes, indeed. By that black magician Woland.” Relieved that he had come up with a somewhat reasonable explanation yet still completely at a loss for how he had landed in Yalta, Styopa clambered up, a little shaky in the knees. “Well I must report this to someone. I have to get back to Moscow! Get back to work. Oh, oh and I'll be late again. You stupid fool, Styopa. Why did you have to eat that caviar?”

As he thought all these things to himself, Styopa began to turn in circles, trying to find a direction in which to walk, when he realized he had not yet opened his eyes. Thus, when he finally revealed the day to his weary eyes, he began to jog away from the edge of the jetty, still half-blinded by the sun.

The general had walked off in the same direction, with more of a purpose. Lunch break was almost over, and he needed to get back to his work. It took only fifteen minutes to get from the jetty back to the office, leaving Alexander Kerensky another ten minutes to settle down and enjoy some peace before the afternoon steady hum of unproductive gossip. He had left his uniform jacket on the back of his chair. During break and outside of work, he never wore it. Instead, everyday, he would wait ten minutes until after everyone left and then strip to his white undershirt. Usually he would stay in the office or go outside to take a walk. On occasion, he would take a trip to the jetty, to enjoy the breeze and a cigarette. Then he would promptly return, put on his uniform, and resume his vegetation, hoping the end of the day would come quickly.

Going through his old routine, Kerensky arrived at the brick-red criminal inspection building, sat down at his desk and put on his jacket. His hat, which displayed a red band, lay on his table. This cap, he always donned last. Usually, he attempted to do as little work as possible. He had learned to conform to the rest of his colleagues, who he perceived spent most of their time misfiling information.

But today he did have a task to do. Just as the first officials came trickling back in from lunch, he covered his white hair with the red band and called over one of his more respectable subordinates.

“Akaky Akakyovich!” he called sharply.

Akaky came running over with great obedience. “Yes, sir,” he said respectfully.

“I have received information that there is a madman wandering the jetty in night trousers and without shoes. Probably had a little too much to drink.” At this point he paused to think of the best course of action. “Find him and report back to me. We wouldn't want him to cause any trouble.”

Akaky did not question the order, just as Kerensky had hoped. “Yes, sir,” he replied, and walked away to carry out Kerensky's bidding.

Kerensky did not know why the man on the jetty had any importance to him, but his intuition told him that this man had a greater story than his situation portrayed. This was some great intuition indeed to have come to such an accurate conclusion, for Kerensky had only so much as seen Likhodeyev mumble a few words and faint. But Likhodeyev's face had displayed a certain look that Kerensky did not recognize as an effect of alcohol. On top of that, a drunkard certainly couldn't make it all the way to the jetty in night trousers without being sent to the insane asylum. This rationalization, mixed with curiosity, told the officer to take more immediate action.

It wasn't long before Akaky returned with Likhodeyev, still in a largely frenzied state. Akaky had come across the pathetic man running around near the shore with seemingly no bearings whatsoever. The man would run in one direction for perhaps less than a minute before turning to try a different direction, effectively making no progress. At first, Akaky had observed all this from the safety of his car, trying to determine whether this was the madman he had been ordered to bring back. But the man looked so piteous to him that, being a fairly commendable and honest man, Akaky decided to pick him up anyway.

The consequent ride back to the office was rather unfortunate. Styopa, who believed the car to be a cab, insisted on being taken to the nearest airport immediately. “Moscow! Straight away! Variety Theater! I cannot be delayed!” This was the exact state of Styopa as he ran into the criminal investigation office, and much to Kerensky's dismay, he could not be quieted, drawing the entire office's attention. Most of the officials, having never dealt with a situation like this before, stayed bewildered in the safety of their chairs. A few officials even began to laugh at the wildly gesticulating man, as though they were watching some type of circus act. But no sooner did Styopa begin yelling something about a black Woland or black hypnosis, the officials had had enough, and someone suggested telephoning an insane asylum. Clearly, this man was beyond control, and no one really wanted to deal with him.

Kerensky immediately stepped in, his curiosity peaked by Styopa's exclamations. Variety Theater? Moscow? Why, that was fifteen hundred kilometers. How could a man travel that distance in bed clothes? And what was all this about black, Woland, and hypnosis?

“Gentlemen,” he addressed the other officials, “I'm sure the insane asylum is not the only solution.” He gave a patronizing smile as if to say, “Look here, this is a marvelous joke! Nothing too serious.” Then turning to Likhodeyev, he asked, “Your name and information, sir.”

Bewildered and flustered, Styopa continued to ejaculate disorderly information.

“Very good,” Kerensky interrupted, when he had heard enough to piece together some semblance of a profile. “Name Likhodeyev. Director of Variety Theater. Akaky, see if there is a Variety Theater in Moscow. Send them a telegram: we are holding their director and need confirmation of identity.”

Then firmly grasping Styopa's arm, Kerensky led him to the safety of his office.

Chapter 9: Koroviev's Antics

Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoy, house chairman of No. 302-b Sadovaya Strett in Moscow, where the late Berlioz resided, had had his hands full since Wendesday night, (Bulgakov, 105).