I.

It would not be a stretch to say that Sabir Khalilov was the sole architect of his own downfall. Known as much for his brazen antics as for his paintings, Khalilov had finally and spectacularly lost the plot.

Just days before his tragic demise, in a now-notorious Instagram post, he lashed out at what he called the unjust and tiresome harassment by small-minded armchair critics and wrote the following:

“In the end, flies swarming around a steaming pile of refuse are always right.”

What followed was a dry, but undeniably thorough, catalog of reactions to this daring proclamation:

1. Khalilov’s Instagram followers, outraged at being publicly outed as coprophages and likened to contemptible buzzing insects, issued a formal statement to the press, denouncing their once-beloved idol for hypocrisy and blatant disrespect toward his own fans.

2. The Artists’ Union and Ministry of Culture, ever vigilant, swiftly expelled Khalilov from their ranks, citing gross misconduct and a chronic lack of professionalism.

3. Khalilov’s wife joined the flood of grievances—spilling forth like grain from a torn burlap sack—berating her husband for half-assing his marital duties, for being insufferably stingy and small-minded, and for not having taken her out to dinner in what felt like centuries.

4. Not to be left out, Khalilov’s children went public, accusing their father of “not giving a single hoot” about them of never showing the faintest interest in their lives, of playing no real role whatsoever, of being a spectacularly lousy dad who couldn’t even remember their birthdays.

5. One of Khalilov’s mistresses called him a world-class cheapskate who almost never gave her anything fancy and said she was still waiting on the Dior handbag he’d promised her forever ago.

6. Mistress No. 2 accused Khalilov of barely spending time with her, of being a loudmouthed drunk, and of having breath that reeked like a backed-up sewer.

7. The housekeeper complained that he was a walking disaster—a hopeless slob and a scatterbrain who could wreck any space in under five minutes.

8. His driver described him as an insufferable brute and foul-mouthed tyrant who screamed constantly but paid in peanuts “wages too low for even the sorriest beggar to sniff at.”

9. Khalilov’s personal manager, Elena, accused him of long-buried harassment claiming that, drunk and leering at some party ten years back, he grabbed her (plump, well-shaped) rear with what she described as unsettling enthusiasm.

10. Finally, Khalilov’s five-year-old grandson Akif—a wide-eyed, chubby little menace—complained that Grandpa hardly ever bought him toys and had once refused to get him a Kinder Surprise, claiming chocolate was bad for his teeth.

 

Khalilov, through increasingly Herculean effort, managed to endure the swelling tide of public scorn until, finally, he gave in.

He booked a luxury suite at the Four Seasons, filled the tub to the brim, climbed in, slit his wrists and finally had his fill of this wretched little world and slipped away into Nirvana for an eternal walk.

 

II.

A lean spruce man in his early forties stepped out of the office, whistling casually and carrying a black calfskin briefcase with silver clasps in his left hand.

Right behind him came a venerable philologist of advanced age, clad in a shapeless, outdated suit and clearly on his way out for a smoke. Spotting his assistant in the hallway, he said:

“Frankly, X is a complete hack. A hopeless, talentless fraud. He’ll never write anything worth a damn.”

Later that day, the assistant bumped into a friend and said:

“My boss Ismailov says X is just a mediocrity unlikely to ever produce anything of substance.”

The assistant’s friend met up with a literary critic named Renat and shared:

“So, rumor has it, Ismailov called X a competent but ultimately unremarkable writer, still a long way from brilliance.”

Renat, the critic, ran into a friend, the head of a publishing house and told him:

“Ismailov thinks X is a quite gifted, though still unpolished writer and that time will tell what he’s truly made of.”

The publisher later spoke with the Deputy Minister of Culture and reported:

“According to Ismailov, X is both talented and full of promise, someone who’s clearly capable of producing a truly brilliant work.”

Later, the Deputy Minister, chatting with his friend, renowned woman poet (who happened to know both X and Ismailov rather well) proclaimed:

“Ismailov says X is one of the greatest literary minds of our time—a writer long overdue for the Nobel Prize!”

Upon hearing this, the poetess managed only a stunned, “The hell?!” after which her eyes shot up to her forehead, either from outrage or disbelief, and stayed there permanently.