“You must understand, Galashnikov, that as an artist, my mind, my ability to think and create, is my greatest asset.” Pouring some tonic into his glass, Ovitch proceeded to mix in a popular opiate, some bromide, and some more opiate. “I would sooner spritz lemon juice on a paper cut than submit to a procedure that could damage my faculties.” With this he gulped down his tonic in one swift shot and slammed down the glass.
“I assure you, there is no such risk. It is a simple procedure, I have done it many times. I have here a small loupe which, inserted into your left nostril, will allow me to peer inside your head. A candle held below your right nostril provides illumination.”
“It sounds unpleasant.”
“Yes, and it feels unpleasant as well, but Anton Antonovitch, please, think of dear Temkin.”
And with a nod, the renowned Ovitch consented.
The gnome was shirtless and lithe, running with a pack of sparkling antelope amidst a grey savanna. This came as quite a shock to our Galashnikov, who was accustomed to docile gnomes, not such spry and carefree creatures.
Soon the sparkling antelope dispersed, running off in all directions, but another pack came rumbling through the plains, and yet more could be seen, running this way and that, all sparkling, their skins like soap-streaked mercury. This awesome sight, this madness on the plains, was like nothing short of a star field as seen through the eyes of a child.