Three of Chekhov’s friends are sitting in a tavern, waiting for him and arguing about his stories.
“He takes so much from our lives!” exclaims one. “By rights we deserve a share of his success.”
“Nonsense. It’s an honour to be recognised in that way.”
“But that’s the problem: people now think my life consists solely of dramatic incidents. Even my wife is suspicious when I come home and tell her nothing much happened in my day.”
The third man, who until now has said nothing, says: “Look, here he comes.”
Chekhov walks in and places a pistol on the table, and the three of them sigh deeply.