Писатель Илья Розенфельд

The agency " The Weavers " agency did not deal in textiles. Hans and Christina were conceptualists , specialists in reality management . Their office was sterile white, just like their reputation. The Emperor (and in our version — the President, whose rule had dragged on for thirty years, and the title of Emperor fitted him perfectly) received them in a closed bunker. He was old, cynical, and suffered from paranoia. — "I need something special for the Independence Day parade ," he said, drumming his fingers on the table. — "Ratings are falling. The people are whispering. I need a symbol." — "We don't sew clothes, Your Majesty," Hans answered softly. — "We sew loyalty."   — "We offer you a fabric made of the 'Matter of Pure Truth'," Christina chimed in. — "Its unique property is that it is invisible to traitors, fools, and those who are not in their rightful place. Only a true patriot can see it."...

Jacques-Pierre was nobody. A miller's youngest son who inherited not the mill (assets) and not the donkey (transport/logistics), but his father's debts and a ginger cat rumored to be able to open the fridge with his paw. Jacques sat on a worn sofa in a rented apartment on the outskirts, finishing a cheap beer. — "So, what am I supposed to do with you?" he asked, looking at the cat. — "Turn you into a hat?" The cat, whose name was Felix , blinked slowly. Then he stood on his hind legs, adjusted a non-existent tie, and, to Jacques' horror, spoke. His voice was velvet, with the rasp of an experienced lobbyist. — "Turning me into a hat is, monsieur, a one-time solution. Asset depreciation. I propose an investment. Buy me boots."  — "What?" — Jacques choked. — "Boots. Italian, handmade. And a good suit. Give me a month and a credit card, and I will make you the king of this city." "Or at least a marquis. Sounds good...