TODAY, AS THE RAIN DRENCHES the grazing fields of Spruguns and threatens to flood the first floor of my expensive mansion, one of my servants is giving birth.
Wishing to protect her (since my sheer importance to mother Magyarország assures that this will inevitably be published), I will refer to this servant as P_gma, a name, which, I assure, doesn’t sound unlike as her real name at all.
P_gma has been impregnated by an unknown egg delivery personnel (in spite of owning a farm, I have to rely on other neighboring villages when it comes to eggs). I asked her, when she informed me of her condition six months ago, whose seed had fertilized her so as to create a living, potentially thinking soul inside her body.
She wouldn’t tell me for the afternoon, but when finally I jokingly told her, that it was OK, she didn’t have to be ashamed, I, too, had once been impregnated, she admitted that it was Boddir, our egg delivery personnel on the third quarter of the year last year.
I became angry almost instantly, and with great rush sent a telegram to Boddir’s employer, one of my closest acquaintances, Duke Kirrilovich—but the reply indicated that Boddir had left the continent for a trade with Spanish colonies in the New World.
For many days, P_gma mourned for her fate, and it didn’t at all console her when I told her that I was not telling the truth when I said to her I had once been impregnated. “It was biologically impossible,” I said.
When finally, P_gma did learn to accept her situation, she came into my study, asking if she could have the child while retaining her employment status in my residence—that is, not getting terminated.
I said, “No!” harshly, yet in the same humorous intention as when I made her believe I had actually once bore a child in my non-existent womb.
P_gma shivered in fear, thinking I was angry and would surely ask her to leave my house. She began crying and was already turning to leave, when I again informed her I was only kidding, and of course I would let her keep her job.
She couldn’t believe it, and stammered to think of something to say.
“Hush,” I said. “You will keep not only your job, but also your baby, only, he has to work until he is eighteen, upon which age, he will start research work to develop rockets. That’s the way to go these days, you know, rockets, and we have to learn to make them before the Germans do.”
“Oh thank you, Mr. Thyiordiky,” she said, “only, I don’t think I know what a rocket is? Say, Mr. Thyiordiky, what is a rocket?”
“Why,” I said, “something your son will develop when he turns eighteen!”
Today, at the servant quarters of my grand and expensive mansion, the greatest Sprugunskiesk is born!
