 The proletariat is right. The proletariat must always be right. And the revolution of proletariat against oppression must go on forever and forever. Leon, I was just reading the old Wikipedia. The heading? Trotsky Leon. Oh, good. It's about me. Listen to this. On August 20th, 1940, a Spanish communist named Ramon Merceder smashed a mountain clabber sax in Trotsky's skull in Cuyacan, a suburb of Bessico City. Trotsky died the next day. What's the year of that encyclopedia? 2021. Yes. What's interesting? I am Trotsky. Yes. And this is our house in Cuyacan. Yes. And we have Spanish gardener named Ramon. Merceder, yes. There aren't any other Trotsky's living in Cuyacan, are there? I don't think so, not under that name. What's the date today? August 21st, 1940. Then I'm safe that that's what says it happened yesterday and I bid it as a mountain clabber sax today. Leon. I will dig up this press never gets things right. But Leon, isn't that the handle of a mountain clabber sax sticking out of your skull? It certainly does look like one. And you know, Ramon was here yesterday telling me about his mountain climbing trip. I can't remember if he had it when he left the room. Did Ramon report to work today? No one is safe. Force must be used. And the revolution of proletariat against oppression must go on forever and forever. Leon, I was just reading the encyclopedia. Is it the Britannica? Listen to this. The universe that's viewed by victors. On August 20th, 1940, a Spanish communist named Ramon Merceder smashed a mountain clabber sax in Trotsky's skull in Cuyacan, a suburb of Mexico City. Trotsky died the next day. Yes, and? I think there's a mountain clabber sax in your skull right now. I knew that. When I was saving this morning, I noticed the handle sticking out the back of my head. So for a moment I saw it was an ice pick. Of course, I was worried. No, it's not an ice pick. Don't even say this word. You know, Marie Curie Knight, Mary, about ice pick. Yes, dear. That buries itself in my skull. Yes, dear. That is why I forbidden any of the servants to allow ice picks in this house. No one may be seen as ice pick, especially not Spanish communists. But Leon. We'll do without ice. We'll drink our liqueur net warm. Who cares if this is Cuyacan in August? Hmm, not a bad song title. Leon? Cuyacan in August. Cuyacan in August. Or we'll get ice, but we just won't pick at it. Ice will be allowed in blocks, but not be chipped or picked under any circumstances. At least, not with ice picks. Ice cube trays will also be allowed if they've been invented. I'll bet that tactical says nothing about ice cube trays, does it? No. Does it? No, no. Ha! I've outsmarted the desi, which is only catalyst explanation to the start of school. Also, look at this. Do you notice it? No. It's a skull. Well, I knew that, but... I bought this skull. I own this skull. So, what does it make this? Trotsky's skull. If some Spanish communist posing as a gator on, so pick something into my skull. Be it ice, you know, or anything else. This will be he as a decoy. He'll see this skull, recognize it as mine. He'll bury something in it, and he'll go his way. And I'll go mine. Is that ingenious? Well, up to a point. 50 million years of Trotsky. I have some very bad news for you, Leon. M-m-m-m-m-m-Mountain Climbers Acts? Ingenious. No one is safe. This is very bad news. This is serious. What is serious, Leon? I have Mountain Climbers Acts buried into my skull. Well, smashed, actually. It says here, Merceder. Smash the accent to your skull, not the ... Alright! What I am going to do? Well, maybe a hat would cover the handle. You know those cute little Alpine heads with the point in it. But they're ... That that says I will die today? Uh, the 21st. That's today. Does it say what time? Uh, no. So much for usefulness of that encyclopedia. All right, all right. I have until midnight at the latest. Um, what should I tell Koko Rossop? Well, she can forget about the soup course. No, no, no! But this man is a gardener. Yes. At least he's been posing as a gardener. Yes. Doesn't that make you remember proletariat? I don't know. I don't think so. Then what's he's doing? Smashing all the plumbers next to my scalp. Oh, well, have you been oppressing him? Why would Ramon have done this to me? Ah, maybe he's a literalist. What? A literalist. Maybe Ramon ran into Manuel yesterday. You know Manuel, the head gardener? I know who Manuel is. I know you know who Manuel is. One of these days, Mrs. Trotsky. Ben, zoom! Well, maybe Ramon asked Manuel, will Mr. Trotsky have time to look at the nurse's gym today? And maybe Mando said, I don't know! Ask Mr. Trotsky! Very funny! Or maybe he's just hot to Trotsky! Oh, very, very funny! Or maybe he just want to pick your friend! Stop it! Ramon in here. Ramon! You'd better get him quickly. I have multi-climbers ex-brewter to my scalp! Ramon, come quickly! Good morning, Ramon. Good morning, senor. Have a seat, please. Oh, thank you. You see, we have very good employer-employee relationships here. Ramon, did you bring this multi-climbers ex-brewter to my scalp? I did not bury it, senor. I smashed it into your scalp. Excuse me? You see, you can still see the handle, right here. Well, it's truly on. The ex is not entirely out of sight. All right. But why did you do this? I think I read about it in Cyclopedia. Power of the printed world. Actually, I wanted to use an ice-peak, but I couldn't find any around the house. But why? Do you realize who I am? Do you realize that you smashed this multi-climbers ex-brewter to the scalp of a major historical figure? I helped run the Russian Revolution. I fought Stalin. I was a major political theorist. Why did you do this, Ramon? Was it political disaffection? Anti-contrary revolutionary backlash? Actually, it was love, senor. It's truly on. I'm sorry I have to find out about it this way. No! Yes. No! See! Oh, God, what a fool I've been! Why did you do this, Ramon? You will never know, senor Trotsky. This is a nightmare! But luckily for you, this soon will be over. Thank you, Ramon. You may go. Senor Trotsky? Yes? Will you have some time to look at the nasturtiums today? They're really very beautiful. I don't think so, Ramon. But I'll try. All right. Stalovisto, senor? Or should I say? Buenos noches! The 21st of August, 1940. The day I'm going to die. And to think that I've gone over so many 21st of August in my life, like a man, oinking over his own grave. It has been wonderful being married to you, Leon. Thank you, Mrs. Trotsky. Though it was a burden of times being married to a major historical figure. I'm sorry I was away from home so often tending the revolution. I understand. And I'm sorry I couldn't have been more in touch with my feelings. No, please. And I had such trouble expressing my emotions. Well, I have not been everything I should have been. Well, it's a little late for regrets with a multi-climber sax in one's skull. Well, smashed actually. All right. It wasn't all the age of cancer. Oh, I spit that I feared for years. It was multi-climber sax wielded by a Spanish communist posing as a gardener. You really couldn't have guessed that, Leon. So, even as an assassin can make the flowers grow. The gardener was false. Even the gardener, he tended those real. How was I to know that this man was my killer and I pass him every day? How was I to know that the man tending nasturtiums would keep me from what the weather will be like tomorrow? How was I to know? I'd never get to see Casablanca, which wouldn't be made until 1942. And the witch I have despired anyway. How was I to know? I'd never get to know about the bomb or 80,000 dead at Hiroshima. Or garbacho for rock and roll for the state of Israel. How was I supposed to know that I'd be lasted from the history books of my own land? But Rin stated at least partially. Sometimes for everyone there's a room that you go into and it's the last room you'll ever see. Or you go out of the room and it's the last room you'll ever see. This is my last room. But you aren't even here. This desk. These books. You're not even here, my love. That calendar. The flowers in the garden. You're standing there. This is yesterday you're seeing. You're in a hospital, unconscious. On August 20th, 1940, a Spanish communist named Ramon Mercedes smashed a mountain cover sex in Trotsky's skull in Karkin, a suburb of Mexico City. Trotsky died the next day. It gives a little hope about the world, doesn't it? That a man could have a mountain cover sex, smashed into his skull and live on for one whole day. Maybe I'll go look at the nastierships.