On the terrace of the residence, the morning rays shone upon a potted ficus—a gift from His Majesty, the Contra-King. It looked at it longingly and went back into the living room. The Contra-King always knew how to choose the perfect gift, revealing hidden talents in everyone he bestowed something upon. It sighed deeply, sensing the royal imprint of the Contra-King in every molecule of air.

It turned on the computer to load messages from the mess-box. Today’s repertoire was filled with witty remarks about GDP growth, sharp critiques of the city’s tree-pruning committee, important notes on foiled enemy infiltrations at the nuclear-waste dump—and tragic reports about the shortage of squid in seafood restaurants across the country. At the bottom of the screen, three avatars for the day appeared. With its ring-USB finger, it loaded all three faces into itself.

The duty driver waited patiently as it walked along the avenue of banana trees toward the parking lot. Suddenly, two doves flapped their wings. It panicked—a horrifying terrorist act, clearly planned for months by the opposition. The bodyguard swiftly shot the two predatory birds and prevented a coup d’état. Photos of this dreadful event—and of the heroic act of the loyal bodyguard—were already in its ring-memory, ready to be presented in the Hall of Contra-Stability at the emergency press conference.

The hall was clean and magnificently empty. It adored that marble emptiness—and even more, the lonely echo of its carefully chosen words. It activated the avatar for humorous addressing. Its face stretched into a smile and began to explain how less was more, and more was less. With an even wider smile than possible, it underlined that only enemies of the people failed to grasp that simple essence of GDP growth.
For those who slive by the word… dye by the sword.

Then a journalist asked about today’s terrorist act and whether all haters of the state had been arrested. It froze, keeping the smile pinned to its ears. The ring-memory jammed. It couldn’t load the avatar for tragic news. Hop! There it was! A worried face looked down and bit its lips. Silence. Majestic, just as the Contra-King demanded at every conference. It waited a little longer, savoring the silence. Adjusted its eyebrows to the precisely programmed height and angle to express the deepest concern. And spoke.

One word. Echo. Pause.
Second word. Echo. Pause.
Third word. An eyebrow misfired. Oops.
Fourth word. An ear twitched.
Fifth. The echo returned stronger, moving the hair across its forehead.
The nose fell onto the lower lip, one corner stretching into a smile.
A closing word of gratitude to those present.

The journalist also gave thanks and praised the press conferences as true examples of democracy and tolerance—where different opinions could be heard in dignified discussion. He turned and left to prepare the report for the evening Contra-News.

It remained alone in the empty Hall of Contra-Stability. It had to go to service. The ring-memory had completely failed. It now resembled a salamander—and must not appear at the next conference in such a state. Viewer ratings would drop. And the Contra-King does not forgive that. It left the hall with a firm, waddling step while the electronic flag waved on the massive screen. It noticed three dead pixels. Brother would fix that. Brother knows everything. All brothers know everything. And can do everything.

Back in the residence, on the table in the foyer, a repair kit for the ring-memory was already waiting. On the side, in an engraved wooden box, lay a disc with the new edition of The Dictionary of Father Grim. It would shine at the next press conference. Its cheeks blushed. The Contra-King would be pleased.