"Adam, this is the first draft of the script I wrote, take a look."
Roland met Adam in a small tavern, handing the completed script to him.
Roland had stayed up all night revising it.
He was self-aware and wouldn't casually tamper with Gogol's artistic essence.
He just tried to localize it.
The audience must immediately understand that this Rakshasa Kingdom is a metaphor for Vladimir, and these damned corrupt officials are Rurik People.
Last night, humming the divine Rakshasa Sea City tune, he found inspiration, and wrote vigorously, bringing the classic from another world into an unrestrained localization.
He was very certain that anyone who saw the performance would resonate with it.
Even the poorest textile worker in the Camden District, upon seeing how rotten the Rurik People are, would instinctively puff up their chest, feeling proud to be a Sussex person.
This celebration is settled.
