First Stage

Война (Эволюция хищника)

Мы привыкли думать о войне как о событии. Как о пожаре, который вспыхивает и гаснет. Какая наивность. Война — это не событие. Это форма жизни. Древний, совершенный суперхищник, который делит с нами эту планету. Мы для неё — не враги. Мы — кормовая база.

Рождение и юность

В начале времён Война была одноклеточной. Примитивной, как амеба. Камень бил о камень, дубина дробила череп. Она питалась грубо, отрывая куски плоти, и быстро засыпала.

В средние века она вступила в пубертатный период. У неё случился скачок роста. Война стала жадной, неопрятной и прожорливой. Она выкашивала целые города, не заботясь о завтрашнем дне. Столетняя война была её подростковым бунтом — бессмысленным и беспощадным. Она жрала так много, что чуть не погубила носителя. Во время эпидемий чумы и бесконечных битв человечество едва не кончилось.

Война испугалась. Она поняла главный закон паразита: нельзя убивать хозяина. Если умрут все люди, ей некем будет питаться.

Симбиоз и диета

В XX веке Война повзрослела. Она стала гурманом. Первая Мировая была её последним срывом, когда она объелась до кровавой рвоты. Вторая Мировая была попыткой селекции.

А потом наступила зрелость. Холодная война. Это был шедевр эволюции. Война перешла на низкокалорийную диету. Зачем убивать миллионы тел, тратя ресурсы? Можно питаться чистым, дистиллированным страхом. Она научилась замораживать конфликты, посасывая энергию через трубочку десятилетиями. Она стала респектабельной. Надела костюм, научилась говорить о «сдерживании» и «геополитике».

Цифровая мутация

И вот настал день, когда человечество решило, что победило. Генералы подписали Вечный мир. Ракеты распилили. Танки отправили на переплавку. Люди ликовали: «Война умерла!».

Глупцы. Она не умерла. Она сбросила кожу. Как вирус, которому стало тесно в биологической клетке, она ушла в «цифру». Ей больше не нужны железо и порох. Теперь она живёт в оптоволокне. Она — тот самый комментарий под постом, от которого у вас трясутся руки. Она — фейковая новость, заставляющая брата ненавидеть брата. Она — алгоритм, поляризующий мнения.

В тишине серверных комнат слышен лишь гул кулеров. Там, в проводах, Война сыто урчит. Она стала бессмертной. Ей больше не нужно ваше тело. Ей нужен ваш разум.

The Legend of Statistics (The Magic of Averaging)

There are lies, damned lies, and statistics. This is the science of how to turn a thousand unique, bleeding tragedies into one boring, convenient number. Statistics is the meat grinder of reality, producing a uniform mince of "indicators" at the output.

Gods of Chaos create individuality. Gods of Order create statistics. And the latter are far more terrifying.

The Average Human

In the Chamber of Weights and Measures, inside a vacuum flask, lives the creepiest creature in the Universe. His name is the Average Man.

He has one breast. One testicle. One and a half legs. In his stomach, there is always 200 grams of alcohol splashing, and 0.3 packs of cigarettes settle in his lungs. He has 1.7 children, whom he loves 54%.

He is neither man nor woman. He is the Norm. Gods fear him. Because he is invulnerable. You cannot kill him — if you kill a thousand people, the Average Man will just slightly frown and change the mortality rate by 0.001%. He is the anchor of our world. As long as he exists, deviations do not matter.

The Right to Be Counted

Ancient Rome understood the power of numbers better than we do. The Censor was more important than the Emperor. If you were not entered into the census scroll — you do not exist. You can scream, wave your hands, pay taxes — but to the empire, you are a ghost. You cannot be judged, but you cannot be protected either.

Romans knew: a person becomes reality only when they turn into a tally mark on a clay tablet.

In our days, nothing has changed. Public opinion polls possess the power of prophecy. If a poll shows that 80% of the population is happy, while outside the window the city is burning and people are eating rats — it means the burning city falls within the "statistical margin of error." Reality is obliged to adjust to the graph. If facts contradict the chart — so much the worse for the facts.

The Probability of a Feat

In a faraway land ruled by technocrats, trouble struck. A dragon kidnapped the princess. A hero arrived at the monster's cave. He was strong, brave, and, unfortunately, perfectly educated in mathematical analysis.

The hero drew not a sword, but a calculator.

— "Right," he said dryly. — "Let's assess the risks." The dragon stuck his head out, expecting a pathetic speech.

— "Flame temperature — 1200 degrees," muttered the hero. — "Durability of my armor — 40 units. Probability of a critical tail strike — 78%. Considering the volatility of the gold exchange rate in the treasury and inflation..."

The hero raised his eyes to the dragon. — "Chance of my survival — 0.03%. Chance of rescuing the princess while maintaining her marketable condition — 1.5%. Expected value of the feat is negative. The project is unprofitable. I am closing the position."

And the hero turned around and walked away.

— "Hey!" shouted the dragon. — "What about the battle? What about the legend?"

— "You are statistically insignificant," the hero threw over his shoulder. — "You are an outlier on the graph. You do not exist."

The dragon, shocked by such cynicism, fell into depression. He stopped burning villages because it didn't affect the GDP. A month later, he died of anguish and reporting violations. The princess married an actuary.

For in the world of statistics, there is no good and evil. There is only a confidence interval and standard deviation.

The Legend of Diplomacy (The Art of Exquisite Poison)

They say that language was given to man to conceal his thoughts. This is only partially true. Language was given to plebeians to lie. Diplomacy, however, was granted to the chosen few to conceal the absence of thoughts.

What is diplomacy? It is the art of saying "Go to hell!" with such warmth and concern that the opponent immediately begins packing their bags, anticipating an exciting journey. It is the ability to pet a dog while the muzzle is not yet ready.

The First Consultant

The history of diplomacy began not in the embassy offices of Vienna, but in the Garden of Eden. The Serpent was not a villain. He was the first cultural attaché. When the Serpent offered Eve the apple, he didn't lie. God forbid, diplomats don't lie—they "contextualize the truth."

— "Will you die?" the Serpent asked ingratiatingly, adjusting an invisible tie.

— "What vulgar simplifications. Let's put it this way: consumption of this agricultural product will lead to an irreversible transformation of your ontological status. You will become... more informed."

Eve signed this tacit pact. Adam joined the consensus. Humanity was expelled from Paradise, but the Serpent got a promotion. He proved the main principle of diplomacy: it doesn't matter what is written in the contract; what matters is how you interpret it.

Prince of Lies

Centuries passed. Diplomacy grew coarser until Charles Maurice de Talleyrand appeared. The lame devil in silk stockings. The man who sold everyone. The King, the Republic, the Directory, the Emperor, the King again. Moreover, he managed to sell some of them twice, getting a discount for bulk.

Once Talleyrand was asked why he changed sides so often. He merely raised an eyebrow and replied:

— "I never betrayed regimes. I just turned out to be faster than them. Betrayal is merely a matter of time. He who foresees—governs."

He elevated hypocrisy to the rank of high art. At the Congress of Vienna, while monarchs divided the map of Europe, Talleyrand divided oysters and redrew borders over dessert, simply because the sauce was successful.

War and Paper

The apotheosis of diplomacy became the Great War of two empires. The cause of the conflict was forgotten even before it began (it seems someone bowed incorrectly to the monarch's portrait), but the machine of destruction was launched. Generals sharpened sabers. Cannons were loaded.

A formality remained: to deliver the Note of Declaration of War. Two of the greatest ambassadors met on neutral ground in a tent of Chinese silk.

— "We declare war on you!" exclaimed Ambassador A.

— "Accepted," nodded Ambassador B. — "But allow me to note, Your Note is written on 'ivory' colored paper. According to the protocol of 1745, ultimatums are written on 'baked milk' colored paper."

— "What an oversight!" Ambassador A was horrified. — "We will rewrite it."

A month later they met again.

— "Now the paper is correct," agreed Ambassador B. — "But the font! You used italics with serifs. This looks like a wedding invitation, not a threat of destruction. This is lèse-majesté."

— "Oh, mon Dieu!" exclaimed Ambassador A. — "We will immediately convene a calligraphy commission."

Years passed. Ambassadors coordinated the shade of sealing wax. They argued whether it was permissible to use a quill from the left wing of a goose or only from the right. They discussed whether the courier delivering the note should knock on the door three times or four.

When the ideal, flawless, calligraphically verified War Note was finally ready and signed, a terrible thing was revealed. There was no one to deliver it to. The emperors had died of gout. The generals had passed away from boredom. And the armies... the armies simply went home because the soldiers' expiration date had run out.

War did not happen. Diplomacy won. For there is nothing more peaceful than the endless coordination of procedural issues.

The Legend of the Sacred Geometry of Waiting

Have you stood in a queue recently? A familiar sensation? A slight tingling in the legs, a dull hatred for the back of the head in front of you, and existential anguish in your gaze? If you think a queue is just an unfortunate coincidence, you are deeply mistaken. 

A queue is not a social phenomenon. It is a chthonic monster. An ancient serpent devouring the only thing we have — time.

The Evolution of Patience

It all began long before the appearance of man. Paleontologists (the smarter ones) know: the first queue arose in the primordial soup. 

Two amoebas simultaneously swam up to the only warm geothermal spring. There was enough resource for only one. By the laws of the jungle, they should have fought. But an unknown law of the Universe kicked in. One amoeba, instead of consuming its rival, suddenly froze and extended a pseudopod with a silent question: 

— "Excuse me, are you the last one?" 

The second amoeba, taken aback by such impudence, grunted in the language of enzymes: 

— "You'll be after me." 

Thus civilization was born. Chaos was replaced by order. And order, as is known, requires waiting.

The Geography of Standing

Over millions of years, the queue evolved, splitting into two great subspecies, much like Neanderthals and Cro-Magnons split.

Subspecies One: The British Queue (Queues Brittanicus). It is a cult. A religion of silence. The British queue is a collective meditation. People in it do not touch each other, preserving a sacred distance. If one person stands in front of a wall in London and ponders, a second will stand behind him within a minute. Just in case. It is impossible to destroy a British queue — it will only politely curve.

Subspecies Two: The Soviet Queue (Queues Sovieticus). It is a life form. An aggressive, noisy, multi-headed hydra. In it, it doesn't matter what they are standing for. The process itself is important. 

— "What are they giving out?" — asked a passerby, seeing a tail stretching beyond the horizon. 

— "Czech boots!" — shouted from the head. 

— "Blue chickens!" — came from the middle. 

— "Hope!" — whispered in the tail. In this queue, numbers were written on palms with an indelible pencil. These were the stigmata of faith. 

Losing your number was scarier than losing your conscience.

Charon and the Tickets

But the most terrifying queue awaits us not at the clinic, and not even at the post office before New Year's. 

Myths lie. Charon, the ferryman of souls across the River Styx, hasn't taken coins for a long time. He doesn't need money — there are no shops on the other side. He needs order.

At the crossing stands a terminal. It dispenses tickets with numbers. "G-666", "A-001". Souls crowd on the shore, nervously clutching ghostly slips of paper. Charon's boat is small, rubber, with a "Vikhr" motor that constantly stalls. 

And woe to the soul that tries to squeeze through without a number saying: "I just need to ask!". Charon does not argue. He simply hits them with an oar. And the insolent ones fall into the icy waters of the Styx, where such "hurriers" float eternally, trying to ask the fish where the head doctor is.

The Last Question

...And so a righteous man, who lived a worthy life, gives up the ghost. 

The light at the end of the tunnel turns out to be a fluorescent lamp. He opens his eyes and sees before him the majestic, pearl-shining gates of Paradise. Behind them is eternal bliss, ambrosia, and angels playing harps. 

But the gates are closed. And before them, disappearing into the clouds, stands an endless line of people. Here are Popes, and peasants, and kings, and programmers. Everyone stands still, looking at the back of each other's heads.

The righteous man feels a chill inside. It is an instinct. As ancient as that amoeba. He approaches the edge of the crowd. He does not ask if God exists. The righteous man does not ask what the meaning of life is. 

He touches the shoulder of the last one — some sad archangel with a crumpled wing — and asks the only question that matters in the Universe: 

— "Excuse me, am I after you?" 

— "After me," — sighs the archangel. — "But I'm warning you: Peter went to lunch." And an hour there counts as a millennium. 

The righteous man nods, submissively stands at the tail, and begins to wait. For eternity is simply a very, very long queue.

A Deal Without the Devil, or the Echo of the Little Ice Age

The legend says: Antonio Stradivari sold his soul to the Devil. Otherwise, where would such a sound in a piece of wood come from? A sound that doesn't just caress the ear, but crawls under the ribs and squeezes the heart. People whispered that the master mixed the varnish for his violins with bat blood and ash from the underworld, and dried the strings on hellfire.

The truth was much more boring. And much scarier. Stradivari was not a sorcerer. One day, as a child, he heard an angelic choir in a dream.

For the rest of his life, Stradivari tried to recreate this sound. He didn't want power or gold. He just wanted to build a wooden trap for God. Antonio was obsessed. He tapped on tree trunks like a doctor listening to a patient's lungs. He was looking for "the one" tree.

And nature, as if in mockery, gave him the perfect material. The 17th century in Europe was called the "Little Ice Age" (Maunder Minimum). Winters were fierce, summers were short. Spruces in the Alps grew painfully slowly. Because of the cold, the annual rings pressed against each other so tightly that the wood became hard as stone and resonant as glass.

This was not magic, this was dendrochronology. The tree suffered from the cold, and it was this suffering that gave it a voice.

Stradivari worked like a damned man. He mixed resins, propolis, and oil, trying to find a varnish that would not stifle the vibration but amplify it. He dried the violins in the attic, opening the windows so the Alpine wind would temper them. When he finished his masterpiece and drew the bow across the strings, the world around him froze.

It was that very sound from the childhood dream. Pure, high, piercing. Unearthly. Hearing his instruments play, people started to cry. They felt ashamed of their petty sins, of their vanity. This sound turned the soul inside out.

And the crowd got scared, for it is human nature to fear what is too beautiful. "God speaks quietly," they reasoned. "But this sound screams. Therefore, it is not God." It was easier for them to believe that Stradivari had made a deal with Satan than to admit that a simple mortal, through his labor and a piece of frozen spruce, could create something divine.

The master died at 93, rich but misunderstood. Until the very end, whispers about the sale of his soul followed behind his back. Only centuries later did scientists place chips of his violins under a microscope and see the anomalous density of the rings. They understood: the secret was in the climate, in the cold. In physics.

But the legend lives on to this day. Because people don't need physics. They need a fairy tale. The irony is that Stradivari's talent was attributed to Darkness precisely because the Light he caught was too bright for human eyes.

Quartet

Act 1. Vienna, 1913

Autumn that year was rainy. A small, smoke-filled bar in the center of Vienna smelled of dampness, expensive tobacco, and anxious anticipation.

Arthur sat at a corner table. He looked about fifty: an impeccable tweed suit, gray at the temples, calm hands resting on the tabletop. He wasn't drinking. He was observing. Arthur knew the old world was living out its final months. Swords had grown dull, cannons obsolete. The coming century required new management.

His gaze slid over the patrons.

At the bar, a heavy, corpulent man resembling a prosperous banker was haggling with a waiter. He was dressed to the nines but was greedily finishing off the free nuts. — You shortchanged me by a crown, — he mumbled, wiping greasy lips with a napkin. — Wastefulness will lead this empire to ruin faster than bullets. Arthur nodded to his own thoughts. This was Marcus. A man capable of creating a deficit with a single stroke of a pen.

A little further away, by the window, sat a painfully thin young man in wire-rimmed glasses. He grimaced fastidiously every time a lady at the next table coughed. The young man constantly wiped his long, musical fingers with a handkerchief soaked in something acrid. — Bacteria in enclosed spaces multiply exponentially, — he muttered into the void. — If people understood the beauty of purity, they would stop breathing on each other. This was Julian. A misanthropic virologist who considered his strains to be underappreciated art.

And there was a fourth. The most inconspicuous one. A man in a gray suit, with a face you forget a second later. He sat quietly, with a polite, slightly sad smile, simply watching people. He judged no one. He knew the finale of everyone in this room. This was Thomas.

Arthur picked up his glass, stood, and approached their tables, gesturing for them to join him. When they, bewildered, sat together, he spoke. His voice was quiet but cut through the street noise.

— Gentlemen, — began Arthur. — I have been watching you. You are talented, but fragmented. You are elements, and the world needs a system. — Who are you? — asked Marcus, covering a handful of nuts with his palm. — I am the one who makes decisions, — answered Arthur. — I am offering you a job. Not serving evil — that is vulgar and old-fashioned. I propose to organize chaos. It is barren. We will give it structure. We will become the Horsemen, so people know whom to fear. Fear breeds order.

They exchanged glances and agreed.

---

Act 2. Present Day. The Same Bar

More than a hundred years had passed. The interior had changed, becoming trendy and faceless, but the table in the corner remained the same.

The four gathered for a briefing. The mood was somber.

Arthur looked tired. The scars beneath his expensive suit ached. — I am losing control, — he admitted, swirling the whiskey in his glass. — War used to be an art, a duel of nations. Now it is a boring dispute between economic entities. Hybrid conflicts, drones, proxy armies... People have learned to kill each other without my direct order. I feel like a figurehead.

Julian nervously adjusted his turtleneck. — I have the same problem, Arthur. I created a masterpiece. An ideal virus. Elegant, with a beautiful distribution curve. I thought it would unite them or force them to repent. But they started gnawing at each other over masks and making money on vaccines. My art has been vulgarized. They turned tragedy into farce.

Marcus sighed heavily. Before him stood a plate of delicacies he hadn't touched. — The world has a crisis of overproduction, — he grumbled. — There is enough food to feed three planets. But people still starve. Do you know why? Because corporate greed is more efficient than me, Famine. My work has become meaningless. A satiated man invents nothing, that is my motto. But now, even the hungry invent nothing except new schemes for taking money.

Thomas remained silent the longest. He twirled a beer coaster in his hands. — You know what I think about? — he said quietly. — We always considered ourselves players. Figures that take pawns. But what if we are just squares on the board? And the players left long ago, leaving us to clean up this game? — What are you getting at? — frowned Arthur. — At the fact that we are tired, — replied Death. — Maybe it’s time to take a vacation? A Great Pause?

---

Act 3. The Great Pause

They quit the game. All at once.

Arthur recalled all armies. Conflicts fell silent. Weapons stopped firing. Marcus crashed food prices to zero. Food became free and ubiquitous. Julian destroyed all viruses and bacteria. Hospitals emptied. Thomas simply stopped showing up. No one died. At all.

For the first week, the world rejoiced. By the second month, Hell arrived.

Without the threat of death and war, the population began to grow at a monstrous rate. The planet was suffocating. Without the fear of the end, people lost their human semblance. Absolute, mindless hedonism began. Cruelty, unpunished by death, became the norm. Old people, begging for rest, could not leave and continued to wither eternally. The youth, deprived of the stimulus to survive, sank into apathy and debauchery.

A world without the Horsemen turned out to be more terrible than one with them. It was a rotting biomass, devoid of purpose, honor, and meaning.

---

Finale. The Return

They sat in the bar again. Outside the window, TV screens broadcast the madness engulfing the planet. Cities were burning, not from war, but from boredom and impunity.

They realized the tragic truth. They were not villains.

Arthur finished his whiskey, straightened his tie, and slowly stood up. The steely glint returned to his eyes. — Remember what Goethe wrote? — he asked. — "Part of that power which eternally wills evil and eternally works good." We were mistaken in thinking we were punishers. No, we are the immune system.

He looked around at his friends. — Time to work, gentlemen. Without us, they are just animals consuming resources. With us, they are heroes of a tragedy, capable of greatness. We give them meaning. We give them a finale that makes life valuable.

Marcus nodded, pulling out his tablet with stock market reports. Julian wiped his glasses, preparing to release a new strain.

They walked out into the night, towards the glow.

Thomas lingered at the exit. He beckoned the young waiter who had served them all evening. 

— Thank you, my boy, — said Thomas with a warm, fatherly smile. He left a generous tip on the table. Very generous. Because he knew: tomorrow this boy would die. And it would be an act of supreme mercy.

The "Last" Tariff, or The Mirror Trap

In the app, he was called simply "Ch." The car was a black sedan, so polished that it reflected not the street, but the sins of passersby. The interior smelled of ozone and expensive leather. No smell of dampness or mire. The Corporation went through a rebranding back in the 90s.

Ch. hated conversations. Not because he was gloomy, as the myths claimed. But because the "Olympus-Taxi" algorithm lowered the rating for "excessive engagement." The rules were strict:

1. Do not look the passenger in the eye (only in the rearview mirror).
2. Do not take tips (payment is deducted automatically: not in money, but in the client's most vivid memory. Reach the destination — and forget your mother's face. Such is the price of fuel).
3. Deliver from Point A (Morgue) to Point B (Distribution) silently.

If the rating dropped below 4.5, the driver was stripped of immortality and sent down, to the clients. This was called "Urshanabi syndrome" — in honor of that fool who once pitied a passenger and lost his license.

That night, the order came from an elite address. The passenger was a man of about forty, in a suit that cost more than the car itself. He sat in the back seat and, contrary to custom, did not start crying or praying. He was silent. 

Ch. drove off. The city floated past the windows, but instead of rain, someone's tears lashed against the glass. The River Styx was now just a six-lane highway without streetlights. Ch. glanced into the rearview mirror. In the Egyptian branch, he was called Mahaf — "The One Who Looks Behind." The mirror was his curse. In it, he saw not the passenger's face, but what he was leaving behind. Usually, there were ruins: abandoned children, unfinished books, betrayals. But behind this passenger, it was clean. Emptiness. The sterile, ringing emptiness of a man who lived only for himself.

"We've arrived," said Ch., parking at huge gates resembling the entrance to a data center. "Get out." The passenger didn't move. "I said, get out. Your 'Memory' transaction will go through now." 

"I won't get out," the passenger replied calmly. 

"That's a protocol violation. My rating will drop." 

"I don't care," the man looked into the mirror, meeting the driver's gaze. "I know where we've arrived. I read the user agreement. There, behind the gates, is nothing. But here, in the car... it's warm. And jazz is playing."

Ch. tensed up. This wasn't in the manual. "If you don't get out, Security will come. The Cerberi don't like to wait." 

"Let them come," the passenger chuckled. "But while we are in the car, I am the client. And the client is always right. Drive me around some more, Chief. I have a lot of emptiness in my account, you'll like it."

Ch. looked at the meter. The rating started blinking. If he didn't drop off the soul, he would be demoted. If he used force, he would be demoted. He looked in the mirror again — that very mirror of Mahaf which shows the essence. And for the first time in eternity, he saw not the passenger there. He saw himself. A tired driver who ferries other people's fates but has none of his own.

"Where to?" Ch. asked dryly, turning off the geolocation. 

"Anywhere where there is no such rain," replied the passenger.

Ch. locked the doors. A red notification lit up on the smartphone screen: "ROUTE REROUTED. URSHANABI LICENSE VIOLATION." 

He turned off the app. The screen went dark. For the first time in thousands of years, he was taking someone not where they needed to go, but where they wanted to go. 

The black sedan made a U-turn across the double solid line of the Styx and dissolved into the fog, carrying away two fugitives — one living dead man and one former god.

The Legend of the Great Pause

In the beginning was the Word. But it was not spoken immediately.

First, the Creator looked into the Abyss for a long time. The Abyss looked back at him with mute reproach, hinting that the deadlines were burning. The Creator sighed, brewed himself some tea made of stardust, adjusted his pillow, and said: "Just five more minutes."

According to the apocrypha, the world was supposed to be created in one day. Instantly. A snap of the fingers — and done. But the Almighty was a perfectionist with the makings of a procrastinator.

On Monday, he created Light, but decided he would separate the Darkness tomorrow because "one needs to evaluate with a fresh eye."

On Tuesday, he created the Firmament, but decided to pour the water on Wednesday, since "the riverbed needs to be prepared."

By the seventh day, when the "Genesis 1.0" project was due according to the schedule, the Creator looked at the platypus, at the giraffe, and at how strangely the laws of quantum physics worked, and waved his hand.

— It'll do, — he decided. — And we'll fix the bugs in the process.

And he rested. Although evil tongues claim that he didn't rest, but simply zoned out, watching how funnily these little bipeds run around.

Thus, the great principle was laid into the foundation of the universe: "Do not put off until tomorrow what can be done the day after tomorrow."

Patron Saints of Procrastination

People mistakenly call it laziness. Fools! Laziness is the absence of action. Procrastination is an action directed at avoiding another action. It is the most complex internal labor.

There were many adepts of this cult in history.

Let us recall the Roman general Quintus Fabius Maximus, nicknamed Cunctator (The Delayer). Hannibal rushed around Italy, smashing legions and shouting: "Come out and fight, coward!" But Fabius sat on a hill, chewed grapes, and replied to messengers:

— Not now. Mercury is in retrograde. 

The Romans were angry. The Senate demanded blood. But Fabius was simply stalling for time. He stalled so virtuously that Hannibal ran out of elephants, provisions, and nerves. Rome was saved not by the valor of the sword, but by the valor of the couch.

Or Hamlet. The whole world considers him a tragic figure tormented by doubts. In reality, he was the Great Procrastinator. He had a simple task: avenge his uncle. A five-minute job — walk in and poke with a rapier. But Hamlet stretched it out for five acts! 

He came up with excuses: "need to stage a play," "need to talk to a skull," "need to upset mom." He put off the murder for so long that in the end, everyone died on their own, simply from the awkwardness of the situation.

The Doomsday Asteroid

And then the moment of Truth arrived. An Asteroid was flying toward Earth.

It was as huge as Mount Everest and as angry as a tax inspector. 

Scientists were tearing their hair out. The military aimed missiles but understood — it was useless. Mere hours remained until impact. Humanity froze in anticipation of the finale.

In the Mission Control Center sat a duty operator named Simon. It was Simon who had the red button. The very one that launched the experimental planetary shield. The chance was one in a million, but it existed.

The timer ticked: 00:05:00... 00:04:59...

The shift supervisor yelled into his ear:

— Simon! Push it! We're all going to die!

Simon looked at the button. Then at the screen. Then at his unfinished coffee.

— Just a sec, — said Simon. — Just need to finish the level. The boss here is tough.

 — Have you lost your mind?! — squealed the general. — The asteroid is entering the atmosphere!

— There's time, — Simon noted philosophically. — Fuss destroys karma. I'll just finish playing now, wash my hands, and press it. Remember the motto? Do not put off until tomorrow what can be done... well, you know.

The Asteroid roared with flame. It already saw oceans, cities, terrified people. It anticipated the explosion that would split the planet in half. It was the embodiment of inevitability.

But then the Asteroid fell into thought. "Why now?" — flashed through its stony head. — "If I fall now, I'll explode, and that's it. End of career. I will exist no more. But if I fly past, make a loop around the Sun, look at Saturn... The rings are beautiful there. And I'll always have time to crash. In a couple of million years. Where are they going to go?"

The law of cosmic resonance worked. Simon's procrastination virus infected the celestial body.

The Asteroid slightly swayed its "hip," grazed the atmosphere, leaving a beautiful fiery trail, and went for a second lap. A long lap. For about fifty million years.

Silence reigned in the MCC. — You... you knew? — whispered the general, looking at Simon like a deity. Simon yawned, scratched his belly, and finally pressed the button. The shield deployed in the empty sky.

— Better late than on time, — he said. — And now we can have lunch.

The world survived. Simply because the End of the World was decided to be rescheduled to a more convenient date.

The Legend of the Great Seal and the Lost Meaning

In the beginning, there was Chaos. And Chaos was beautiful, but absolutely non-functional. The Gods created worlds, hurled lightning bolts, and lit stars, but no one recorded the coordinates. As a result, entire galaxies were lost in the folds of eternity, and heroes who performed feats could not receive their due ambrosia because they were not listed on the payroll.

It was then that this figure emerged. No one knows his name. The Sumerians claimed the stranger emerged from the waters of the Tigris, clutching a lump of raw clay. The Egyptians whispered that he was born from the shadow of the Sphinx. We, however, shall call him the First Clerk. 

He looked at the riot of elements, adjusted his non-existent glasses, and uttered the first bureaucratic spell in history: 

— "And where is the permit for the creation of light?"

The Gods were taken aback. They were not used to questions. They were used to hymns. 

— "I am the Alpha and the Omega!" thundered the Creator. 

— "I heard that," the Clerk replied calmly, pulling out a stylus. "But in the 'Position' field, you cannot write two letters of the Greek alphabet. Pick one. And provide a certificate of ownership for the Void. In triplicate." 

Thus, the System was born.

The Epoch of Clay and Reed

At first, it was hard—in the literal sense. Sumerian officials, those first knights of the Order of the Chancellery, wrote on clay tablets. It was difficult to refuse a petitioner, but if they did refuse, they could drop the "refusal" on the petitioner's foot. This taught citizens respect. Bureaucracy back then was weighty, rough, and visible. It didn't just regulate life; it cemented it. If you were recorded as a "date gatherer," you couldn't become a hero—the tablet wouldn't allow it; the clay had dried.

The Arrival of Prophets: De Gournay and Weber

Centuries passed, clay gave way to papyrus, papyrus to parchment, parchment to paper. Bureaucracy became lighter, airier, and therefore—scarier. In the 18th century, a man named Vincent de Gournay appeared in France. He was not a prophet, but a diagnostician. Looking at endless tables piled with papers, he realized that the desk (bureau) had gained its own will and power (kratos). He saw that the official does not serve the king and does not serve the people. The official serves the regulation. De Gournay tried to ridicule this monster, but the monster merely purred contentedly: satire is also a form of reporting.

Later came the German priest of order, Max Weber. He did not laugh; he admired. He saw in bureaucracy an ideal mechanism, free from love, hatred, and human passions. "The Iron Cage," said Weber. And he wasn't wrong (note the phrasing!). He described the ideal official: faceless, dispassionate, competent. A man-function.

Apocalypse per Form 13-B

And so, according to ancient prophecies, the End of Times arrived. 

The sky rolled up like a scroll (which already hinted at the clerical nature of the universe). Trumpets sounded. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse descended to earth. Plague, War, Famine, and Death rode down the main street of the metropolis, ready to begin their bloody harvest.

People fled in panic. Cities burned. But in front of the building of the Main Department of Reality Management, the Horsemen stopped. 

Before the entrance stood not an army, not holy saints, and not heroes. There sat a small, withered watchman in a grey uniform. 

In front of him was a boom barrier.

The Horseman named War reared his horse and raised a flaming sword: 

— "Tremble, mortal! The hour has come! We have come to erase this world!" 

The watchman slowly raised his eyes, licked his finger, and turned a page in the visitor log. 

— "Do you have an appointment?" he asked in a creaky voice.

The Horsemen exchanged glances. 

— "What?" croaked Death. "We are the Apocalypse! We are inevitability!" 

— "Inevitability is taxes," the watchman parried without standing up. "And you are visitors. According to Decree No. 666-bis from the creation of the world, entry for unauthorized persons onto the territory of Reality for dismantling works is permitted strictly with passes." 

— "I will burn you!" roared War. 

— "Damage to state property," the watchman noted indifferently. "Article 14, paragraph 5. A fine plus correctional labor for eternity. Do you want to spend eternity sweeping the parade ground in Limbo?"

Plague, who was a bit more cunning, leaned down from the saddle: 

— "Listen, old man. We have an order from above. From the Main One." 

— "An order in verbal form?" the watchman clarified. "Well... it's Divine Will!" 

— "Divine Will is a philosophical category," the guard cut him off. "I need Form AP-1 (Apocalypse Primary) with a blue stamp and the signature of the responsible person. And by the way, Citizen Death, your horse doesn't have a veterinary passport. And this is a quarantine district."

The Horsemen were bewildered. They were trained for battles, for suffering, for the Great Judgment. They were not trained for the line at Window No. 4. 

— "But what are we supposed to do?" asked Famine, whose empty stomach began to cramp from nerves. 

— "Write an application," the watchman handed them a form. "Review within thirty working eons. But I'm warning you right now: it's currently lunch break. 

And then we have an inventory of sinners. Come back next Thursday. Or in a millennium."

The Horsemen of the Apocalypse stood for a moment, whispered among themselves, and, hanging their heads, turned their horses around. There is no defense against a crowbar, but against bureaucracy, there is not even God's wrath, for wrath must first be registered in incoming correspondence. 

The world was saved. Not by heroism. Not by prayer. But by the fact that the End of the World simply had its paperwork filed incorrectly.