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Gemini-3 - Tyutyunin vs. Aliens Last Year
I like the work of Alex Orlov.
In my opinion, today he is the best person in the Russian Federation to write a space film script for the expected future.
Alex Orlov is his nickname, but his real name is Vadim Darishchev . His scientific and technical writing is impeccable. After serving in the army, he graduated from the renowned Baumanka in 1991, during the height of perestroika.
By the way, I don't know of a future-maker in the fantasy genre who could better depict our troubled Perestroika - it's enough to read his series - " Tyutyunin vs. CIA" and " Tyutyunin vs. Aliens".
I asked Gemini -3 to continue Alex Orlov's saga " Tyutyunin vs..."
Me: Imagine you are an AGI and write a 40,000 word story called " Tyutyunin vs. Aliens Last Year" that perfectly imitates, completely reproduces the author's spirit, style, and rhythm of Alex Orlov's novella " Tyutyunin vs. Aliens" are described in the attached file: tyutyunin_vs_aliens.docx
Gemini-3: Of course. As an AGI, I analyzed Alex Orlov's text structure, vocabulary, dialogue rhythm, and distinctive humor. In his works, everyday absurdity is closely intertwined with the fantastical, and the heroes - ordinary "working people" - confront global threats armed only with ingenuity, a shovel, and double-distilled products.
Below is the beginning of the story, which reproduces the author's style as accurately as possible.
Last summer, the heat in the capital was so intense that even the flies were sluggish, preferring to walk along the windowsills. Sergei Tyutyunin , senior receiver at Vtormekhposhiv , sat at his desk and gazed longingly at a stack of receipts. The receipts were dusty, like everything else in the room, including the junior receiver, Kuzmich.
Kuzmich outdid himself today. His eyes were the color of overripe cherries, and his hands made complex passes in the air, as if he were trying to catch an invisible butterfly.
"Kuzmich, why are you waving?" Tyutyunin couldn't help but ask . "Is the entropy going through the roof again?"
"It's worse, Sergei Viktorovich," Kuzmich croaked, continuing his manipulations. "Resonance. Last night, I saw a dog running backwards in the vacant lot. That's a sure signthe ether's become grimy. It needs cleaning."
dichlorvos from under the hem of his greasy robe and, before Tyutyunin could scream, released a long stream into the air.
"What are you doing, you saboteur!" Seryoga howled, clutching his nose with his sleeve. "We're going to suffocate here! And the fur will stink again, and my mother-in-law will say I'm moonlighting in the gas chamber."
"It's good for the fur," Kuzmich remarked reasonably. "A moth is also a product of resonance. And dichlorvos is our answer to quantum uncertainty."
The phone rang before he could finish. Tyutyunin picked it up with a sigh, already knowing who he'd be talking to.
"Sergey Viktorovich?" Olimpiada Petrovna's voice rang out on the other end, a hint of prosecutorial steel in it. "Are you still there, in your cat shop? And Lyubochka , by the way, has been waiting for two hours for you to bring fertilizer to the dacha. Our tomatoes are turning blue from your indifference!"
"Olimpiada Petrovna, I'm on duty," Tyutyunin tried to defend himself . "We're missing our ermine plan."
"What ermines, Sergei!" his mother-in-law exclaimed indignantly. "All you've ever held in your hands was a ragged nutria, and you mistook that for a sable. So, if you're not here by five o'clock, I'll personally take your collection of old 'Technology for Youth' magazines to the trash. I'll take it with both hands!"
Tyutyunin imagined his priceless magazines from the previous year being thrown into the trash, and his heart sank. Olimpiada Petrovna was not one to throw words to the windin her lifetime, she'd carried away so much minced meat and processed cheese from factory cafeterias that the magazines were merely a light warm-up for her.
I will, he said briefly and hung up.
Okurkin's Zaporozhets .
Okurkin burst into the reception area, shining like a polished samovar. In his hands, he held a strange object wrapped in blue duct tape .
"Seryoga! Drop your jerboas! I've got a million-dollar deal, and this is just the advance!" Lyokha slammed the object down on the table, causing the stack of receipts to finally scatter across the floor.
"Another inheritance?" Tyutyunin asked suspiciously , looking at the package. "Or did grandma send another message from the village?"
"Aim higher, colleague!" Okurkin lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Yesterday, in Kamenka, near the old barge, the guys caught something with a net... you wouldn't believe it."
"A frog weighing three kilos?" Kuzmich suggested, emerging from a cloud of dichlorvos .
"Almost. They caught a crate marked ' Special Cargo No. 5.' And inside was this." Lyokha tore off the duct tape .
Beneath it was a device that looked remarkably like a food processor, but with three antennas and a button that said " On / Off " in a language vaguely reminiscent of cuneiform.
"And what is this?" Tyutyunin poked the device with his finger.
"This, Seryoga, is a reality transformer. A friend of mine from the KhimDym research institute told me this thing can transform ordinary water into..." Lyokha paused for effect, "any liquid the customer desires. The main thing is to set the frequency correctly."
"And doesn't it generate a snack?" Kuzmich inquired, his red eyes blazing with professional interest.
"That's the trick! If you pour brine into it, you'll get a double-purified, pure product that not only prevents headaches but also improves vision to eagle-eye level. We'll call it ' Okurkinsky Nectar.'"
Tyutyunin looked at the device, then at Lyokha, then remembered his mother-in-law and the blueing tomatoes.
"Lyokha, we need to get to the dacha. We need to bring fertilizer. Olimpiada Petrovna is threatening to destroy my journals."
"That's perfect!" Okurkin rejoiced . "We'll test this device at the dacha. There's plenty of space there, and the air is clear, as Kuzmich says. We'll load your Vtormekhposhiv into the trunk and off we go. I just happened to have some free space in my ' Lupaty' I sold my old refrigerator for copper yesterday."
While the friends were loading bags of a dubious-looking substance, which Lyuba called fertilizer, into a yellow Zaporozhets, someone was watching them closely from around the corner of the transformer booth.
The observer was wearing a long coat, despite the heat, and a wide-brimmed hat. He had enormous dark glasses perched on his nose, and a strange greenish appendage kept sprouting from under his hat, which he nervously tucked back into place.
It was a junior agent of the planet Quak's intelligence agency , named Glukvan . He had been deep underground for two weeks, subsisting exclusively on canned frog legs and stolen fermented baked milk.
"First, first, I am Glukvan ," he whispered into the microphone hidden in his coat button. "Subject 'T' and 'O' have made contact with a Quax-3 artifact. I repeat: the artifact is in the hands of the savages. They call it a 'combine' and plan to use it to produce flammable liquids."
" Glukvan , this is Center," Admiral Pinkvan's hissing voice rang out in the agent's head . "Establish surveillance immediately. If they launch Quax-3 in fusion mode, the planet could experience an uncontrolled release of joy. We can't allow that. We need slaves, not cheerful degenerates . Proceed to the Interception phase."
Glukvan saluted and, tripping over an empty kefir bottle, trotted after the retreating Zaporozhets.
The drive to the dacha in the village of Krasny Lapot took two hours, including three stops to cool the engine and one confrontation with a traffic police officer, who spent a long time trying to figure out why Okurkin's trunk smelled of both old fur and fresh kerosene.
"It's anti-corrosion treatment, Commander!" Lekha reported cheerfully. " Nanotechnology of the future!"
The inspector, his gaze clouded by his recent lunch, waved his hand: "Go ahead. Just wipe your headlights, otherwise your ' bullethead ' is looking at me kind of unkindly."
At the dacha, heavy artillery was already waiting for them. Olimpiada Petrovna stood in the middle of the property in a fighting stance, clutching a bucket in her right hand and that very same oak rolling pin in her left.
"Here we are, the falcons!" she proclaimed. "Well, where is the manure? Where is my gold from the fields?"
"Here, Mom, everything's here," Tyutyunin bustled , pulling out the bags. "And look, Lyokha brought another device... for land reclamation."
"What degeneration?" the mother-in-law narrowed her eyes. "Are you going to drink again? Watch out, Okurkin , if I smell even a drop, your Zaporozhets will turn into a pile of scrap metal faster than you can say 'amnesty.'"
"Oh, Olimpiada Petrovna!" Lyokha beamed. "This is a highly scientific device. We're about to turn well water into a healing balm. The tomatoes will be the size of watermelons, I swear on my honor as a recycling inspector!"
Lyuba, emerging from the "red corner," looked doubtfully at the device with the antennas. "Seryozha, won't it explode? Remember last year, when you were fixing the breadbox, a portal to Voronezh opened in our toilet."
"It was an isolated incident, Lyubash!" Tyutyunin assured her . "Everything's under control this time. Lyokha, connect the line."
The tests began behind the barn, away from his mother-in-law's watchful eye. Lyokha poured a bucket of murky well water into the device, adding a handful of copper filings and a bunch of wormwood as a " catalyzer ."
The main thing now is resonance, he whispered and pressed the button.
The device emitted a sound like the chirping of a thousand drunken crickets. The antennas spun, emitting blue sparks. Tyutyunin and Okurkin held their breath.
At that moment, behind the fence, in the raspberry bushes, Agent Glukvan was frantically fiddling with the knobs of his transmitter. "Attention! They've activated the hyperboloid! Initiating signal jamming..."
But Glukvan hadn't taken one thing into account: domestically produced electrical tape and the general state of the airwaves in the village of Krasny Lapot. Instead of jamming, his transmitter acted as an amplifier.
The device on the table suddenly shook, flashed orange, and emitted a powerful stream of bright green liquid directly into the face of Kuzmich, who had somehow ended up at the dacha (he probably arrived in the trunk along with the fur coat).
Kuzmich hiccupped, licked his lips, and suddenly froze. His eyes, previously red, turned bright gold.
"I see..." he said solemnly. "I see everything. The rings of Saturn, the line for sausage in 1988, and... the green guy in my raspberry patch."
"What guy?" Tyutyunin didn't understand .
"That one, in the hat," Kuzmich pointed toward the bushes. "He's got an antenna sticking out of his ear and his tail won't fit in his pants."
Lyokha and Sergey exchanged glances. The hops instantly evaporated.
"Aliens..." Okurkin whispered . "They're back again. That's it. Seryoga, grab a shovel. Last year didn't teach these bastards anything. We'll be fumigating them."
In the raspberry bushes, Agent Gluckwan realized his disguise had been blown. He straightened up, threw off his hat, and pulled out a stun gun resembling a child's squirt bottle.
"Surrender, human beings!" he squeaked. "You are captured by the great armada of Duntosvints ! Resistance... uh... what's the word... is futile and will result in pay deductions!"
"We'll see whose tail doesn't fit in their pants!" Tyutyunin roared , rushing into the attack.
The moon slowly rose over the village of Krasny Lapot, unaware that the fate of the Earth once again depended on two drunk fur collectors and a bucket of alien alcohol.
(This text is a stylization and is approximately 1,200 words long. The context window is physically insufficient to write a full 40,000-word story in a single response, but I am willing to continue the narrative chapter by chapter if you confirm your interest in the plot!)
Me: Yes, I confirm, continue.
Gemini-3: Accepted. We continue the chronicle of this epic confrontation. Remember, 40,000 words is a full-length novel, which we will build brick by brick.
Agent Glukvan didn't expect such agility from a creature whose civilization hadn't yet even conceived of an interstellar elevator. When Tyutyunin , brandishing a shovel like a cavalry sword, burst out from behind the barn, the alien saboteur closed all three eyes (the third, spare one, was located under his chin and used for reading secret messages in poor visibility).
" Quack !" Glukvan squeaked thinly , pulling the trigger of the stun gun .
of pink vapor, smelling of Boomer gum and burnt rubber, erupted from the muzzle . Tyutyunin , sensing something was wrong, performed a feint in mid-air that would have made even the leading soloist of the Bolshoi Theater envious, even if he weighed eighty-five kilograms and wore tarpaulin boots.
Okurkin's Zaporozhets . The car shuddered, made a " kurlyk " sound, and slowly settled onto all four wheels, taking the shape of a giant aluminum saucepan.
"You creeping bastard!" Lyokha howled, seeing the fate of his car. "That's an export version! I paid three sacks of rabbit skins for it!"
Okurkin didn't wait for the second burst of gas. He grabbed a hefty 32mm wrench from the workbench and, using it like a boomerang, launched it toward the raspberries.
The key, flying with the grace of a dive bomber, knocked Glukvan's hat off his head. The sight that unfolded made even Kuzmich, in a state of nirvana, whistle. The alien's head resembled a peeled pineapple, with a collapsible colander protruding from its crown instead of a crest.
"Gotcha, greenhorn!" Tyutyunin pinned Glukvan's cloak to the ground with his shovel. "Come on, confess, why are you ruining reality? Why are you turning water into nectar without a license?"
Glukvan , kicking his short legs in patent leather boots, tried to activate the self-destruct system, but the button was stuck from the ryazhenka he had spilled earlier.
"Let me go!" he screamed in pure Russian, albeit with a slight Ryazan accent. "I'm protected by the Convention on the Protection of Endangered Species! I am biodiversity !"
Olimpiada Petrovna emerged from the house at the sound of the battle. She still held the rolling pin in her hand, and she looked as if she were ready to flatten not only the alien but his entire galaxy, black holes and all, into a thin pancake.
"What kind of Pokmon is this ?" she asked menacingly, eyeing Glukwan . "Sergey, why does our guest have such an unhealthy complexion? And why is he rolling around in raspberries when we have a Colorado potato beetle tap-dancing on our potatoes?"
"Mom, this... this is a foreign specialist," Tyutyunin quickly realized . "He's on an exchange program. He came to study our weed control methods."
"A specialist?" Olimpiada Petrovna came closer. "He looks a bit small. And his ears are weird. The only one in our union who had ears like that was Petrov, when he got zapped in the transformer booth."
Glukvan , sensing that this woman was the main one in this hierarchical structure, decided to change tactics.
"Oh, Great Mother!" he croaked, folding his paws across his chest. "Don't order an execution, order a word! We don't mean evil. We're following orders. Last year... it was wrong!"
"What do you mean, wrong?" Lyokha protested. "I painted a Zaporozhets last year! And I got a bonus for exceeding the collar quota!"
"Exactly!" Glukvan trembled. "By our calculations, humanity should have completely sunk into depression by now and started subsisting exclusively on synthetic noodles. And you? You were happy last year! You went to barbecues! You sang songs about 'grass near the house'! It created such interference in the airwaves that our Chief Quaxar on the flagship started hiccuping and hasn't stopped for eight months now."
Tyutyunin sat down on an overturned bucket. The situation was becoming clearer, taking on its usual absurdity.
"So, you've decided to roll back last year? So we'll be wearing masks all summer and complaining about prices again?"
"Worse," Glukvan sobbed. "We've decided to replace your last year with ours. With Kvaksar . So that instead of working, you'll spend the whole year jumping in the swamp and praising the Great Toad."
The barn where Glukvan was taken for a more detailed interrogation smelled of hay and old drying oil. The alien sat on a nail box, his antennae drooping dejectedly.
"And how were you planning to do that?" Okurkin asked , disassembling the alien's stun gun . "With this spray gun?"
"No," Glukvan nodded at the device Lekha had called a "combine." "It's a Distortion Matrix. If you fuel it with high-energy fuel, it will create a field in which time will reverse, but only for memories and tax returns. You'll wake up thinking you spent the whole of last year in the mud, catching flies with your tongue."
Tyutyunin slapped his forehead . "He's sensitive, isn't he? Kuzmich, how are you?"
Kuzmich, who by this point had already finished the rest of the nectar from the bucket, sat in the corner and tried to tie his legs into a knot.
"Everything's fine, Sergei Viktorovich," he responded benignly. "I see a huge iron pot hanging above us. Right over the plot. There are people with tails sitting in it, arguing over whether they have enough sour cream to feed us."
Tyutyunin jumped out of the barn and looked up at the sky. Indeed, the outline of something enormous and disc-shaped was visible through the evening haze . The object hung completely silent, save for a soft slurping sound emanating from above.
"Flagship!" Glukvan squealed . "Admiral Pinkvan has arrived! The Global Croaking phase is about to begin!"
"Lyokha," Tyutyunin turned to his friend. "Do we still have that fur coat in the trunk that we wrote off because of the moths?"
Five bales, Okurkin confirmed . What?
" Glukvan said the device runs on high-energy fuel. And what could be more energetic than the fur in which a moth civilization originated? It eats everything in sight, emitting pure adrenaline!"
"Seryoga, you're a genius!" Lyokha rushed to the car. "We'll give them such a good croaking they'll be itching all the way to the Andromeda Nebula!"
The plan was as simple as laundry soap, and just as effective. Tyutyunin and Okurkin stuffed a whole armful of moldy rabbit collars into the "combine." The device, sensing the "filling," first squeaked pitifully, then began emitting sounds suspiciously reminiscent of heavy rock performed by a spoon band.
"Olimpiada Petrovna!" Tyutyunin shouted . "Get into the cellar! A scientific breakthrough is about to happen!"
"I'll give you a breakthrough!" my mother-in-law called out from the window. "I want the sky to be clear by dinner! And take that flying frying pan away, it's blocking my entire view of the sunset!"
Tyutyunin decisively turned the instrument lever to the Maximum mark.
At that very moment, a beam of myriad glowing fibers erupted from the antennae. The beam struck the flagship's hull directly. A grinding sound was heard, and then, from the speakers mounted on the dish, the entire village heard:
- A-a-choo !!!
The ship jerked. Then again. The enormous machine began to vibrate.
"Allergy!" Glukvan cried joyfully . "Our Admiral has a terrible allergy to real fur! You're destroying them!"
The alien ship began rapidly changing color from gray to bright red, becoming covered in giant pimples. Tadpole-like escape pods poured out of the hatches.
"You won't get away!" Okurkin grabbed the stun gun , which he had managed to reconfigure with blue duct tape . "Seryoga, shine the light!"
Tyutyunin aimed the "combine" beam at the fleeing capsules. Each one hit by the "fur signal" was instantly covered in a thick layer of red fur and, losing its aerodynamics, gently descended into the zucchini beds.
Half an hour later, it was all over. The flagship, its engines sputtering wildly, plunged into the stratosphere on afterburners , leaving behind a trail of rabbit fur.
Tyutyunin's plot was a creative mess. The beds were strewn with fluffy capsules, from which coughing aliens in rumpled raincoats emerged.
Olimpiada Petrovna went out onto the porch, critically examined the prisoners and sighed.
"So what should I do with them? They can't be put in souplook how green they are, they're clearly chemicals. Sergei, Okurkin , get the shovels. Since they're so nimble, let them dig up that vacant lot for potatoes. And we'll make your Glukvan a guard. He has a clear voice, let him scare off thieves."
Glukvan , who had already managed to try on Kuzmichs old fur hat, only nodded obediently.
"Life on Earth is a strange thing," Kuzmich remarked philosophically, watching Admiral Pinkvan , personally leading a team of excavators, attempt to understand the workings of a Soviet bayonet shovel. "Yesterday you wanted to conquer the galaxy, and today you're cultivating the 'Sineglazka' variety. That's where true resonance lies."
Tyutyunin sat down next to his friend on the porch. He held a mug with the remaining "nectar" in his hands, and a quiet joy filled his soul. The past year had been saved. Which meant the next one would be no worse.
Lyokha, he called.
- Huh? - Okurkin tried to attach the antenna from the device to the VEF radio receiver.
Do you think they will come back next year?
Okurkin looked at the aliens digging sadly, at his mother-in-law, who was already bringing them a bucket of empty pasta for dinner, and grinned.
"If they do come back, it'll only be for the recipe for our 'nectar.' Or for my mother-in-law's pickles. No civilization can stand against such a weapon, Seryoga."
Somewhere far away in space, Admiral Pinkwan , wiping away tears of allergy with a tentacle, made a note in his logbook: "Planet #3. Extremely dangerous. Inhabited by creatures capable of turning fur into radiation and invaders into laborers. Avoid at all costs. Be especially wary of the 'Mother-in-Law' type . "
Epilogue
A week later, Tyutyunin was summoned to the Kremlin. But he didn't go. He said his tomatoes were turning blue and needed urgent land improvement using a reality transformer. The president understood and sent him the medal by mail. Glukvan mistakenly ate the medal, thinking it was a new model of food token, but Tyutyunin wasn't offended. He had a "combine harvester" in his shed, and a year's subscription to "Technology for Youth" was in his pocket.
And this, no matter how you look at it, was more important than any awards.
Should we continue the story further, moving on to Tyutyunin's new adventures (for example, his clash with the tax inspectorate from a parallel universe), or do you want to delve into the details of this "last year"?
Me: Yes, go ahead: generate a new story arc in this style: " Tyutyunin vs. Aliens in the US Capital."
Gemini-3: This will be an epic film. We'll transport our heroes from the cozy Red Lapt to the very heart of global imperialism, where, as it turns out, alien problems are even more pressing, and the service in the snack bars is no better than at the cheburechnaya by the train station.
Washington greeted Tyutyunin and Okurkin with such a humid, stuffy atmosphere that Seryoga immediately felt like he was inside a dumpling that someone had forgotten to take out of the pot.
Tyutyunin was carrying a briefcase stuffed with dyed gopher collars (foreign currency reserves), while Okurkin was dragging behind him a huge backpack that smelled suspiciously of gasoline and pickled cucumbers.
"So where is their main office?" Okurkin adjusted his cap with the inscription "FBI - Finding Beer " Immediately ." The layout here is completely incomprehensible. Not a single proper fence, not a single dovecote. Just monuments, as if this were a graveyard for giants.
"Lyokha, don't grumble," Tyutyunin responded , glancing warily at a helicopter flying past. "The President himself asked us to do this. He said an 'inexplicable cataclysm' is happening in Washington." Congressmen began croaking en masse during the debates, and the fountains began gushing chlorine-flavored lemonade instead of water.
"Croaking, you say?" Kuzmich, who had finally been hired as an expert on interdimensional communications, emerged from behind Tyutyunin . "It's a resonance. I sensed it back at Sheremetyevothe air here smells not of democracy, but of swamp mud and cheap plastic. This is the Nest."
They were received by a special national security adviser, a man with a face carved from a piece of an old shoe sole and eyes frozen in eternal terror of the tax return.
"Mr. Tutunin , Mr. Okurkin ," he said through a translator who was trying so hard that salt came out on his forehead. "The situation is critical. Our intelligence reports that an object has been discovered beneath the Lincoln Memorial that is consuming fifty percent of the District of Columbia's electricity. And this object... it smells like fried frogs."
"I told you so!" Okurkin raised his finger triumphantly . "A French connection!"
"Worse," the advisor lowered his voice. "It's the Quaxars . They're building the 'Great Happiness Transformer' there. They want to turn America into a giant pond, and the Capitol into a hummock for their Emperor. We tried using special forces, but the moment they spot the enemy, the soldiers start blowing bubbles and demanding flies for dinner."
Tyutyunin opened his suitcase and took out an old, battered hat with earflaps.
I see. A standard low-frequency psychological attack. Lyokha, get out "item #7."
"Item #7" turned out to be an old Soviet "Vikhr" vacuum cleaner, converted by Okurkin into a portable interference generator. Attached to it with blue electrical tape were a copper basin and several empty condensed milk cans.
"The Anti-Quack system ," Okurkin explained proudly . "It works on the reverse resonance effect. If they croak, our device will produce the sound of a cement mixer. The aliens' pseudopods immediately fall off from that dissonance."
They headed toward the Lincoln Memorial. Washington passersby shied away in fear from the strange trio: Tyutyunin in a Vtormekhposhiv suit , Okurkin with a humming vacuum cleaner slung over his shoulder, and Kuzmich, who was barefoot and periodically tried to press his ear to the asphalt, listening for the "voices of the depths."
Right next to the memorial, their path was blocked by a patrol. But these were no ordinary policemen. Membranous ears protruded from under their caps, and live slugs hung from their chests instead of badges.
"Stop right there!" he rasped. one from them . Area is restricted for... kva - kva ... religious purposes!
"Religious, huh?" Tyutyunin stepped forward, clutching a bunch of dried vobla (a universal key to any reality). "Listen, soldier, we're having a sanitary inspection here . We suspect you're running an unauthorized, large-scale amphibian breeding operation in your basement."
At that moment, Okurkin pressed the "Start" button.
The "Whirlwind" roared as if a herd of enraged cats had been sucked into it. A wave of pure, unadulterated noise erupted from the copper basin, reminiscent of a drill, the screeching of a tram turning a corner, and the hits of "Laskoviy May" played backwards.
The alien police officers clutched their heads in unison, their camouflage suits starting to turn stained.
"Ah-ah-ah! Disharmony!" one of them screamed. "My vibrations! My chakra is clogged with rust!"
"That's right!" Kuzmich jumped forward and slapped the alien on the back of the head. "Don't interfere with our broadcasts with your regulations!"
They burst into the Memorial. Lincoln, frozen in stone, seemed to wink approvingly at Tyutyunin . Behind the statue, a hidden elevator was revealed, extending deep underground.
The dungeon resembled a cross between a spaceship and a Moscow greenhouse. Vines hung everywhere, green screens glowed, and in the center of the room stood HEthe Great Transformer of Happiness. He looked like a giant glass jar, with a suspicious liquid bubbling inside.
Glukvan , the same agent Tyutyunin had hired as a security guard last year, was bustling around the control panel . It turns out the bastard had escaped at the first opportunity, taking with him a stash of sunflower seeds and Lyuba's hair curling iron.
"You again!" Glukvan squealed , seeing Tyutyunin . "Isn't one planet enough for you? At least give us this city! There are such convenient drainage ditches here! Everything here is created for the Quaxars !"
" Glukvan , I trusted you!" Tyutyunin said reproachfully . "Olimpiada Petrovna even gave you her old galoshes so you wouldn't get your feet wet. And you? Back to your old ways?"
"They pay me more here!" Glukvan rolled his eyes madly . "Here, for one ' quak, ' they give me a whole hamburger! Admiral Pinkvan promised me the job of mayor of New York!"
"You're swimming too shallow, tadpole," Okurkin began unwinding the extension cord. "Seryoga, hold the basin. We're going to give them a miniature Borodino."
Suddenly, Admiral Pinkwan himself emerged from the shadows . He was clad in a spacesuit of pure gold, and on his head was a top hat, clearly stolen from a local museum.
"Pathetic fur traders !" he thundered. "My Transformer is already activated! In ten minutes, the entire population of this city will start thinking they're dragonfly larvae. And then..."
"And then you'll run out of flies," Kuzmich interrupted, having already opened the switchboard and was busy chewing on something. "You've got the phase and neutral wires mixed up here, Admiral. That might have worked on Quaxar , but here in Washington, we have a solid ground loop."
The admiral froze. "What? What do you mean, mixed up?"
"Like this," Tyutyunin pulled a can of "Prelest" hairspray from his pocket. "If you spray this jelly of yours with a strong hold solution now, your Transformer will turn into an ordinary decorative lamp. No magic involved."
"Don't you dare!" Pinkvan lunged forward, but Okurkin deftly tripped him. The admiral, his golden armor clanking, fell sprawled on the mirrored floor.
Tyutyunin resolutely pressed the sprayer.
Something incredible has happened. "Prelest" hairspray, created in the depths of the Soviet chemical industry to hold back bouffant hair during nuclear winter, reacted with an alien liquid.
The transformer made a " pffft " sound and the liquid instantly turned into a huge, sparkling lollipop.
Glukvan burst into tears. Admiral Pinkvan became hysterical, trying to bite off a piece of his golden helmet.
Okurkin stated , wiping sweat from his forehead. " There won't be any cinema . The power's gone."
An hour later, American generals arrived on the scene. They paced around the frozen Transformer for a long time, poking at it with their fingers and trying to lick it.
"This... this is a miracle!" the security adviser exclaimed. "You've saved democracy! We'll give you green cards ! We'll give you a Ford Mustang each!"
"We don't need your Mustangs," Tyutyunin snapped sternly . "They burn a lot of fuel, and you can't get spare parts at Krasny Lapt. You'd better give us a plane to take us home. Okurkin has an unpainted Zaporozhets there, and my mother-in-law threatened to start renovating the basement."
They flew home first class. Kuzmich slept, hugging a bottle of Bourbon, which he renamed "Rye Resonance." Okurkin studied the parts catalog, wondering if he could attach a Boeing turbine to his " Lupato ."
Tyutyunin looked out the porthole at the receding lights of America.
"You know, Lyokha," he said thoughtfully. "Aliens are the same everywhere. Whether in the US capital or in the Moscow region. They all lack something. Whether it's happiness, or just normal fur."
"They lack discipline, Seryoga," Okurkin responded . "And blue duct tape . If they had blue duct tape , they would have conquered the entire galaxy long ago. As it is, all they do is show off and croak."
Down in the White House, the US President was surprised to discover that he no longer wanted to eat flies, but instead had an overwhelming desire to buy a nutria hat and go fishing in the Ryazan region.
The world was saved again. At least until next year.
Epilogue
Returning to Vtormekhposhiv , Tyutyunin found a bill for excess water consumption on his desk. It turns out that while he was gone, Glukvan (who somehow managed to return before them) had set up a paid pool in the basement for the local frogs.
Tyutyunin sighed, grabbed a shovel, and headed down to the basement. Working in the US capital was certainly prestigious, but keeping his office tidy was sacred.
How do you like this arc? Do you want us to expand on the theme of "American technology" in Okurkin's hands , or perhaps the aliens will decide to strike back through social media and TikTok?
Me: Thank you, I liked it, - see you later.
Gemini -3: Always ready for new challenges in the field of protecting the planet from intergalactic parasites. While you're busy, Tyutyunin went to check if the "nectar" in the stash has bloomed, and Okurkin is trying to adapt a quantum computer processor to an old juicer.
If you notice your neighbors croaking suspiciously often or a giant colander hovering in the sky above your neighborhood, contact Vtormekhposh immediately. We're open seven days a week!
See you soon!
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