In the heart of the night, the owl, now grotesquely human-sized and covered in filth, stands amidst the undergrowth. Its feathers, once a symbol of silent grace, are matted with dirt and grime, a creature that has long abandoned any notion of dignity. As it gnaws on its treat, the spectacle is almost tragic—an owl, wise and wild, reduced to this bedraggled state.

But then, from the depths of the darkness, another figure approaches: Joseph Stalin, clad in his iron uniform, a steel chair clenched in his hands. His expression is one of grim resolve, as if this strange encounter is yet another chapter in his endless quest for workers domination of the means of production. Without a word, he advances, the chair gleaming ominously in the pale moonlight.

With a swift, merciless motion, Stalin brings the chair down upon the filthy owl. The impact reverberates through the night, a clash that seems both absurd and inevitable. The owl, stunned, its feathers scattering like the remnants of forgotten dreams, struggles to regain its footing. Its eyes, dull and weary, lock onto Stalin's—a moment of inexplicable connection between a dictator and a creature mired in filth.

And then, as if realizing the futility of it all, they both retreat. The owl, bedraggled and broken, slinks back into the shadows, its treat left behind in the dirt. Stalin, with a final, inscrutable glance, fades into the darkness. The forest, uncaring, swallows them both in its relentless, indifferent night.