Waiting for Chekhov

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.

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