once a Tatra tiger was sitting in Počiatkova Villa – the property of the Slovak Republic – and he asked the owner of the house: “And if Fico wins the election, will he at least leave me the money?”
The landlord was sitting sprawled out on the couch, like at Trnko’s then, and he was saying this: “You think you would shave Fic like Slota, until pi.., and not give him a dime?” Then you would be a king.’
The tiger became sad, his fur stopped ligging, wrinkles deepened under the fur.
“I rather think that you will go to hell. You’ll be glad if they let you pay at all,” added the landlord, adding a few juicy words that he usually uses as punctuation marks.
The frightened movement of the tail completely stopped, the feline’s back bent under an invisible weight, a tear glistened in the tiger’s eye.
“Really, really,” the householder relished the moment, “you’ll end up like Navalny.” American newspapers will write about you.”
The tiger jumped to his feet, swung his tail sharply from side to side, roared “Americké noviny!” in a loud voice and proudly walked away with a new sense of life.
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