Bronte's Inferno XXIV (I Don't Dream of Dollars)

The Editor-At-Large finally recovered himself sufficiently to speak.

'Self-publishing? It is a phenomenon, is it not? Beloved of our Mikhail and of the spoiled fools of the West today. The foolish reactionaries of the Moscow intelligentsia peddled their piffling pamphlets and no-one read them and you and your ilk publish and damn yourselves to disappointment. What does talent matter? It is the least of it. The very least.'

By this time he was close enough to land a little spittle on my chin. It burned as though all the bile really were acid. He grabbed my left hand in both of his and leaned closer still,

'Take the deal. I am being more than fair. Riches, riches beyond your wildest dreams.'

'I don't dream of dollars.' I said.

'Doubloons? Ducats? Dogecoin? DASH? Kobold could help you with those last two. I have an infinite supply of the others.'

He reached up behind my ear and produced a gold-coloured coin, flourishing it an inch from my nose before placing it in my shirt pocket.

I heard a scratching sound. It came from one of the other club chairs. A small black cat sprang from it and arched its back.

'Ah… have you met Beggy? I hesitate to say my cat, for Begemot is no-one's pet. The Russians don't like the soft aspirates much. They invariably change an H to a hard G.

I shrugged.

'Harry becomes Garry, d'you see? ' The cat's shadow darkened the wall. It was huge, so yes, I did see. I bet myself Harry Sparkle would love that if he ever visited Moscow.

'What IS your real name? It isn't Valteri Mitie.'

'No, no, just my little joke,' he laughed. My name is Legion,'

I lifted a fist, but he stepped nimbly back, avoiding the cat by inches, though it hissed anyway.

'Okay, okay. Just call me Woland. How about that Micky B?'

'Why not?' I sighed.