<center><span class="lheading">Bark of the Undead</span></center> --- #### By: Mikhail Bulgakov --- _<div class="info">✦ Where: [[Apple's Orchard]] ✦ Date: <font color="#81799">8/6/2025</font> ✦ Session: [[Session 7]] ✦</div>_ >[!noted] ><center>In the early days of Korokov, a mad necromancer implants a human pituitary gland into a stray dog, and accidentally turns him into a man.</center> --- > [!clue|no-title paper-d] > &nbsp; > <div class="typewriter1"><p align="left">Bark of the Undead</p></div> > > --- ><div class="typewriter1"><p align="left">Oo-oo-oo-woo-woo-woo-hoo-oo! Look at me, look, I'm dying. The wind under the archway howls at my departing, and I howl with it. I'm done for, done for. That villain in a cook's hat — the chef at the canteen of Normative Nourishment for the employees of the Central Council of the People's Economy — splashed boiling water at me and scalded my left side. Swine that he is, and him a proletarian. Oh, my God, how it hurts. That boiling water's seared me to the bone. And now I howl and howl, but what's the use of howling... > ><p align="left">What harm did I ever do him? Surely I won't eat the Council of the People's Economy out of house and home just by poking around in the rubbish? The greedy, grudging beast! Just take a look at his face some time; it's wider than it's long. A thief with a mug like copper. Ah, good people! It was midday he gave me the boiling water treatment and now it's dark, four o'clock in the afternoon or thereabouts, to judge by the smell of onion from the Prechistenka fire brigade. The firemen have buckwheat for supper, as you know. But that's the pits, as bad as mushrooms. Some dogs I know from Prechistenka, by the way, told me that in the restaurant Bar on Neglinny Alley the plat-du-jour is mushrooms in sauce-piquante at 3 roubles 75 kopecks per portion. An acquired taste — like licking galoshes. > ><p align="left">Oo-oo-oo-oo-oo... > ><p align="left">My side hurts unbearably and my future prospects are only too clear; tomorrow I'll be all sores and what, I ask, am I to do about that? In summer you can sneak off to Sokolniki Park, there's a special kind of grass there, very good for you, and apart from that you can stuff yourself for free with salami-ends and lick your fill from the greasy paper folk scatter about. And if it wasn't for the cattawauler who stands on that round platform in the moonlight and sings Beloved Aida to turn your stomach it would be really first rate. But where can you go now? Have you been booted up the rump? You have. Have you had your ribs dented by bricks? Often enough. I've had everything and I'm resigned to my fate and if I'm crying now it's only because I'm in pain and cold, but my spirit's not fizzled out altogether. > ><p align="left">... a dog's spirit dies hard.</p></div> > ><span class="typewriter1">1</span> &nbsp; --- >[!cite|transcript]- Transcript >Oo-oo-oo-woo-woo-woo-hoo-oo! Look at me, look, I'm dying. The wind under the archway howls at my departing, and I howl with it. I'm done for, done for. That villain in a cook's hat — the chef at the canteen of Normative Nourishment for the employees of the Central Council of the People's Economy — splashed boiling water at me and scalded my left side. Swine that he is, and him a proletarian. Oh, my God, how it hurts. That boiling water's seared me to the bone. And now I howl and howl, but what's the use of howling... > >What harm did I ever do him? Surely I won't eat the Council of the People's Economy out of house and home just by poking around in the rubbish? The greedy, grudging beast! Just take a look at his face some time; it's wider than it's long. A thief with a mug like copper. Ah, good people! It was midday he gave me the boiling water treatment and now it's dark, four o'clock in the afternoon or thereabouts, to judge by the smell of onion from the Prechistenka fire brigade. The firemen have buckwheat for supper, as you know. But that's the pits, as bad as mushrooms. Some dogs I know from Prechistenka, by the way, told me that in the restaurant Bar on Neglinny Alley the plat-du-jour is mushrooms in sauce-piquante at 3 roubles 75 kopecks per portion. An acquired taste — like licking galoshes. > >Oo-oo-oo-oo-oo... > >My side hurts unbearably and my future prospects are only too clear; tomorrow I'll be all sores and what, I ask, am I to do about that? In summer you can sneak off to Sokolniki Park, there's a special kind of grass there, very good for you, and apart from that you can stuff yourself for free with salami-ends and lick your fill from the greasy paper folk scatter about. And if it wasn't for the cattawauler who stands on that round platform in the moonlight and sings Beloved Aida to turn your stomach it would be really first rate. But where can you go now? Have you been booted up the rump? You have. Have you had your ribs dented by bricks? Often enough. I've had everything and I'm resigned to my fate and if I'm crying now it's only because I'm in pain and cold, but my spirit's not fizzled out altogether. > >... a dog's spirit dies hard.