The results of the survey plunged the world community into shock. The leaders of the leading world powers expressed their serious concern about what is happening: “This is unheard of! This is the undermining of the foundations of the universe!” The main stock exchanges of the planet reacted very nervously to the results of the sociological study. “What happened in Ukraine came as a complete surprise to us. We expect a serious drop in quotations, - experts said in interviews with agencies. “Enterprises directly related to agriculture may be most seriously affected.” In some countries, governments are taking urgent action...
Stop. We will no longer frighten the reader with terrible scenarios of a world catastrophe. There were no speeches by presidents and prime ministers, just as there were no "black days" on the stock exchanges. But the sociological survey really took place, and its results were quite unexpected. At the end of 2002, one of the Ukrainian sociological services conducted a survey in which respondents were asked the question: “What is the symbol of Ukraine for you?” And only 2.8% of those who answered, among other symbols of the country, named salo, the very famous Ukrainian drug, which, despite the silence of the famous Ukrainian night, every Ukrainian simply has to hide...
In contrast to this, another fact can be cited. In the press (both in Russian and Ukrainian), polls of the richest people in the post-Soviet space often appear on the topic of their culinary preferences. So, representatives of the elite, whose fortune is measured in amounts with a large number of zeros and who, in theory, can afford black caviar for breakfast, lunch and dinner, as well as for second breakfast and afternoon tea, are often called lard, and even more often - "working -peasant" potatoes with bacon as their favorite dish. Such are the paradoxes. So what is fat: just one of the products of the daily diet, or is it still a national symbol? ..
Before starting the story about lard, let's talk a little about Ukrainian cuisine in general. When, in fact, did this concept arise - Ukrainian cuisine? Needless to say, experts differ on this issue. Some believe that Ukrainian cuisine is the direct successor of the Old Russian cuisine. Other historians and culinary specialists believe that since Ukraine was part of other states for a long time (Poland, the Principality of Lithuania, Austria-Hungary), Ukrainian cuisine was formed quite late - to mid-eighteenth century, and even later - to the beginning 19th century. But be that as it may, in any cuisine, including Ukrainian, historical processes and the most important events taking place in the life of the people are reflected in a special way.
To some, this statement may seem too loud. However, let's not rush to conclusions. Imagine, dear reader, that China is a Muslim state. It is not for us to judge whether this would be good or bad, but how different would our world look today? Meanwhile, some historians quite seriously suggest that the ban on the consumption of pork led to the fact that Islam was not able to spread in China. The inhabitants of the Celestial Empire, great lovers and connoisseurs of cooking pork dishes, were ready to accept all the requirements new religion. Except for one thing - they never wanted to give up various goodies made from pork meat. And they can be understood. Pork pare, generously seasoned with sour and spicy sauces, is truly a culinary masterpiece. Pork is also highly respected in Japan, although the pig is considered (certainly erroneously) to be an allegedly “ignoble” and even “dirty” animal, and for aesthetic Japanese, as you know, there is nothing more important than inner and outer beauty. The Japanese would not be Japanese if they did not bring something new and exotic to such a seemingly mundane process as raising pigs. In the province of Kagoshima, for example, sweet potato sweet potato is added to pig food, which makes the meat taste sweet. And in the province of Shizuoka they went even further. There, an obligatory part of the diet of pigs is tender yogurt. “Yoghurt” pork, according to experts, is much healthier and tastier than regular pork. However, we quietly moved on to various delights and recipes. Let us return to the geopolitical and historical connection of lard with the life and development of peoples.
It was not by chance that we mentioned China and the attitude of the Chinese towards pork and Islam. The fact is that the love of Ukrainians for fat can be explained by approximately the same reasons as the non-proliferation of Islam in the Celestial Empire. The Turks, who in the 16th-17th centuries conquered a significant part of the territory of Ukraine, were not interested in pork at all as devout Muslims. Often, the descendants of the Janissaries raked out all the stocks, all the vegetation and living creatures from the unfortunate Ukrainian villagers. But the pigs were not touched. And thus the "unclean animal" saved the Ukrainians from starvation. In addition, it is difficult to find a pet that would compete with a pig in unpretentiousness - it eats almost anything, does not require grazing and any special conditions of detention. One more thing. A pig is not only meat and fat. As the Italians say: "Verdi's opera is like a pig: nothing can be thrown away." Everything in this animal is valuable and necessary, for example, bristles, the monopoly on which, for example, brought the Russian treasury 5-6 million gold rubles annually. As for fat, it is distinguished from other products by two features. Firstly, it is well stored, which was very convenient on long trips; let it turn yellow over time, but it remains quite edible. Secondly, fat has another unique feature - it is impossible to oversalt it. Too much salt can ruin everything - vegetables, fish, meat, whatever. Except for the fat. In general, the Ukrainians ate bacon "in spite of the infidels" and rejoiced ...
We bring to your attention a mini-play called "Ukrainian idyll". So, summer, a quiet little Russian village, in the kitchen a portly woman conjures over pots. Her little son, about twenty-five years old, runs into the kitchen: “Mom, give me fat! - On the!" Five minutes later: “Mom, can I have more fat?” - Take it. Five minutes later: "Mom, so I'll take some more fat?" - “Zh-zh, sinku,” says the mother and looks tenderly at her child: “You are my little brat!” This is, of course, an anecdote. But in every anecdote, of course, there is some truth. Lard itself can be so tasty that it will seem sweeter than the sweetest candy. And besides, lard goes well with sweet foods. The famous “chocolate-covered bacon” is by no means some kind of exotic, not an attempt, as they say, to “turn inside out” in search of culinary delights. After all, lard with molasses was popular with our ancestors.
At the end of our conversation about fat, let's return to the results of the survey, which we talked about at the very beginning of this article. On the one hand, only one out of 35 Ukrainians named salo among the national symbols inherent in Ukraine and the Ukrainian nation. But on the other hand, fat took the honorable ninth place out of 22 symbols proposed by sociologists. Yes, it's not just that in different parts of the country, from Transcarpathia to the Crimea, festivals and various events dedicated to salo are held. “Try real fat and feel like a Ukrainian” - this is the motto of the festival in the Transcarpathian Mizhhiria. And at the festival-fair "Ukrainian lard" held in Simferopol in 2004, the world's largest sandwich with bacon with an area of more than 9 square meters was made. So there is still fat. It cannot be eaten.
Blue fat
Vladimir Georgievich Sorokin
Clones of great writers writhe in a painful script process, the Bolshoi Theater is flooded to the ceiling with sewage, Stalin and Khrushchev are lovers, the history of the twentieth century is turned inside out.
In the most provocative novel by Vladimir Sorokin, which secured him the title of a classic of postmodernism, all idols are overthrown - they become participants in an unrestrained carnival, where high and low, fantasy and reality, past and future are mixed.
However, one shrine remains untouched: destroying the usual ideas about the norm and turning everything upside down, Sorokin proclaims the sacred status of literature here too. Main character the novel is a literary myth; it changes, but its fundamental role in culture remains unchanged.
Vladimir Sorokin
Blue fat
© Vladimir Sorokin, 1999, 2017
© A. Bondarenko, design, 2017
© AST Publishing House LLC, 2017
CORPUS ® Publishing
– Look! exclaimed Pantagruel. “Here are a few pieces that haven’t thawed yet.
And he threw on the deck a whole handful of frozen words, like jelly beans, shimmering in different colors. There were red, green, azure and gold. In our hands they warmed up and melted like snow, and then we really heard them, but did not understand, since it was some kind of barbaric language ...
Francois Rabel.
Gargantua and Pantagruel
There are more idols in the world than real things; this is my “evil view” of the world, my “evil ear”…
Friedrich Nietzsche.
Twilight of idols, or How one philosophizes with a hammer
Hello mon petit.
My heavy boy, gentle bastard, divine and vile top direct. Remembering you is a hell of a job, rips laowai, it's hard in the truest sense of the word.
And dangerous: for dreams, for L-harmony, for protoplasm, for skandha, for my V-2.
Even in Sydney, when I got into traffic, I began to remember. Your ribs, glowing through your skin, are yours birthmark“monk”, your tasteless tatoo-pro, your gray hair, your secret jingji, your dirty whisper: kiss my STARS.
This is not a memory. This is my temporary, cheesy brain-yueshi plus your purulent minus positive.
It's the old blood that splashes in me. My muddy Hei Long Jiang, on the muddy bank of which you shit and piss.
Yes. Despite the innate Stolz 6, your FRIEND is having a hard time without you. Without elbows, gaowan, rings. Without the final cry and hare squeak:
Rips, I'll dry you out. Some day? OK. Top direct.
Writing letters is a terrible thing these days. But you are familiar with the terms. All means of communication are prohibited here, except for pigeon mail. Packages flicker in green W-paper. They are sealed with sealing wax. Good word, rips nimada?
AEROSANI is also not bad. I was chewed on them for six hours from Achinsk. That diesel roared like your clone fighter. We raced through very white snow.
“East-Siberia is big,” as Fan Mo says.
And here everything is still the same as in the 5th or 20th century. Eastern Siberians speak old Russian with a touch of Chinese, but they prefer to remain silent or laugh. Lots of Yakuts. We left Achinsk at dawn. The snowmobile was driven by a silent “white badge”, but the Yakut navigator in the uniform of a midshipman laughed all the way, like our magician Lao. A typical representative of his cheerful, L-harmonious people. The Yakuts here prefer soft teeth, dress in viviparous fabric made in China and actively try out multisex: 3 plus Karolina, STAROSEX and ESSENSEX.
Rips-rips, traveler!
In six hours from this kuaihuojen, I learned that:
1. The favorite dish of the Yakuts is venison in crow juice (juice is squeezed out of a medium-sized live crow, in which deer tenderloin is placed, a little sea salt, reindeer moss, and everything is stewed in the boiler to the plus-direct. Testing in 7 months?).
2. The favorite sex position of the Yakuts is on four points of support.
3. Favorite sensor film - "Dream in the Red Chamber" (with Faye Ta, remember her purple robe and the smell when she enters with a snail on her arm and a pile of wet water lilies?).
4. Favorite joke (as old as permafrost): building a toilet in Yakutia. Two sticks - one frozen ... to pick off the anus, the other - to fight off the wolves. Top direct humor. A?
Although, when I got out of the seat after six o'clock, I was not laughing.
PROSTATE. purple outline In eyes. Minus positive. Bad-kan ser-po. Creative mood.
Only you will understand me, you nasty liangmianpai.
The place of my seven-month stay is very strange. GENLABI-18 is hidden between two huge buttock-like hills.
There is a hint in everything, rips nimada taben.
The hills are covered with light forests: larches, fir-trees. I was met by a colonel - a square, L-deranged macho with a cloudy look and a direct question: HOW DID YOU GET? Answered honestly: minus-robo. This pen tan sha gua was disappointed. When we went down to the bunker, I completely lost the sense of time: GENLABI-18 is located in the former air defense command post. Deep laying. Reinforced concrete of the Soviet Committee era. Half a century ago, buttons were pressed here during the day, and Soviet rocket men masturbated at night.
Happy: at least they had objects of masturbation - TV and CD.
There is not even a sensor-radio. Verbotten: All medial plus-gemain. All equipment is based on third-generation superconductors. Which? Yes. Do not leave S-thrashes in magnetic fields.
Accordingly, they are not fixed by anything.
Well, the temperature in the control room is -28 °C. Not bad, rips laowai? They work in costumes.
I'm lucky that I'm not an operator or a geneticist. Plus-plus-happiness that my suitcase arrived with “Chzhud-shi”, which means with my L-harmony.
I hope everything will be ling ren many-di, and in these seven months I will not turn into an albino mole with a pink prostate.
And so, my gentle bastard, the countdown has begun. 7 months in the company. 32 "white tokens", 1 colonel, 3 lieutenant operators, 4 geneticists, 2 medics, 1 thermodynamicist. Plus the logostimulator you don't know well. And this is all for 600 miles.
This is our dahuy, as they say behind the Great Wall of China.
Weather: – 12 °C, wind from the left hill. Some white birds on larch. Fritillaries? Are there white grouse, piglet? ? propos, you are completely indifferent to Nature. Which is basically wrong. And minus active.
Wish me not to curdle here from melancholy, obo-robo and frost.
Tonight for the night - cauterization in the old way, plus the fat of the da-byid lizard. The bas-sam oil has arrived, thank the Cosmos. "Five good" is also intact. He remembered: "Thirst, copulation, insomnia, walking, sitting, worrying - everything that can cause agitation of urine is prohibited." It's a pity there will be no one to hold the jug at night.
Let's see what they eat here. Bear's hug I kiss you in the STARS.
Nin hao, dry moth.
The rotten days of Vorberiten are over. Tired of asking and commanding. Despite the fact that almost all “white tokens” are over-enlisted, instead of a brain, they have a protein pulp for incubation.
Yesterday at dawn a mountain of equipment came crawling. Thank Cosmos, my part got up not in the control room, but in B-hydroponics. No need to change clothes and sweat. In general, everything begins, rips nimada. Your warm Boris is well settled in this concrete ji-chan. My cabin is at the other end. So the groan of bio-greenhouses is not heard. This is minus direct
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the sound that always annoyed me on all business trips.
I got to know everyone. Geneticists: Bochvar - a red-cheeked, talkative hare with a dozen marmolon plates around his lips, Witte - a gray German, Karpenkoff Marta - a corpulent lady with a TEO-Amazon past, likes: clone horses, old-gero-techno, aeroslalom and talk about M-balance. Fan Fei is a peppy Shanghainese your age. Brilliantly speaks old and new Russian. It can be seen that the large zhuanmenjia walks well in gening (the coefficient of L-harmony of gait is more than 60 units on the Schneider scale). They talked to him about the dominance of Chinese blockbusters. He doesn't care about Tudin, of course.
Doctors: Andrey Romanovich, Natalya Bok. White clone rats from stinky GENMEO. Dealing with them is hard work. But the thermodynamicist Agvidor Khariton is a nice plus-direct Shaonian. He is a descendant of Academician Khariton, who made H-bomb for Stalin. It was not the thirst for money (like your soft friend) that brought him into our concrete anus, but SEX-BENGHUI: he, a solid multi-sexer with experience, parted with his two gentle pistons and, out of grief, asked for a business trip.
Who in this hole will load it with a doublet? Not overtimers, rips laowai. Himself likes: Fifth generation semi-sport flyers, the Himalayas, old male mathematicians, cherry cigars and chess. Let's play tonight.
All the military, including operators, are totally uninteresting. Veiny amps. They use the old rusmat, which I can't stomach even with northern sauce.
About Mr. Colonel - inf. by default, as my pok joked. papa.
This is all shangshuihua, you ask? And I'll nod, rips nimada.
So we waited with you, goat in chocolate. You kept scaring me: “Von meinem BOBO muss ich scheiden”.
As a gentle bastard, it will be easier for you to survive this. It is enough for any well-washed hand to touch your fins - top direct, huaidan, plus-posit, xiaotou! The hand of the giving van will not be impoverished, and your proteus mother-of-pearl sperm will not thicken.
Unfortunately, I am wired differently and my LM is not proteistic.
I am whole.
And proud of it, rips.
So, just like back then in Barcelona, I will save you zhongshi by shifting your M-balance and saving my divine L-harmony. I'm sure Zhud-shi will help by Kosmos blessing.
Pray for me in Russian. ? propos - in front of me lies the "Chzhud-shi", revealed on your unloved chapter 18.
NIRUHA WHICH IS ONE OF THE FIVE APPOINTMENTS:
“When a fragment of a weapon is stuck in the lower part of the body, feces dry, glang-thabs, heat in the lower body, urinary retention, bloating, worms, skran fresh and old rims.”
A piece of your juicy weapon, you bastard, is stuck in my Heart chakra. And there is nothing about this disease even in the Chud-shih. And don't laugh, Chun Ren, at "Recognizing Diseases by the Mirror of Urine." I am older and smarter than you and I will repeat to you 77 times: your favorite bloodletting is not a panacea for all diseases.
Remember the great Vernadsky: L-harmony is not associated with purity of blood. Your quasi-meditations with Ivan and the subsequent joint bloodletting are a complete husho badao.
The minus-direct of this savage is two plus-of-our-plus-directs. I'm not afraid of your Tibetan swallow-tail bloodletting knife, but I feel sorry for your young blood leaking into the ground for no reason. Better my lips suck her.
And in general - enough about the body. This is our age difference creaks in my biophilological joints.
You are happy - you have 12 years left. How much, rips nimada!
I write without envy.
During the three years of our scam, you managed to notice that, despite the purulent nature, I retained the childish ability to sincerely rejoice for people close to me.
And closer to you, shagua, I have only my pale body with a permanently burning prostate.
But enough about beicandi. It's time for something pleasant: food providing is top direct here. That is, simply - no ha taben. And a very laconic cook, not a garrison one, although in the form of a sergeant.
Rate, my leech, MENU for today:
maple sap
Poridge laminaria
Sheep butter
oat bread
Green tea
Rye croutons with goat brain
Meadow herb salad
Chicken press broth
Nutria fillet with young bamboo
blackberry blub
Wang tan soup
Cheesecake with arable land
compline
Birch pulp with hominy
Sbiten ginger
Spring water
The coefficient of L-harmony of such a menu is 52–58 units on the Gerashchenko scale. Not bad, right? And yesterday at lunch they served clone turkey under red ants, which gave me a burst of purple nostalgia.
Do you remember the banquet at the ASIA center on the occasion of the spring plus-incom split-false by the HETAO macro?
You were in minus direct at the time because of that lao bai xing Zlotnikoff, so you probably don't remember anything except his platinum hair and greasy hands, with which he squeezed you near the obelisk.
And on that rotten evening I devoted myself entirely to gastronomy.
It is well known that the chefs in HETAO are not paper tigers or girls painting zi dingxianhua flowers with buffalo horn on the surface of Zhang Lake.
After the verbal introduction and the distribution of the caskets, when the incomparable Miao Ma rode out on a one and a half ton blue turtle clone and sang “The Gray-haired Girl”, I dried up and curdled: again the Chinese, rips laowai, now you can’t get away from it.
I imagined: now 38 young men will dissolve the sandalwood gates, the master of ceremonies will knock with a silver staff and the totalitarian power of Chinese cuisine will fall upon us.
At KhETAO it was huge, but here it is more modest - seventy kg.
That evening I tore white meat and cheerfully crunched ants, filling my M-jealousy with Mytishchi 2222 (500 new yuan a bottle).
You know, of white wines, I prefer old ones near Moscow, and red ones - you can’t take a sip here without Albanian ones. But then I did not drink red from the L-principle.
When you left with Zlotnikoff in the elevator to make him a small tip-tirip in the pressure chamber, dessert was served. It was a huge round cake - a detailed model of the Moon, which HETAO has great views of (they have already bought the building of the destroyed Hilton in the Sea of Peace from the Brazilians). The cake hovered above the vibrating plate, the music of which had an exciting effect on me.
I was one of the first to stick a knife into the cake, cut out a huge piece, took a double Albogast, then Katya Bobrinskaya vodka, then Seven Colors of the Rainbow puff liqueur, then again Albogast, Napoleon O. X., Myer's Planters Punch ”, “Uncle Vanya”, “Cusam samroju”, and you remember how it all ended.
I will not apologize to you or to Zlotnikoff even on my deathbed. This is important, my eyebrow-bearer is flexible.
And the sow Zlotnikoff will always remember my tepel-tapel.
It's time to break the T-vibrations and throw the ice cream hedgehog out of your narrow bed.
Clone pigeon mail is an amazing invention of our military, I will tell you. The dovecote clone is run by Corporal Nedelin. She is locked by a steel door. And there is a reason for this, rips. The creatures that the bow-legged Nedelin grows do not at all resemble an innocent dove.
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Picasso, whose hologram floats in front of the entrance. They are the size of an eagle, their yellow eyeszzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz glow in the dark. The horny beak can easily break through the skull of an efr. Nedelin. Creatures grow like mushrooms, Nedelin feeds them press rats and XL-protein. They are frost-resistant, unpretentious and long-range.
And they never sleep.
If such a bastard collides with a real pigeon in the air, he will tear it apart in flight, swallow it and fly on.
Nedelin releases up to 6 clone pigeons per day: military plus privat mail.
There is no secrecy - my letters will overtake you when the project is completed and the bunker is liquidated. Maybe I'll hug you before you get them, slim van? And we will intertwine like white octopuses, outrunning clone pigeons?
And then, when they arrive, you will print and read these letters, and I, lying behind your tattooed back, will throw pistachio husks at it and guess from your snotty grunt what place you are reading.
It would be nice if it was, rips.
After lunch I walked between the hills and smoked. – 14 °C. Gray skies, cloudy sun.
Out: Efr. Nedelin (to blow doves) and Marta Karpenkoff (to see how they fly).
The creatures are reluctant to leave the steel cages. Nedelin pulls them out with tongs and throws them into the sky. They open their sinewy wings and rush to Abakan.
Karpenkoff follows them with the fixed gaze of an ex-Amazon. Nedelin rattles empty cages, blows his nose in the snow.
The day after tomorrow will bring objects.
I have everything ready, except provocations.
We'll have to hang around in the jet. Biophilology is a fashionable but painstaking science. Really, dolphin? I'm waiting for you.
And yet you are a huaidan, nimada.
I'm trying to forget your sticky stink with Cyrus and Daisy and I can't. Even here in this frozen O.
Now I understand why it took you so long to ask for forgiveness, begged not to punish you through BORO-IN-OUT.
Not because you are rapid by birth, fifty dollars by L-harmony and a sugar pig by karma.
With your tears, bows and kissing the table, you plasticine a more serious sin. More sweaty connection.
Kir is a simple shagua, without a hint of L-harmony, sticking his thin zuankong into the fashionable GERO-KUNST. Daisy is a lao bai xing who came from Pskov to St. Petersburg's ART-mei chuan. She is not able to maintain an elementary tanhua and, like Rebecca from your favorite series, she is only able to repeat the end of the interlocutor's phrase, covering up her stupidity with hebephrenic laughter.
Cyrus holds her for what she gives him between the muscles, even Popoff knows this.
You started snotty relations with this misalliance and negative-positive pair because of your false W-ambitions, and I, a naive noble van, did not guess why.
You needed pathetic Cyrus and Daisy as a paper screen behind which you gave yourself to a lead straight man with Natasha.
With this vile minus-active scolopendra. She entwined you with her pale-venous legs, whispering: in ay ni, and you ripped her dried up with your pestle. You did THIS naturally, like grandfathers and fathers.
And you were proud of your M-boldness, narrow scumbag: “I'm punching natural!”
Fake abomination worthy of skunkers and diggers.
Beibidi xiaotou, kechidi liangmianpai, choudi xiaozhu, kebidi huaidan, rips nimada taben!
And that's all I'll roar
into your gilded ear,
sticky scum.
Ning hao, my beauty.
Today is wonderful weather and a lot of events.
First, my prostate calmed down for a while. After 16 cauterizations, niruhi and rubbing the fat of the da-byid lizard.
Second: no one writes to our colonel. Joke.
Nobody writes here. TS 332. Letters fly in one direction only.
Third: they brought objects.
This is worthy of a detailed description. I was sitting in the jet, scanning yesterday's crop. Loud Bochvar entered: DRIVE!
Get dressed and go upstairs. Our entire white-concrete garrison was already sticking out there.
Going around the left hill, an antediluvian snowmobile was dragging white living-xiaoche, which were used by the Chinese during the Three-Day War in Mongolia.
We drove up.
The captain of something (it seems to be the FPV) got out of the snowmobile and reported to the colonel. We opened living-xiaoche, began to display objects. You know, I'm a cold-blooded lizard, but this is the first time I've seen RK.
Was inappropriately curious.
There are seven objects: Tolstoy-4, Chekhov-3, Nabokov-7, Pasternak-1, Dostoevsky-2, Akhmatova-2 and Platonov-3.
Despite the heat inside the living-xiaoche, all RK were in space suits with collars and with a tub-boot on right leg. They lowered the ladder, began to receive them. They walked calmly. Placed professionally. Seven chambers upholstered in natural felt: 3? 3? 3.
More details: Tolstoy-4.
The fourth reconstruct of Leo Tolstoy. Incubated in Krasnoyarsk GWJ. The first three were not entirely successful: no more than 42% compliance. Tolstoy-4 - 73%. This is a man with a height of 112 cm and a weight of 62 kg. Its head and hands are disproportionately large and account for half of its body weight. The hands are massive, like those of an orangutan, white, folded; little fingernail the size of a five yuan coin. A large apple disappears into Tolstoy-4's fist without a trace. His head is three times the size of mine; nose half-face, uneven, bumpy; eyebrows overgrown with thick thick hair, small watery eyes, huge ears and a heavy white beard to the knees, whose hair resembles Amazonian water worms.
The object is calm, mute, like the other six. He likes to draw in air through his nostrils noisily and exhale heavily. Sometimes he brings both fists to his face, slowly opens them and looks at his palms for a long time. He looks about 60 years old. He was raised in 3 years and 8 months. In his cell, he has a transparent late constructivist table (Hamburg, 1929), a bamboo chair (Cambodia, 1996), and a helium-filled bed (London, 2026). Lighting - three kerosene lamps (Samara, 1940). Erregen object - stuffed albino panther. That's right, rips laowai.
The second RK of Anna Andreevna Akhmatova.
Incubated in GENROSMOB. The first attempt - 51% compliance, the second - 88%. The object outwardly fully corresponds to the original age of 23 years. Grown in 1 year 11 months. Severe pathology of internal organs: almost all are displaced and underdeveloped. Artificial heart, pork liver. M-balance 28. Restless behavior, automatism, PSY-GRO, yandyanfyn. Emits frequent guttural sounds, sniffs the right shoulder and objects. In the chamber: an ebonite couch (South Africa, 1900), a luminous ball of free soaring. Erregen-object - the bones of a male Neanderthal, filled with liquid glass.
Am I not being too dry, my golden-eared hankun? Read. You are GERO-KUNSTLER, rips choudi xiaozhu!
Nabokov-7.
Our gen-moshujia spent 8 years with him. The first RK appeared in the underground MUBE, back when I lived with Siamese twins and did not know your charms. Judging by the record of Academician Makarevich, rejection reached 80%, the object was amorphous and was kept in a pressure chamber. Nabokov-5 was incubated (sic!) on the day of the signing of the Munich Convention on the prohibition of RK and F-type cloning. The project was frozen, the object was killed. But six months later, Nabokov-6 was incubated (secretly from IGKC) in VINGENIZH, Voronezh. There were many problems. But here is Nabokov-7. 89% match. Fantastic, rips taben! Most high level out of all seven. Although outwardly it is imperceptible: the object looks like a plump woman with curly red hair. All his muscles vibrate finely, which creates a barely noticeable contour around the body of the object. Sweat trickles down my body and sloshes in my overstuffed boots. Furniture:
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a kitchen table (USSR, 1972), a round chair on a screw rod (Bucharest, 1920), a soldier's camp bed (us army, 1945). Illumination: Four randomly placed green light sources. Erregen-object - a woman's mink coat, covered with bee honey and suspended from the ceiling on a golden hook.
Pasternak-1.
“The first RK-pancake - and not lumpy!” our German joked bluntly. Pasternak-1 was incubated by the Omnipresent and Immortal Alois Vaneev. Compliance - 79%. The most zoomorphic creature of all seven. The resemblance to a lemur is striking: a small head covered with white fluff, a tiny wrinkled face with huge pink eyes, long, knee-length arms, small legs. He sways and makes trumpet sounds through his nose. According to the LOGO correlation, there is no furniture in his box. But 64 intense light sources and a living erregen object: a sixty-kilogram Persian clone cat. Dying? From obesity, mon petit.
Dostoevsky-2.
An individual of indeterminate sex, of medium height, with pathology of the chest (protrudes forward with a keel) and face (the temporal bone has grown together with the nasal in the form of a saw handle). Its felt cubic capacity is illuminated by a soffit. Erregen object is a jasper box filled with diamond sand.
Platonov-3.
A real work of gene art from St. Petersburg. Do you remember, my sweet piston, the yogi described by Gurdjieff, who stood for twenty years on the tips of his fingers and toes in the courtyard of a Buddhist monastery and which the monks once a month took out to the river and washed like a bench or a table? Platonov-3 is the same table made of human flesh. His heavy bones are sheathed in yellow skin, his flat face stares down, his huge white cock dangling between his legs. For Platonov-3 - a beech cabinet (Paris, 1880), a crystal chandelier (Brno, 1914), an erregen object - ice in a wooden box upholstered with cotton wool.
Finally - Chekhov-3.
Very similar. Even - gaofen, rips nimada. Although compliance is only 76%. One defect is the absence of a stomach. Well, yes, this is xiaoshi, as Uncle Mo says.
All objects are on the BIOS, so there are no problems with eating and defecation. In general, everything is still chantaidi.
Although why am I writing this to you, sweaty nits, with such a plus directive betraying loved ones?
Are you able to understand the simple and dis-active baofa of my body? Do you understand, as a thinking monad, that there is NO ONE closer to YOU than my body?
The storm started last night.
This is a strong wind with snow. He confused us all fa: TFG did not give a lift. And everything stood up.
This is always the case with the military - the main thing is left for dessert. Russian maybe plus bufuze xianxiang. Waiting for the weather and drinking in the morning.
You will ask: “Rips nimada, what about our two contracts signed with cognac and sperm?”
My rotten angel, you broke your contract first (with Zlotnikoff) when your sperm had not yet dried on rice paper. I am 99% sure that in my absence, in addition to multisex, you continue to try natural with persons whose vile and L-disharmonious flesh is not even suitable for press food for Corporal Nedelin's clone pigeons.
Entering the solarium this morning, with a clear conscience, I took the first dose of my favorite vodka, Katya Bobrinskaya. (There is no cognac here.)
Our solarium, or sochilovo in the jargon of “white tokens”, is a large room in terms of the scale of the bunker, covered with a viviparous texture and hyperactively illuminated from above. In the middle - a bar counter (very pinfadi in content), water tables, a chess table (ordered by me) and two sensor chairs, of course with the equipment removed.
In a normal place of this kind, after 50 ml of Katenka, I would have been pulled into a sensor chair.
For starters, I would paste something fun.
For example, a mix-remake of "City Lights - Terminator". (Remember how Schwarzenegger is chasing Charlie Chaplin down the subway?) After the third dose, I would have been moved to the Chinese from Shaolin production - "Breath of the Red Dragon" or "River Backwaters". Well, after 500 ml - HOLY RETRO: “Farewell, Moranbong!”
Rips, after half a liter I can't see Suzy Blanc's hands without tears - and that's fatum.
Do you remember when she bandages Vladimir's wing with her shirt, and he closes his eyes and asks: "Did you have to sleep in the sky?" - "In the sky? she asks. - Like this?"
And immediately - blood through the shirt! plus surf! plus sea foam on the rocks! plus moray eels around Ronald's corpse! Plus the wind in your hair! plus the smell of a burnt nest - and as soon as the wind blows sand and a grain of sand creaks on my teeth - that's how it started to flow.
And I cry until her reincarnation.
Here's a riddle for someone as unsentimental as me.
But here, in GENLABI-18, there is no reason to cry yet.
Before I had time to repeat “Katenka,” the door gurgled and two men entered: Bochvar and Karpenkoff.
- Rips, but they say that biophiles only sniff, squeeze and rub! Bochvar laughed.
“Unfortunately, they drink too,” I drank.
He went behind the counter and rattled the bottles.
- Mr. Gloger, how do you fight the blizzard? Karpenkoff asked, looking at my empty cube.
- Vodka "Katya Bobrinskaya", - I answered, once again making sure of the heavy V2 of this female.
- "Katya Bobrinskaya"? she asked with a sullen minus direct, as if remembering her whole troubled life at once. – What is it?
- Marta, this is good rye vodka, - Bochvar was ahead of me. - Ace-positive.
“Then give me a drink.” Karpenkoff lowered her wanway onto the pedestal.
“Don't look for the bottle,” I warned Bochvar. - There are only cubes.
“They were waiting for us here with a water shit-cutter!” Bochvar laughed. - Northern fuck with icy plus-cunt plus cockscroll!
“I ask you not to use Rusmat in my presence,” I scanned him.
Are you danhuang? - he asked.
“I am a danhuang,” I replied.
“Jiujing nin shemma shihou neng zhunbeihao ni?” Bochvar bared his mother-of-pearl teeth.
“Qu nian xingqizhi xiayu shi,” I lit up.
Deer, take care of your antlers. – Karpenkoff caught the cube thrown to her on the counter by Bochvar. - For me, this blizzard acts like END-SHUNYA. stone head, plus stone vagina, plus stone anus. Is this your first time in such a North, Boris?
“Yes,” I replied, sitting down to chess.
- I see. She lifted the cube to her orange lips. - White North won't let you freak out. This is my fourth plus-com. Each time I lose up to 6 points of M-balance, but I still get a decent BORBOLIDE. The North teaches us purple bugs.
- If only the military did not paint the rhinoceros, rips nimad taben. - Bochvar poured himself a glass of Chivas Regal and began to generously pop the ice. – I'm willing to lose 20 units of L-harmony just to meet the schedule. If they provide everything as well as TFG, then you can’t do without springs. Another month to knead the air here - fubaidi shiqi!
“Our military will not paint a rhinoceros, Leonid,” Karpenkoff breathed in concentration after drinking vodka. “White Tokens” are not heels. And not even MPI. They have a solid status. I'm more worried about our Aguidor.
- Khariton? Bochvar drank from the rattling glass.
- Yes. Karpenkoff pulled a narrow cigarette case from her shoulder pad and took out a cigarette. “I don’t know, maybe I’m a hotbed, but his manipulation of batteries is highly questionable. Some retro plus.
Bochvar laughed.
– Do you dabble in thermodynamics? I asked.
“You don't have to be a gen-titan to know the dependence of dis-jumps on the entropy threshold. I did not leave my vagina yesterday, and this is not my first business trip.
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Khariton is obsessed with von Stein's practice, which almost everyone has abandoned. I worked directly with Artsimovich and Mamelyan.
- In the Ugra? I asked, placing chessmen. – S-plasticine project?
“Yep,” she lit up.
- It is incorrect to compare S-plasticine and GS-3. – I made the move e4.
- S-clay! Bochvar laughed. Martha, you're bluffing! S-clay! Vitya Bortsoni did in-out for them. Everything was like in the savannah. Everything worked out right away, I saw the pulp. This is a top direct, rips. His body weighed four tons, his skin vulcanized right before his eyes. But, Martha, to compare these projects…” He shook his head so that his brow crescents tinkled. - Your Artsimovich and Mamelyan are simple tricks compared to all of us.
- I don't care about the bow, I'm responsible for compatibility. It's up to you and Witte to chew glass. Your genius Aguidor will have a very average spread. I see it. There will be an average stink. Karpenkoff walked up to the wall and blew smoke onto the texture. The villi moved greedily.
“Marta, don’t press the udder,” Bochvar yawned. - Basta. We all want money. And a comfortable return journey. Really, Boris?
I nodded.
- Boris is not a talkative person. Karpenkoff came up to me, swaying on her cothurns.
“And proud of it,” I muttered, playing the Spanish game.
- I hate winter. Bochvar sat down on the counter. - Worse than winter only music 137. More "Katya"?
I nodded. He threw the dice at me.
“Not my drink,” Karpenkoff put out her cigarette. - Is there an oak aquavit?
- Certainly! - Bochvar quickly found, opened, poured.
- Another thing. Zode hen yaguandi,” she swallowed.
The Colonel entered.
- The reddest occupation! he chuckled.
“Join us, Serge,” Karpenkoff swayed affably. - Anzhei is the cupbearer today. What do you drink in a blizzard?
"It doesn't matter," the Colonel relaxed. “Not beer and wine.
- Trust me. She showed him a glass of oak aquavit. - This is a concrete shield against snowstorms.
- As Mao said: when the north winds blow, you need to build not shields, but windmills! grunted Bochvar, pouring a drink for the colonel.
“Rips, it's easier to blow up here than to build,” the colonel unfastened the collar. - Siberia! Stormers are pigs. Couldn't have the right Vorberiten, zadroebs. The entire provider slips.
- And I already want her home! sang Bochvar in a tenor voice.
- Who is with the objects? I asked the colonel.
- Lieutenant Peterson. The Colonel drank and looked at me with faded eyes. - Buran excites them. Tolstoy-4 vomited bile, Pasternak-1 banged his head against the wall.
- Rips! - I wake up. - When did it happen?
Rest easy, Gloger. The Colonel put his small but strong hand on my shoulder. “Everything is already pingandi. Peterson is an experienced med. In general, everything is still type-tirip on the trace.
He tapped his broad chin with a finger.
“Everything except your TFGs,” I put in, moving into the endgame.
Why ours? The Colonel chuckled. We are all in the same coffin here.
– TFG is your practice, Serge. – Karpenkoff came up to him from behind, folded her hands in a small ring over his gray-haired nape. – Wow, how many gusanos you have. Are you a goldsmith?
“I am a butterfly,” he smiled.
“That's right, you're not a goldsmith,” she continued to scan. “You are good old ADAR. Is it true?
You can see it even without the ring. The Colonel took out his snuffbox and took a quick sniff. “Martha, rips, you are not Sandra Judd. You need to fuck.
- I have. She dropped the trail and kissed him on the back of the head.
- Anaconda, rips ueboh! the Colonel shuddered. - It's a pity that women don't start KLOPOV on business trips!
Everyone laughed, and so did I.
“Katya Bobrinskaya” contributes to the perception of collective humor. Khariton entered in a frosty dresser:
– Chrome-dis not in seven.
- How many? Bochvar put down the glass.
- 30 to 6, 32 to 4.
The geneticists have moved.
“It’s all because of the snowstorm,” Bochvar came out first.
“Agvidor is a great master of freezing other people's fathers,” said Karpenkoff, looking into the colonel's eyes. – I have always believed in ross-thermodynamics.
She went out.
“Let’s move to paint,” the colonel fastened the collar. – Boris, I’m waiting for your traces at two.
“Fertig, rips nimada,” I muttered.
The Colonel disappeared behind the door.
“Rips choudi shiqi!” - Khariton tore off his costume, went to the bar. - Everything is on the snot. Everything, everything on lilac snot.
“Russia,” I checkmate myself in three moves. - Shall we play?
- Pus and honey in this country are twin brothers. Ivan Vishnevsky is right. - He sat opposite, began to arrange the figures.
“It is the Jew speaking in you. - I clamped the white and black pawns in my fists. – Vishnevsky wrote a lot of top direct in Moscow and Bochum. But to quote him in Eastern Siberia is obtoston. Air drilling.
- I drill myself all my life. He slapped the fist with the black pawn. – Fine. I like to play defensively… rips, what did they drink here? He sniffed the air.
- Vodka and oak aquavit. – I went e4 again.
– Too much, – he answered without hesitation e5. - Do you have corn beer? Astor?
– I am not a bartender (f4).
- Rips, I'm not asking you to pour (ef).
– You only ask (Nf3)?
– I only ask (d6).
– Beer is not my drink (d4).
– You are a typical Pentecostal (g5).
– And I'm proud of it (Bc4).
- Plus Direct. But I won't drink anything (g4).
– This is your POROLAMA (С:f4).
– Rips laowai nimada (gf).
– “On white exeron plus type-trip by trace” (Q:f3).
– Do you like this sensor-film? This spittle? (Nf6).
– Do not disturb my L-harmony (Nc3).
– Do you have a congenital midirex (Bg7)?
– I have a congenital sheng sheng (0-0).
- What did you talk about with the colonel (0-0)?
– About his squares (Bg5).
– Rips, does he have squares (Nbd7)?
– Don't think of him as a clone weightlifter (Nd5).
- In no case. This is Madam Karpenkoff, a weightlifter clone (h6).
– She crushes rats on your occasion (С:f6).
– I'm not a rickshaw for geneticists (N:f6).
– As an ex-Amazon, she needs guarantees (Nxf6).
– Everyone sucks his own oil (B:f6).
– It cracks due to batteries (Q:f6).
– Batteries are my caiyuan (Q:f6).
– Doubt is her ba (R:f6).
– Rips, nimada (Kg7).
You haven't been drinking since morning. Therefore - not in shock (Laf1).
– Rips, how can I defend f7 (С:e6)?
– This is a fat palliative, as our president says (B:e6).
– Bestiality (fe).
– Maybe warscheinlich (Rxe6).
- It's not comfortable to play with you. He mixed the figures. – You play like B1B 3000.
- It's a compliment?
- You know better. - Khariton found a ball of beer behind the counter, opened it. - ? propos, who is the world champion now?
- By the bar?
No, chess. B1B 3000?
- Not anymore. In autumn it was torn apart by MEI LIU 8. 12:6.
“That Karpenkoff…” Khariton shook his platinum hair in disgust. - This is my fourth trip. And every time - a negative direct with geneticists. For them, I am always a smart lao bai xing with an unpredictable spread. And what brings ex-Amazons to Siberia? Money?
- Maybe. I found another cube of vodka. But maybe not only money.
– What else? Dry vagina and top-abable anus? he laughed, sucking the beer from the bowl.
“You are too physiological,” I stretched. “Karpenkoff is not a piece of thawed proto-pulp. She is smart and strong. She has her own flexible M-strategy.
“I don't care,” Khariton waved him off. “If she doesn’t shave, that doesn’t give her the right to scan my liver. I don't blow into her chrome freezer, and neither does she blow her nose into my thermotrope.
- As the late Friedman said: "The experiment will make everyone sit down on the marble," I remarked, not without gall.
- You
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dried-up humor, - Khariton missed him. – You must have kept a dry relationship with the negativists. Or with old people? I had one old man - such a charm, rips laowai. Enough for a lifetime.
“Old men are the hope of mankind,” I quoted.
- Whose feces is this? Khariton winced.
— Tony de Vigno. From the Nobel speech.
“It’s a pity that this shagua died early. He picked up the dresser from the floor. “Karpenkoff and I would put a rhinoceros anus on him.
“You have two reasons: clone him, and start having a wet relationship with her,” I drank.
- Yah you. Splin caught up on me. He moved towards the door. - In the evening I will set Witte on you. He plays well. Almost like this MEI LIU.
– He’s wellcome, xiaobeng.
As soon as the door slammed behind this “fellow from Liang Shan Bo”, I approached the bar, shook the ice pyramid out of the seik, filled a third with Stepan Razin potato vodka, added 20 ml of “Deep blue”, 20 ml of seal milk, 10 ml of spruce gin, 10 ml of formic alcohol, threw a grain of rock salt, put it under a yellow laser for 2 minutes - and if you, my poisonous boy, touched this drink with your laughing lips, you would forever forget the name Richie van der Muun.
Salut, bitch.
P.S. A snowstorm is not a hindrance to clone doves. These creatures will fly through everything. Even through the Great Wall of China.
It has begun, thank God.
The weather calmed down, after lunch we were given a lift by TFG. The geneticists wanted to start tomorrow, but the colonel insisted.
I didn't mind. Khariton also had no snot.
Witte broke down a little, but Karpenkoff did not support him much. And at 20:34 we launched.
Rips shagua, I see you sitting in your GERO-KUNST cave, chewing Pakistani locusts and washing it down with Dutch beer.
What does this short phrase mean to you - a multisexer, a traitor and a proteus - WE LAUNCHED?
I've always envied your ability to be surprised at nothing.
However, this is the envy of a cripple without an organ, so it is incorrect, rips laowai.
Actually, I have nothing to be surprised about either. Although I'm not on HS business trips every day. For your purulent information, in Russia there were only TWO attempts to obtain GS: GS-1 drove Safonov's pentan shagua into a crack; GS-2 mediocrely dried up MINOBO three years ago, afraid of IKGC sanctions. Zvetan Kapidic was the logo stimulator in the first project, Yuri Barabanoff in the second one. Both are super-plus-vans in their field.
But the GS is a collective hankun mudden, in which the absence of any nits puts the whole project under rezak.
Understanding this, we ALL went upstairs at 20:00, undressed, made a big circle and performed the good old Lta-na-dug samadhi. The soldiers laid out the mandala on the snow with blue sand. The polar night was wonderful: high stars, northern lights, calm.
At 20:34 Khariton turned on the system, and I distributed paper and writing materials to the subjects.
Genetics in spirit.
The military too.
In general, outwardly - everything is favorable. I pray every half hour. And I tear six of my hair to keep the hexagram KUN (fulfillment).
Wish GS-3 plus-plus-plus-direct and pray for the project in Russian. I kiss you on the scarlet parts.
Bobboboboboboboboboboris
We did IT, my gentle boy. And we did it for the first time in Russia. Congratulate your active friend.
I prayed, the geneticists prayed, the colonel prayed - and the Jade Emperor heard our timid voices from the concrete O, covered with pure Siberian snow.
All systems worked, all objects are alive and after the script process they fell into suspended animation. Plus plus direct. We walk down the hallway and smile at each other like baichi.
By 09:34, the first phase of GS-3 was successfully completed. Am I going to see the BLUE Lard?
Wait, rips huaidan.
Now it remains only to wait. I will, rips nimada. I'll start writing letters to you, long as your divine olo. But not today. Because?
First, I will send you something that no one here needs anymore.
Except me.
But it's all right, rips. The first to complete the script process was Dostoevsky-2. When the indicator flashed and the system shut down, I entered his cell with two sergeants. The spectacle, I’ll tell you, is not for zhengjiedi gongyan: after a 12-hour script process, the object was severely deformed: the chest protruded even more forward, tearing the spacesuit, the ribs broke through the skin, the insides and beating heart are visible through them. The pathology of the skull intensified, that very “saw handle” protruding from the face protruded even further, as if the Almighty was trying in vain to pull it out of the human child. She has thick black hair. The hands of Dostoevsky-2 seemed to be charred, the steel pencil stuck to them forever. Dostoevsky-2 sucked diamond sand into his nose. And this means that your brilliant friend did not make a mistake with the erregen object. (And not only with that, rips!)
After disabling the BIOS and short convulsions, the object fell into cumulative suspended animation.
It will last 3-4 months.
Blue fat will be deposited in his lower back and on the inside of his thighs. I am sending you (for my script collection, nat?rlich) his TEXT, thanks to which up to 6 kg of blue fat will be deposited in the author's body. Kiss.
Dostoevsky-2
Count Reshetovsky
At the very end of July at three o'clock in the afternoon, in an extremely rainy and chilly time not like in summer, a carriage with a cape, splashed with road mud, harnessed by a pair of unprepossessing horses, rolled over the A-to the bridge and stopped on G-th street near the entrance of a gray house three stories high, and all this was exceedingly extraordinary, how not at all, sir, and about the chicken word about the chicken word is absolutely not good.
Two respectable gentlemen got out of the carriage, dressed, however, no longer in summer, and not in St. Petersburg style: Stepan Ilyich Kostomarov, adviser to the State Department for special assignments, was dressed in a short sheepskin coat, belted with a dead, but extremely long yellow snake. black in color, the members of another - a wealthy heir to an early deceased general and therefore a man without specific occupations, Sergei Sergeevich Voskresensky, were covered with narrow motley silk in the manner of Venetian harlequins, giving performances in the squares when he had the pleasure of showing his own and she is this vile creature really.
There are other people, the mere sight of which acts on us somehow suddenly overwhelmingly and touchingly, which makes the chest shrink and causeless tears appear in the eyes, and this is very pitiful, sir, if a person is predisposed, but try to understand for yourself after all.
This is exactly the impression Kostomarov and Voskresensky made with their appearance on the few passers-by; two commoners, a student and an elderly lady, stopped like pillars dug into the ground, pillars pillars pillars, yes, milestones, and with undisguised excitement they followed the amazing couple with their eyes to the very entrance. This three-story house belonged to Count Dmitry Alexandrovich Reshetovsky and was one of those wonderful houses of its kind, to which on Tuesdays or Thursdays, like bees to a hive, yes, like nimble, busy bees to a new, soundly finished hive, although the hives have a different design. decks have houses and boards and earthen beehives, and so the secular Petersburg public deigns to stretch. However, since it was Wednesday, the visitors were met not by a doorman in an embroidered gold livery, but by the lame Cossack Mishka, the count's faithful orderly,
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who went through the entire Turkish campaign with him and became a kind of Sancho Panza for the count, but this is a complete disaster and it is impossible to imagine his position and, according to his position, he is not at all obliged to be an ins and outs of the cavalry guard or just a bad person, but in Russian - a scoundrel.
Without any bewilderment on his smallpox-battered face, Mishka removed them from the gentlemen. fancy clothes and limped upstairs, quickly quickly quickly quickly quickly - to report to the count. The gentlemen, left alone, began to most resolutely grope-with grope-with grope-with each other. Stepan Ilyich, with his long, bony fingers, clutched at Sergei Sergeyevich’s sloping shoulders and, nimbly, somehow too nimbly, sort of like a crow’s agility-c agile-s, sorting through them, began to descend lower-s lower-s down-s - down Voskresensky's chest, belly and hips straight to his very feet in smartly turned-up Swiss boots. Voskresensky, clasping Stepan Ilyich's waist with his chubby arms, began extremely quickly to pluck his back with small but rather sensitive pinches, from which the skin of the skin of the skin was thick in places like that of African buffaloes - on Kostomarov's back immediately turned blue and swelled with blood.
“Sergey Sergeevich, I urgently ask you for one favor,” the dead dead dead Kostomarov was the first to break the silence, returning to the interrupted conversation. “While we are still here and, therefore, we can speak without witnesses, frankly, I ask you not to remind the count about that nasty, nasty, nasty story with this lady, from which we are all sick sick sick sick. I understand that you are a person, so to speak, not interested in this matter, and therefore you don’t care how it all is how how how it all is this tangle disgusting tangle how it will turn out for the count and Lydia Borisovna, but I am strongly in this matter interested, and most importantly - interested in the successful resolution of it, without tantrums and without continuing the dreary scandal.
“Come on, Stepan Ilyich, I’m already tired of repeating it,” Voskresensky replied, grimacing in pain from a strong severe pain very sensitive pain. - If you still consider me a person uninterested in this matter - that is your right, friend of the count, but to believe that I, as this most disinterested person, is able to simply spoil, yes, spoil, certainly spoil, sir, not very close people - insulting, sir, and even ashamed.
“I didn’t mean to offend you at all,” Kostomarov shuddered, point-blank into a heavy, fixed emphasis, solid, if not obsessive, and point-blank, looking at Voskresensky’s blue-shaven cheek. - Understand, I am a friend of the count, not only in a secular sense, not only not only at all, but also in a cordial sense in this full sense. And I am extremely interested that everything goes well and everyone forgets this dirt and baseness.
“I’m sure it will happen like that,” Voskresensky picked up, realizing how unstoppable and even merciless Kostomarov was in his peacemaking. - For my part, from all the solid solid side of the good, very good and respectable side, I will make every effort of a disinterested person.
Mishka entered and invited them to the count's office. They silently silently followed the servant, and soon the count, with his characteristic sincere impulse, greeted the newcomers, rushing towards them from a huge table littered with papers with the most valuable papers.
Count Dmitry Alexandrovich Reshetovsky was in all respects an extraordinary person, if not to say - strange, and in this even unusual and strange strange strange strange, by the way. His late father Alexander Alexandrovich, although from an ancient, but not very wealthy family, served in the cavalry, retired early, got married, got three three three sons, sold, in obedience to the new fashion, his estate near Pskov, moved with his family to Petersburg Petersburg Petersburg, where he suddenly showed himself in the commercial part, began to participate in farming, and quite successfully, as a result of which he acquired, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, three large houses and, renting them out profitably, he lived happily until his death, leaving his sons decent condition yes but what about sons sons and not that and not that yes yes.
The eldest son, Dmitry Alexandrovich, having received a house on G-st from papa, did not at all follow in the commercial footsteps of his parent, but rather - on the contrary, in a word, quite the contrary, towards the universal towards the universal and the most pernicious disbelief, showed such indifference to the material side of his existence, if not to say - contempt, that soon he was forced to pawn in kind, pawn, yes, yes, and not mischief in the house with all the property with everything, with everything, with giblets, with everything, with belongings, and with all the fundicure, sir. He used the money he inherited for the most incredible things, it’s just something, just something, travels and trips, leaving not a single exotic place on earth where his foot would not set foot and not just an ordinary foot in a chrome boot on an alcohol sole, the most kind, most kind foot of an adventurer. In appearance, the count was well over thirty, he was a little taller than average, a little quite a bit, thin, round-shouldered, very dark-haired, with a pale, always excellently shaven and powdered face, the features of which betrayed an inexplicable strangeness very very very very very impossible to the devil knows What is this complex and contradictory nature. However, his eyes-with eyes-with eyes-with very good-with good-with good-with his eyes - black, fiery and extremely lively, constantly shone with some kind of genuine delight from everything that was happening around.
- Lord! You can't imagine how happy I am to see you! the count exclaimed loudly, preventing Kostomarov, who had already opened his mouth, to explain the strange reason, like something completely out of the ordinary, like a shame on such an unexpected visit. “Imagine, I slept badly today, that is, it was so bad that I got up to wet my head this something this something bad bad bad, but when I was awake, I smacked Mishka in the muzzle, I thought, I’m dying, but it turned out that it wasn’t in the ovens, but in myself!
The count grabbed Voskresensky by the arm, which made him immediately embarrassed and looked at Kostomarov in embarrassment, but the count count count, not paying attention to Sergei Sergeyevich, continued to speak with fervor, addressing Kostomarov directly:
- Stepan Ilyich, dearest friend my, you would know what has been going on in my soul since the most sleepless night! That is, a sleepless night has nothing to do with it, right, right, God bless her, with the night, because the main thing is that in my whole life I have never experienced such a premonition, but a predestination of events, like today today today! It's just an embarras de richesse of all feelings, some kind of some kind of shock! Imagine, gentlemen, I have not yet drunk coffee, like Mishka, though beaten for nothing, but not entirely shocked, however, thanksgiving is not written on the muzzle, but promptly promptly promptly brings me an envelope, and I certainly predetermine the content of the letter, the plot, so to speak!
The Count suddenly fell silent in the strongest tension, demanding an immediate response from the listeners, people who were listening or listening to the audience, or bien publique, but, by the way,
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there is no need to rush if you are utterly happy deeply infinitely happy happy happy simply and humanly.
“Excuse me, count, but why is it so suddenly ...” began Voskresensky, struggling to cope with embarrassment and desperately exchanging glances with Kostomarov. But the count immediately interrupted him, interrupted him, as if they were breaking the ridges, yes, just like in slaughterhouses, and that is, that is, there was something in it, though a little calmed down, but terribly heavy unbearable, sir:
- And in the letter, my dear and only friend Stepan Ilyich, this scoundrel, this insignificant base little soul again demands an explanation! It's like I'm that Madame Burlesque! And I know in advance every word, every most insignificant, stinking line from this message! What is it what is it what is it, assuming the gift of prophecy? You will laugh! And rightly so, rightfully so! Although - not immediately, not immediately, not immediately. Of course, I broke everything at once, and Mishke punished him not to accept letters from Herr von Leeb under any circumstances, under any circumstances, even like the third day, under bloody circumstances! But then…” The Count shook his head, as if all his teeth were broken. What happened next, my friend? The cannon hadn’t fired yet, but I had already predetermined the chaque moment, quite completely - now Lidia Borisovna will come to me, and just like that - the bell is ringing, Mishka is running! But you'll never guess what she came to me with! Yes, and do not take my word for it, if I say it really, really, or say it if I please!
He squeezed Voskresensky's hand tighter and, trembling, as if in a strong fever, pulled him towards the door, which was heavy to heavy, lined with copper.
- Let's go now! I'll show you I'll show you I'll show you, I have to show you everything! We will all remember this day forever, ma parole! If only this bastard didn't ruin everything!
“Excuse me, count,” Kostomarov finally found the gift of speech, stopping the count with possible delicacy. - I do not dare to doubt the importance of what you want to open and open as an opening to open and open to us, but the matter with which we have arrived is absolutely urgent, it concerns first and foremost this lady and your honor, the honor of your kind, and I, as your close friend, and Sergei Sergeevich, as a person, by the will of fate, was initiated into this unpleasant business ...
“No more, my friend! exclaimed the Count, his eyes flashing. “I ask, I demand that you follow me into the living room at once!”
Kostomarov and Voskresensky looked at each other, suddenly feeling a strong excitement, transmitted yes, yes, as if transmitted to them from yes from yes from the count, which left them only to obey his impulse.
Dmitri Alexandrovich grabbed them by the hands and dragged them through the passage room into the living room, the door to which was, however, locked with a key, as it were, not quite obviously, sir, but firmly, very tightly, very firmly, sir.
Mishka, dozing in the entrance, jumped up, seeing the count, and remained standing with an expression of readiness for anything on his impenetrable, as always, face, albeit swollen from beatings. The count, meanwhile, took hold of the key in order to unlock the door correctly, to unlock it thoroughly and everything straight ahead, but suddenly, turning to Voskresensky, he spoke with the same fervor:
“My dear sir, I do not doubt the sincerity of your intentions and I see that you, you, you have come here not out of idle curiosity, but to help us all get out of this ... from this ... from this hell into which this vile woman plunged us. Therefore, you are ready to fight for all of us, insulted and dishonored, are you really ready? So right?
“I’m ready,” Voskresensky turned even more pale, and the familiar feeling of shame that had tormented him at the Glinskys’ party returned again to this right turns and awkwardness, and there even pity, however, not for himself.
- And if you are ready - go in first! the count hissed sternly, unlocking door lock. – Mon heure a sonn?!
Voskresensky entered the living room. The society gathered at the count's consisted of the most different people- familiar to him and completely unfamiliar. They all stood around a small high table with champagne and appetizers and appetizers - from a different point of view, this is of the most delicate nature, something and something quite unusual. Lidia Borisovna, Ivan Stepanovich Chernoryazhsky, Larisa, Nicolas Glinsky, Viktor Nikolaevich Odoevsky and Petya Kholmogorov stood out from the audience. There was just as much thinned after the last extraordinary events as this, yes, in a word, doubtful, yes, yes, yes, yes, Volotsky's company, however, did not lose its former fury. There was also a half-witted Englishwoman who appeared out of nowhere, who looked more like a man, who went crazy on the basis of physiological questions and sat alone in armchairs with joyfully meaningless and not very not very, although the truth is true and not stupid, but not yes, yes, but like a perfect expression on the face.
As soon as Voskresensky entered, everyone turned to him at once. But before he had time to bow, the count immediately jumped out from behind him and, like a hare, pressing his hands to his chest, jumped around the living room. Voskresensky and Kostomarov were petrified and, like hewn or simply chopped stones, stones for foundations at a penny in silver apiece. However, the audience smiled as if on cue.
- Here are those! Lidia Borisovna exclaimed with malicious joy, folding up her fan and pointing it at the galloping count. - Again, our count jumped like a bunny! This means that my exhortation reached their Excellency as the first word, but no exhortation!
Loud laughter echoed throughout the living room.
- Here you have the old cute eyes, sir! roared another.
- Vox populi in a new way! the third laughed.
- These are all the consequences! Glinsky remarked caustically.
Voskresensky, with his mouth open, followed the count's jumps, Kostomarov glared with hatred at Lydia Borisovna.
“I saw this fat man somewhere,” she waved her fan at Voskresensky. - But why is Mr. Kostomarov here? Is it because, as it were, relatively or or is there another excusable a or because I am here? Tea, have you not fallen in love with me, Stepan Ilyich?
A new fit of laughter swept through the audience.
“To fall in love with you, Lydia Borisovna, is an infernal shock!” Bakov roared. - This is worse than a Janissary knife! I would not have agreed for a hundred for a hundred, for a hundred thousand, one hundred and one hundred thousand in banknotes!
- Stepan Ilyich is a desperate man, not like you! Chernoryazhsky quipped.
He doesn't care about money! Glinsky chuckled.
He needs another! - Popov squealed just like that sincerely, like an honest gracious sovereign or empress or a commoner but with but with ambitions.
The guests laughed. Only Larisa did not share in the general merriment, but, covering her face with her hands, occasionally looked with horror at the galloping count.
“Why are you so urgent and yes, yes, and somehow vaguely and silent, Stepan Ilyich?” Lidia Borisovna continued with a grin. - Why are you here? This is after you were asked so urgently from here just now?
“I’m here, madam,” began a purple-faced Kostomarov, “because my close friend Count Dmitry Alexandrovich is now in mortal danger. And that danger is you.
“Ah, so you are, therefore, for a friend or for a close friend, as well as for a good person for L’homme qui rit or
Page 9 of 19
came to intercede for a friend? Graph! Your Excellency! Is Stepan Ilyich really your friend? Is this true?
– Quite right! muttered the jumping count.
- Here are those! And I, stupid, or not very, but no, no, but I thought you and him were friendly only on whist and on Nevsky to the young ladies! And then suddenly - a friend! I do not believe! Kill me - I don't believe it!
- Stepan Ilyich is my old, kind and close friend, this is the holy truth! the count exclaimed with fervor, without ceasing to jump. - I'm ready with him for any field! And it’s not so good for anyone all of a sudden and I won’t allow this and that to be scornful of our holy friendship!
“Have mercy, Count, who here dares to encroach on the sacred!” snorted Lydia Borisovna. - Now it's not about friendship, but about something completely different. And listen! How long are you going to jump in such a manner? You are not a hare, and so not a bear, and not a boar, and not at all a bustard at all, and thus not chickens chickens and not a racing horse and not even a jockey, like Bogomolov, but you are galloping! Bogomolov, at least tell the Count!
Everyone turned to Bogomolov, who was drinking his Madeira at some distance from everyone.
“I, sir, Lidia Borisovna, sir, have one iron principle, sir,” Bogomolov began gloomily. “Don’t give advice to anyone, except my wife, my cook, and my two direct heirs, my, so to speak, Castor and Pollux. Only to them I give advice, sir, and not always in words, sir, but for the most part, with something like this. He raised his heavy fist and showed it to everyone. - In my house, sir, this is called concrete education, sir. And if their excellencies, sir, are far from being in my power, sir, therefore, in accordance with my principle, I can’t give them any concrete advice, sir.
- But in vain, Bogomolov, really, in vain! - she exclaimed and shouted, and so movement but voice voice voice and directly to everyone's pleasure: - Oh, someone, but our count really lacks concrete! Isn't it, gentlemen?
- C'est charmant, c'est tres rassurant! screeched the voice.
- In the spirit of the times! - I heard another.
“Gentlemen, why not ask us and us convincingly convincingly, with good and direct, Mr. Bogomolov, to everyone’s pleasure and satisfaction, to abandon our principle, even for a quarter of an hour, and even deliver us an une minute de bonheur? suggested a slightly tipsy Nicolas.
- Please, gentlemen! Bakov picked up.
- Bogomolov does not believe the words! - Petya, who had been silent before this, spoke contemptuously. - It is necessary to ask for his interest!
- And here we will ask him for interest! Chernoryazhsky himself concluded, and even, as it were, summed it up and did not reason with it, sir, jokingly making way for the count jumping past him and taking out his purse. - Voil?, gentlemen!
He pulled out a five-ruble banknote from his wallet:
- Make contributions, gentlemen, I beg you!
“But that’s enough, Ivan Stepanovich,” Volotsky remarked to him reproachfully. - You're going too far. Every petit, yes petit petit, like the petit morceau of a merry yes-yes-s, has some kind of moral limit.
"I'm not joking, gentlemen," said Chernoryazhsky seriously.
“What does that mean, sir?” Kostomarov asked in a voice trembling with indignation.
“And this means, my dear Stepan Ilyich, that the mission of the peacemaker, which you so incompetently deigned to bankrupt on the third day of the day, has now passed from you to us and means that now we have to bring peace and put things in order in this lunatic asylum. And don't you dare look at me and it's me like I'm drunk, I'm not drunk! - shouted Chernoryazhsky so loudly that everyone fell silent at once, only Larisa sobbed and the count continued to jump.
- I don't understand what you're getting at? Lidia Borisovna asked. - Explain to us what you finally want?
“I want to clean up this house once and for all!” Chernoryazhsky said sternly, going up to Bogomolov. - Nikolay ... how are you ...
- Matveyevich, - sullenly sullenly and this is not very not very, Bogomolov prompted.
- Nikolai Matveyevich, you will receive not five and not twenty-five, but five hundred rubles, if you stop the abomination of fornication in this house this very minute!
How is he going to stop it? Lidia Borisovna was amazed.
- I want Bogomolov to flog Count Dmitry Alexandrovich! Carving before our eyes! Chernoryazhsky shouted. – Now and here!
- What? Lidia Borisovna asked, as if half asleep, slowly, slowly, and how heavy all the jam and jam was approaching Chernoryazhsky. How would you like to express yourself? carve?
- Cut out! Flog! Cut out for sure! Here! In front of everyone!
“This is mushroom,” Kostomarov said unexpectedly for himself and for those around him. “I…I…demand.” I demand.
Everyone looked in a daze first at Chernoryazhsky, then at the galloping count. Lidia Borisovna silently silently and very close approached the flushed Chernoryazhsky, somehow looked short-sightedly into his eyes and suddenly with all her strength hit him with the hilt of a fan in the face.
Everyone gasped. The blow fell right on the eye, and he right hand grabbed, pressed, covered or pressed down, and with that hand, that still continued to squeeze the banknote.
“Now, get out!” - Lidia Borisovna pointed with a fan with the same and the same Viennese fan at the door to the white door.
Chernoryazhsky himself turned out to be so unprepared for such a turn of events that he did not immediately come to his senses, but when he came to his senses, growled inhumanly and rushed at Lidia Borisovna; and perhaps it would have been bitter for her if Volotsky, who blocked the path of Chernoryazhsky, had not awakened first of the guests.
- Ivan Stepanovich! he managed to say, but he was immediately pushed away with force by Chernoryazhsky and, flying off about three steps, fell on a chair on a Viennese chair, albeit quite simple and without varnish at all.
The noise from his fall brought the guests to their senses, and in a moment several strong hands already grabbed the senselessly growling Chernoryazhsky.
“Gentlemen, push this scoundrel out!” - ordered Lidia Borisovna.
She was very pale, which made her unusual beauty, whether it stretched straight or not, become even more strange and attractive.
Chernoryazhsky was led to the door.
- With this creature ... this rubbish ... I will kill you! he growled, resisting.
- Push him, push him! Lidia Borisovna shouted angrily and cheerfully.
- This is mushroom ... this is mushroom ... - repeated Kostomarov, as if in oblivion.
- We will not allow fist law with a lady! Let his greyhounds flog! the drunken Bakov roared. - And the counts and princes par excellence - to the guillotine! Law of Correspondence! Carbonari, vivat!
- A new Benckendorff has been found! screeched the voice.
- She's crazy! Crazy! Trust me! Larissa screamed. - My God! Is no one going to stop her?! Is there really no one, no one, no one who would block or erect an obstacle, and so that the stronghold of my pockmarked dreams, who would stop this vile?!
But no one heard Larisa's scream in the uproar. Meanwhile, the snarling Chernoryazhsky was led out of the living room.
- That's better! Lidia Borisovna called after him. - Bonne chance, Ivan Stepanych! You didn’t put things in order here with someone else’s hands, so our count will have to jump like a bunny for a long time! And Bogomolov will live without your five hundred rubles! Will you live, Bogomolov?
- I’ll live, madam, - with gloomy calmness and how is it there earth on earth on earth and on earth and in everything around appearance It was clear that absolutely nothing, nothing. - Slashing counts is not mine
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“You are unfair to me, Lidia Borisovna,” the count, jumping, out of breath and completely wet with sweat, muttered with difficulty. “Believe me, I don’t find anything wrong with thinking that about you just now, because everyone is inclined to think that way, everyone Lately think badly of you. And for this, everyone has reasons, and quite weighty ones. In many ways, you yourself give a reason, you constantly give even many different reasons, and after everyone draws conclusions about your every faux pas and thinks badly of you, including me, you take offense at everyone and start reproaching everyone, although the main reproaches always, always go to me! And it's just scary, c'est tr?s serieux!
– Vrayment? Lidia Borisovna flushed with pleasure, opening her fan and fanning her hot and blushing, but not but not, paint like white ground, but not yet scarlet, but not crimson and pink, and not cherry, sir. All these these changes took place in her extremely frankly and there like a sheet and with extraordinary speed.
“Count, you know who I am!” Yes, and everyone knows that just now Kholmogorov even hinted in the newspaper, did not hesitate: “a luxurious idiot”! What about a luxurious idiot with an unfolded and black dahlia flowers, and a villa, a villa, and so like any homely and depraved, but quiet and overdressed demand? Vaughn and Odoevsky will confirm! Confirm, Ilya Nikolaevich?
Odoevsky, who was standing next to Kholmogorov, who had turned white with anger after mentioning the notorious article, was about to answer, but then the door flung open, Mishka came running in, limping like wooden butter with a report:
- Master, there God knows what, two people with some kind of car and ten people dray! They say that to you and you know already!
– Ah-ah-ah! Here is the denouement! Finally! cried the Count, straightening up and sinking into an armchair in exhaustion. - Call, Mishka, call everyone to one!
The guests looked at each other. The door swung open in an instant, and eleven stevedores wheeled into the living room and immediately got out. Two Germans remained with the car, speaking no Russian at all; one of them held an oblong wooden case in his hands. The Germans are restrained, but also with somehow a position of unbalance and an ordinary Gestalt, like everyone else, and, not at all embarrassed, took up the car.
- Voil?, gentlemen! the count exclaimed with fervor, jumping up and running to the car. “This is the miracle that will save not only us all, but the entire human race!” Herr Gollwitzer, Herr Sartorius, wir sind bereit, bitte schön!
Sartorius opened the case, and everyone froze in amazement: in the case lay a small naked man, probably less than a arshin tall. It was not a dwarf at all, of which there are plenty of them in St. Petersburg today, namely small man, that is, it is not small, but quite small and a turn is a turn like elbows and knees, and where is the stomach where is the stomach and completely proportional addition. He lay in his case as if in a coffin, his eyes closed.
But as soon as Sartorius took his hand, the midget opened his eyes, looked around and smiled at everyone with a strange, extremely kind and soulful, but also painful smile. His face, however, was pleasant, thin and dry, with regular features and large blue eyes. His smile affected the guests so much that they all seemed to be petrified. Lilliput waited a minute or two and said in a low, insinuating voice:
“Let’s get together, brothers and sisters.”
And at the same moment the Germans started their car, and all its mechanisms began to move, and the guests, as if spellbound, went to her. There were three recesses in the machine, in which three were placed at once, and therefore, three could be sewn together at once; to these three already sewn together, three more were sewn together, three more - and so on ad infinitum, that is, to the end, and this and this, until Peace and Will and universal happiness, as one wanted, as one believed and hoped.
– I urge everyone to pay attention to the needles! cried the count, who had come to the strongest excitement. - This is something amazing, really real ... it's incredible ... c'est curieux, ma parole ... the needles of the needle are all hollow inside, but the strongest, strongest, thinnest, s, but extremely agile, like a silk worm, and stuffed with opium inside, s and not even opium, but opium balm and allows tiny holes to ooze through the holes to seep into the blood and relieve pain during stitching and not even pain is a pleasant extremely pleasant sensation! I want to be in the top three! Who is with me?
“I’m with you, Count,” Bakov, sobering up in an instant, quickly responded.
“Me too,” Larisa stepped forward from the crowd.
They stood side by side in the recesses, and the machine immediately sewed them together. With joyful tears in their eyes, they emerged from the recesses and awkwardly, as if learning to walk again, moved around the living room.
“I’m beginning to understand nothing,” Odoevsky said with sullenly growing anger.
“Let’s sew together, brothers and sisters,” said the midget again.
- No. This is not for me! Lidia Borisovna threw the fan away and ran out.
- This is ... the devil knows what ... some kind of villainy! Glinsky ran after him.
“This is mushroom, mushroom…” Kostomarov followed them, muttering.
- Scoundrel! Odoevsky shouted into the count's peaceful face and rushed out with all his might. The others rushed after him. The only guest left in the living room was the Englishwoman, still seated in her armchairs with a blissful smile on her face. The police, who soon arrived in time, arrested the Germans and the midget. The car was confiscated. Stitched together by the count, Larisa and Bakov soon left Russia and settled in Switzerland, where they lived in happiness and harmony for another four years.
Larisa died first. An hour after her death, Bakov strangled himself. Both corpses were safely cut off from the count's body and buried. Count Dmitry Alexandrovich himself, and this and this he is a little but not all and not forever.
So, rips nimada taben.
Put No. 3 in my white wen jian jia and don't you dare show it to your idiots. I press.
No ha, xiaotou.
Today I took the liberty of skiing. Almost an hour climbed the right hill. He sweated and breathed minus-directly: hypodynamia. There is a lot of snow, and it is not always under the crust.
Failed. But at the top - wundersch?n.
Magnificent shangshuihua, fresh dry wind, magpies on larches and – satisfaction.
He took off his skis and sat on a fallen Christmas tree. I wasn't just thinking about you, Xiaozhu. There is celebration and rejoicing in the bunker. Discipline: 0. The Colonel drinks in the morning. I refrain.
I read "Chzhud-shih" about six tastes. When I got to the sweet, I remembered your addictions. Remember: "Excess of sweets generates mucus, obesity, depresses heat, the body gets fat, diabetes, goiter and rmen-bu appear."
Don't get carried away with soft sugar, I'm warning you seriously.
I am sending you a text produced by Akhmatova-2. During the script process, the object was not deformed at all. Only severe bleeding: vaginal and epistaxis. The object entered the accumulative anabiosis accordingly.
If this creature lives for four months and accumulates two kilograms of blue fat, this will be our top direct and the triumph of GENROSMOB.
akhmatova-2
I prayed to viaducts and graveyards,
Melted the ice of the evening gates,
I forgot about the sadness of the careless,
Out on the overgrown path
Yes, she hurried to the blind conflagration,
To keep my clothes from being torn off by the wind,
So that the raven does not drip black blood,
So that the girls do not utter
Page 11 of 19
I was greeted by solemn people,
They hid snake smiles
Opened my leaden arms
And they tried not to break the children's oath.
If tears froze in the cold -
We were hiding behind the tesovy gates.
If the scream broke off from the bell tower -
We locked ourselves with barn locks.
Yes, they watched the wretched pilgrim,
Don't let the guard dogs drink
We did not throw stones at swarthy beggars.
For the night, the beloved shirt was released,
Tore my carved necklace,
Sealed my pale forehead with a kiss,
He cast a burning spell on his chest:
Do not go to the land of the hungry and cheerful,
Do not love the green-eyed and fearless,
Do not kiss between the eyebrows of the curly-haired youths,
Don't bear children to blind legionnaires.
Asked me to fix
Cute face -
Insert quivering nostrils
Copper ring.
Brought and beckoned
And then I took
And ate until the ringing
Burn me, skilled executioner,
Put your own brand.
Let this body know
Devotion to Shamo.
I already sobbed for you -
Dry eyes.
Now I don't have much pain...
The storm is over.
A long way is prepared
On a damp graveyard.
In front of the odalisque house
I will stand up to my full height.
lean over and kiss
Dear threshold.
Curse me, the former
At the crossroads.
I forgive you everything, sister
My bitter.
Let me pray
For you, snake.
Three friends lived in the village of Urozly,
Three young collective farmers in the village of Urozly:
They grew up in poor families
They were the first to enter the collective farm,
They became the first Komsomol members
In the village of Urozly.
They believed Lenin-Stalin,
They believed in the Bolshevik Party,
They believed in their native collective farm.
As the snow melted in spring
They began to build a school
Gaptiev, Gazmanov and Khabibulin.
good school
spacious school,
School for peasant children.
Gaptieva dug clay with a ketmen,
Gazmanova knitted straw,
Khabibulina kneaded the adobe,
With strong legs she kneaded the adobe,
I put young manure in the adobe,
To keep the school strong
To keep the school warm
To make the school bright
Villages of Urozly.
The kulaks lived in the village of Urozly,
Greedy fists in the village of Urozly,
Evil fists in the village of Urozly:
Lukman, Rashid, old man Faziev and Mulla Burgan.
Fists learned about the school,
Fists shook with anger,
They clenched their fists,
Went to harm the fists:
The fists set fire to the straw,
Saman was stealing fists,
Fists were thrown like rotten horsemeat,
The kulaks mocked the collective farm.
Didn't endure
Collective farm friends went to the district -
I will look for management on fists,
Ask for protection from the fists,
Waging war against the kulaks.
Friends came to the city of Tuymazy,
Collective farmers came to the GPU,
They came with a serious conversation.
Comrade Akhmat greeted them warmly,
Black-browed gray-eyed comrade Akhmat,
Hero Civil Comrade Akhmat,
Companion of Lenin-Stalin Comrade Akhmat.
Komsomol members told him everything
Gaptiev, Gazmanov and Khabibulin,
The whole truth, everything was told as it is,
All the sadness and all the pain told
All their worries were told.
Comrade Akhmat equipped the detachment,
Comrade Akhmat sat on a white horse,
And Comrade Akhmat led the detachment,
In the village of Urozly led a detachment.
They seized the kulaks like lousy dogs:
fists scared,
Fists clenched
Fists were dirty with fear.
The people judged the kulaks,
Punished the kulaks of the people -
The people hung kulaks on the gates:
Lukman, Rashid, old man Faziev and Mullah Burgan.
The collective farmers of the village of Urozly rejoiced,
Sabantuy was arranged in the village of Urozly,
Glorious Sabantuy in the village of Urozly:
Three fat rams were slaughtered in the village of Urozly.
Gaptiev prepared baursaki,
Gazmanov cooked beldyme,
Cooked Khabibulina belyashi.
They began to give water to Comrade Akhmat,
They began to feed Comrade Akhmat,
They began to sing songs to Comrade Akhmat,
They began to ask Comrade Akhmat:
- What do you wish, dear comrade Akhmat?
Comrade Akhmat answered them:
- I liked the Komsomol members
Gaptiev, Gazmanov and Khabibulin,
I want to spend the night with one of them.
Friends smiled
Friends are confused
Friends answered:
- Do not be angry, comrade Akhmat,
Do not be angry, comrade Akhmat,
We are Komsomol friends, comrade Akhmat,
We grew up in poor families, Comrade Akhmat,
We swallowed tears together, comrade Akhmat,
We prayed together to Lenin-Stalin, Comrade Akhmat,
We entered the collective farm together, Comrade Akhmat,
They became Komsomol members, Comrade Akhmat,
We are building a school together, comrade Akhmat,
We will sleep with you together, comrade Akhmat.
Comrade Akhmat was surprised,
Comrade Akhmat agreed.
Let's go to the Dubyaz meadow
Gaptiev, Gazmanov and Khabibulin,
They set up a yurt made of white felt in the meadow.
They rolled out camel felt in the yurt,
They covered the felt with Chinese silk,
They took under the arms of Comrade Akhmat,
Comrade Akhmat was brought into the yurt,
Divide comrade Akhmat,
They rubbed his hard plow with mutton fat,
To better plow his girlfriends.
Undress girlfriends-collective farmers naked,
They lay down next to Comrade Akhmat.
Their comrade Akhmat plowed all night:
Gaptiev three times,
Gazmanov three times,
Khabibulin three times.
In the morning, as the sun rose,
Girlfriends got up, got dressed, inflated the samovar,
We gave Comrade Akhmat tea to drink,
Brynza fed comrade Akhmat,
Comrade Akhmat was equipped on the way,
Comrade Akhmat was put on a horse.
Comrade Akhmat rode across the steppe,
Across the wide steppe, Comrade Akhmat,
Comrade Akhmat to the city of Tuymazy,
Comrade Akhmat for big things.
As nine moons passed
They gave birth to Gaptiev, Gazmanov and Khabibulin
Three sons:
Ahmad Gaptiev,
Ahmad Gazmanov,
Akhmat Khabibulin.
They became strong, brave, dexterous,
They became smart, cunning, wise,
They became unselfish and merciless.
And there was no equal to them
Neither in Urozly, nor in Tuymazy,
Neither in Ishimbay, nor in Ufa,
Not in Kazan big.
Learned the great Lenin-Stalin
About three Akhmatov,
He called to himself three Akhmatov,
He called three Akhmatov to the service,
To the Heavenly Moscow of three Akhmats,
To the Invisible Kremlin of three Akhmats.
Since then, three Akhmat
They live in Heavenly Moscow,
They live in the Invisible Kremlin,
On Lenin-Stalin live:
Akhmat Gaptiev
On the horns of Lenin-Stalin lives,
On the six horns of Lenin-Stalin lives -
On mighty horns
On viscous horns,
on branched horns,
On bumpy horns
On triple helix horns:
The first horn in the future heals,
The second horn heals the Past,
The third horn aims at Heaven,
The fourth horn heals the earthly,
The fifth horn in the right heals,
The sixth horn heals the Wrong.
Akhmat Gazmanov
On the chest of Lenin-Stalin lives -
On a broad chest
On deep chest
On a mighty chest
On a flowing chest
On the chest with three nipples:
In the first nipple - White milk,
In the second nipple - Black milk,
In the third nipple - Invisible milk.
Akhmat Khabibulin
Lives on Lenin-Stalin's muds,
He lives on five mudyas -
On heavy muds
On crimson mudas,
On furry mudas,
On hunchbacked mudas,
On the muds under the ice crust:
In the first muda - the seed of the Beginnings,
In the second muda - the seed of Limits,
In the third muda is the seed of the Path,
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the fourth muda is the seed of Struggle,
In the fifth muda is the seed of the End.
And so they live forever.
Pay attention to the handwriting; this is for our green conversation, rips nimada! If you stubbornly write vertically like a pentan, your L-harmony will sooner or later need three Akhmats!
Not your Boris
I got up with difficulty. Totally manipulative.
And all because, rips, in the age of pragmatic positivism, I remain a hopeless radis-romantic.
We had a direct sniff yesterday with Agvidor.
They drank birch sap.
He went to play pix-dix with Karpenkoff, Bochvar and Sergeant Belov (touching lao bai xing, but not shagua).
And instead of a decent reading of the "Three Kingdoms" in a friend, I was drawn to?
You won't guess, rips xiaozhu.
Yeah, I won't say it myself. I'll send you the text of Platonov-3. This most exotic individual produced the most M-predictable text. I turned out to be 67% right. Outwardly, Platonov-3 has not changed at all: as it was a coffee table, it remained so.
Platonov-3
prescription
Stepan Bubnov was shoveling the furnace little by little and did not hear how a man climbed into the cab of the slicer.
Are you Bubnov? shouted the outsider in a high, non-proletarian voice. Stepan turned around to show his class superiority, and saw a stocky guy with a face crushed by the tense inconsistency of current life. The guy's head was flat and devoid of vegetation beyond his years due to the tight passage through the airy black soil of revolutionary times.
- I'm a shredder from the depot! Zazhogin Fedor, - the guy shouted, trying to block the class roar of the firebox with his bourgeois voice.
- You, by any chance, didn’t rent a throat from Wrangel? Bubnov asked, closing the furnace.
- I have a mandate for you from Comrade Chub! Zazhogin seriously reached into the pocket of his tunic. - Let's go to Bolokhovo! There, the white bastard presses hard!
Bubnov scraped off the excess fuel oil from his palm into a tin and took a clean piece of paper from Zazhogin:
The machinist Bubnov S.I. is prescribed
urgently deliver the proletarian slice truck No. 316
at the Bolokhovo junction for solidarity coupling
with the armored train "Rosa Luxembourg".
Beginning depot comrade Ivan Chub.
What is this mandate? Bubnov folded the paper without any respect for it. "It's a prescription, you shallow man!" I could have conveyed in words why wasting a bourgeois dowry in vain! How long have you been at the depot?
- Second day! - respectfully looked into the slashing Zazhogin. – I am now from Vologda! We assembled the train there, but did not deliver it - the counter-revolution smashed it to pieces!
- Is it under Khlyupin, or what?
- Beneath him!
“Where is my old cutter?” Petrov?
- He was sent away with the Armenians for sugar! To Razdolnaya!
- Found something to send for! - Evil did not approve of Bubnov. - The working stomach will live without sugar - there would be liquid! Well, get to the knives!
Zazhogin disappeared into the kromsalnaya. Bubnov removed the brake from the brake, pulled the balancer. The connecting rods set off and went with a whistle to knead the steppe air. All around, to the very horizon, an inhuman plain unfolded, overgrown with dreary grasses, oppressed by sun and wind. When Sirotino passed, Bubnov set the reverse on medium thrust and looked into the slasher.
Zazhogin sternly wielded a barbid knife, shredding the dried corpses of the enemies of the revolution and throwing the boneless chunks into the storeroom.
“Grab! Bubnov thought positively. “If only metal would be normal!”
In Ostashkov, four legless donors and a pregnant woman with a piece of rail asked for Konepad.
- Jump yourself! We don't have a simple couple! Bubnov warned them.
- Let's jump, comrade, but how! - donors were delighted with the warmth and movement. We have nothing to break now!
– Why do you need people's iron? Bubnov asked Baba. - Your business is to pull benefit from the uncultivated land!
- A husband in Konepad sells log cabins by weight, but he still hasn’t done a steelyard! All outweighed by sandbags! - the woman answered in detail, carefully leaning the rail against her stomach in order to lull the disturbed child with a cold and calm substance.
“Look what you thought, vosheboyschiki!” Bubnov chuckled. - And when you intend to sell the land according to the kulak covenant, will you also need a steelyard?
- The earth, brother, can only be outweighed by the right mind! - answered instead of the sleeping woman the smartest disabled person.
- With the right mind, it is necessary to outweigh not the earth, but earthly fools! Bubnov snapped. - Their rotten regime has accumulated so much that not all of them fit in the ground at once! You have to wait a lot until the old ones rot and give way to new places!
The Lomtevoz roared through the hollow and puffed uphill.
- Gimme traction! Bubnov shouted into the pipe and opened the firebox.
Zazhogin poked his pensive face out of the slaughterhouse and began throwing chunks into the firebox, mercilessly dipping them into a trough of fuel oil. The red-hot inside of the firebox greedily swallowed pieces of human material.
- Whose chunks are we going on? asked another legless man. - Tea, on the kappele?
“You can’t get far in the officer’s field these days!” Bubnov reasoned with him. - They burned their white fat on fierce fear! There is nothing to cut from their bones!
- So, on the bourgeois prem? - The disabled person perked up.
- On them! shouted Bubnov.
- And I was the only one from Kostroma to Yaroslavl on the local kulak slices! continued the invalid, sympathetically crawling up to the roaring furnace. - Even when he was on his feet! So we did a hundred miles in half an hour! Steam whistled a mile away! That's what it means - a fat class!
Suddenly, several pieces of fast lead hit the cockpit and the tender, breaking through them along with the bodies of two invalids and a woman. The shot invalids fell on the greasy floor and twitched for a long time, reluctantly parting with a boring life. Baba died without resistance in her sleep, and the child, due to the proximity of the rail, continued to sleep deeply in his stomach, not feeling the loss of his mother.
Bubnov leaned out of the cab and saw ahead of him a handcar with people and a machine gun. He pulled the balancer and closed the siphon. The Lomtevoz began to brake furiously and quietly crawled up to the deadly trolley. Superheated steam blew from the leaky cauldron into outer space with useless frenzy.
- Hey, lads, who is rich in shag? - asked from the trolley incomprehensible people.
- Whose blood are you, murderers? Bubnov asked.
- We are red, with a passing point! – definitely answered the commander of the trolley. – And what are you like?
- Depovskie, your mother to the Virgin! What are you, you bastard, spitting lead in your own?
- Yes, we are here, such a thing, we are offended by the mahr for the third day! - the commander came up with a crooked face. - Not a single bastard will stop! And without smoke - it's sickening to fight! The louse will seize with boredom!
Bubnov looked around. He himself had two rolls of shag left; Zazhogin, judging by his cloudy eyes, did not indulge in smoking. Picking out the golden shag from the disabled was contrary to Bubnov's large-boned nature.
– We don’t have mahr, fulugan! he shouted to the bow-legged. - Follow her to the whites!
The commander silently sat down on the handcar and ordered the Red Army men: they piled on the yoke, ready for anything, and the handcar easily rolled away. The living climbed down from the sledge truck and carried out the trolley long glances, in which there was more envy for the unhindered overcoming of space than reproach for the dead.
- You should tin it, master! -
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the invalid advised ingenuously, looking at the leaky tender as at a miraculous icon with oozing water.
- We’ll only get your crap! - Bubnov did not pay stern attention, bored because of the gloomy immobility of the slicer. Two surviving invalids crawled excitedly around the parked car: sudden death comrades acted on them like moonshine. Zazhogin was economically poking around in the slasher, as if nothing important had happened.
Finally Bubnov came up with.
- That's what, the stubs of the world revolution! - he turned to the disabled. - It is necessary to move the slicer from its place in order to crawl to Zhitnaya. There they will tin our tank, and then let's go!
- How can we move such a burden? - the invalid doubted happily.
- I will tie you to the connecting rods on both sides, you will help the wheels! Without this, the car cannot cope: the steam is rotten, the tank is broken!
“Let’s bury our dead comrades first!” suggested the disabled person.
- It's possible! Bubnov agreed. - Something, but we have a lot of shovels!
They dug a mass grave in the steppe, they put two legless people and a pregnant woman in it. Something prompted those who buried that the pregnant woman should be put together with the rail, which she continued to press to her stomach, even while dead, taking care of the peace of the child. When they began to cover the bodies with indifferent earth, the talkative invalid became emotional:
- Together with them, we sacrificed the legs of the chunky flotilla "Comintern"! Then, listen, for fifty versts near Bobruisk there was no smell of a single slice! All thrown to the front! Scrap trucks are standing! How to take out the wounded? Well, three companies gave up their lower limbs in favor of the recovery of the enemies of capital! On our feet, we instantly reached Yukhnov!
His comrade was also about to say something cordial, but only growled because of the poverty of the human language, which had dried up a lot in the revolutionary wind. Pouring a low mound over the grave, they stuck a shovel into it, on which Bubnov scrawled with a piece of rubble:
Here lie accidentally killed people.
They found a coil of wire in the tool box, and screwed the disabled to the connecting rods of the drive wheels. The invalids were importantly silent, inwardly preparing for unusual work.
- Throw little by little! Bubnov warned Zazhogina. - And then we won’t crawl to the place - we’ll disintegrate!
Zazhogin began throwing buttered chunks into the cooling firebox. The slices crackled, surprising the guts of the wounded slicer with unexpected warmth. A little slow time passed, the slicer started off and rolled quietly. The accustomed invalids shouted to each other through the loudly working metal.
- Comrade Bubnov, why did they hit us with a machine gun? Zazhogin remembered, straightening up.
- Wanted to smoke! Bubnov peered painfully into the yellow steppe horizon.
“Here are the bashi-bazouks!” Zazhogin was surprised. - Because of a harmful relic, people are ruined!
- Smoking is not a relic, but mustard for the insipid beef of life! Bubnov reasoned, twisting the goat's leg as proof.
Zazhogin, incomprehensibly, disappeared into the slaughterhouse, as he could never reconcile himself to the need to draw in unnutritious smoke. It didn't fit in his flat but curious head.
Before the sledgehammer with the invalids had time to get tired, hurried riders on horses shining with sweat appeared on both sides of the canvas. In hoarse, war-weary voices, they ordered the slicer to stop.
- Who are they? Bubnov asked them, swallowing the wind.
Without answering, the riders took out weapons hardened in battles.
- White, comrade Bubnov! Zazhogin looked. Has the front been broken?
- Where are they! The driver reassured him. - These are stubs of no importance! They are behind their time, and the new is too tough for them! Come on, Fedya, dig into the tool - there must be weapons of destruction!
Zazhogin opened the toolbox and pulled out two sawn-off shotguns with muzzles that did not know how to be surprised. Bubnov twitched the sawn-off bolt, sending a sleepy cartridge into the barrel, and, leaning out of the cab, began to land hard on the whites. Zazhogin, who lately has often dealt with the destruction of someone else's life, calmly waited for the enemy to approach at a lethal distance. Taking advantage of the slow speed of the slicer, the whites grabbed hold of the riveted iron and climbed over it, pushing off from the exhausted horses. The invalids, swinging on the connecting rods, greeted the defenders of the fading class with a choice obscenity.
- Fedya, a white louse is boarding us! - stated Bubnov, transferring weapons to hand-to-hand combat. “Let’s make holes in their rotten bodies!”
"Who are you to disobey orders?" the one-eyed cavalryman asked the machinist, the first to penetrate the interior of the slicer.
- Slave of world communism! Bubnov deliberately answered and blew off half of his face from a sawn-off shotgun.
One-Eyed disappeared into fast space. The other two fell on Zazhogin, who was tired of waiting for the enemy on the honest side. One stuck an aristocratic dagger in his back, the other grabbed the shredder's throat, not giving him the opportunity to sincerely scream in pain. Zazhogin screamed into his gut, and his cry, like superheated steam in a closed cauldron, tripled the strength of the destroyed organism: Fyodor hit one of the attackers with his knee in the thin stomach, and shot another in the neck with a sawed-off shotgun.
"What are you up to, you fool?" the hare asked angrily, sitting down on the floor and busily plugging the wound with his fist.
Zazhogin jerked the bolt and crushed the skull of the second, who fell into a sleepy reverie. The whites who climbed onto the roof, sensing something was wrong, fired down at once. One of the bullets imperceptibly dug into Bubnov's shoulder, the rest entered inanimate objects.
- Fedya, guard the door, I'm right now! Bubnov warned and jerked the balancer.
Lomtevoz began to slow down, so that the sparks from under the wheels lit up the evening steppe and the bodies of the whites who flew from the roof onto the rails.
- It's not for you to catch on a mare - a technique! Bubnov concluded approvingly, also falling to the floor according to Newton's objective law.
Zazhogin was thrown with his back against the levers, which caused the dagger to go even deeper into the flesh of his back. The wounded hare was slammed head on the balance beam, and he died.
The sledgehammer stopped.
- Comrade Bubnov, look what the enemy put in my back! asked Zazhogin.
The machinist pulled a White Guard trophy out of his back and showed it to him.
- Look, gold miners! No to a bayonet - in a simple way! - Zazhogin yearned, and the blood, previously blocked by the blade of the dagger, gushed into his lungs.
- Liquid across the throat rushing! he reported to Bubnov, coughing. - You won't say goodbye!
- And you say goodbye with your eyes, brother! Bubnov hugged him.
Zazhogin gathered himself to stare into the driver's eyes with all his might, but suddenly looked through them - into unearthly space - and died. Bubnov raised his White Guard cap and put it on the hacker's face.
All around, crippled whites were dying in the twilight. Bubnov did not finish them off, but went to untie the disabled. But the sudden braking killed them too: the wire went too deep into the bodies of the tied, cutting important veins. The invalids died half asleep, pouring steaming blood over the silent iron, which did not thank them for their help.
Who will I share the victory with? - Bubnov was angry at the legless. “You are not a white bone to break so easily!”
Behind him, a hand stuck out of the darkness and put a sickle to the driver's throat,
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cut it like an overgrown ear.
Bubnov stepped back - to where the heated earth was resting from the blind sun.
Bubnov stopped. Some gloomy people ran up to the slicer, scurried around and rushed away. There was the serpentine hiss of a pickford cord.
- What are you doing, bastards? Same people's good! the engineer shouted in the voice of a mother who was irretrievably losing her child.
In response, a tense flame flared up, and pieces of the sliced truck flew into the steppe. Bubnov and the night owls were laid down by a wave on the ground.
- Beluga unfinished! Bubnov spat sand out of his mouth. - From grief completely crazy, Wrangel lackeys!
- We are not white, do not boil! - they answered him.
Bandits, you mean?
And not bandits!
- Then - expelled from the party?
- So - the Makhnovists?
We are not anarchists! Anarchy is the new opium for the people: Jesus Christ with a Mauser!
– Yes, who are you? - Bubnov was completely angry.
We are children of nature! explained the darkened man. We are fighting against machines! For complete and unconditional liberation from mechanical labor! Can you read?
“I couldn’t before the revolution! Bubnov answered proudly.
- As soon as dawn, I will give you my book - "The Power of Machines." Everything is written there. My surname is Pokrevsky. Now let's bake potatoes, and I'll tell you everything about cars in words.
Why should I hear about cars! I have been living in the depot since I was fourteen! I know all the engines!
- And the essence - you do not know! With machines, a person will never come to world happiness! They will make him bourgeois and make himself a slave! What holy communism is there when iron digs the earth for you! This is the meanness of the world! She must be fought to the bone! Let's destroy the cars and pave our way to the red paradise with their debris!
- And plow - again on a mare?
“Not on a mare, dark man!” On ourselves and plow, and sow, and we will grow fast!
- This is not for me! - Bubnov, tired of driving, killing and talking, yawned. - I will not climb into the collar! And I can't live without slicers!
From the fluctuation of the night air, he realized that people exchanged glances.
- Will you kill? Then quickly go ahead - I don’t like to get sick!
We don't touch people! - answered the invisible ones and disappeared.
Bubnov lay down on the warm earth and fell asleep. He dreamed of something painfully dear and huge, from which there is nothing to hide from, that it is impossible to kill, forget or bury, and with which it is impossible to merge forever, but you can only love an orphan with unrequited love. Then this huge and native shrank into a shining water drop and dripped on his shoulder. Bubnov woke up. The sun stood at its zenith and stupidly warmed the earth and Bubnov lying on it. Pieces of a blown-up slicer were lying around. An unburned chunk of bourgeois flesh was lying next to the driver's feet, which had not turned into proletarian steam. Bubnov looked at his shoulder and saw in it the butt of a White Guard bullet.
“Hooked all the same! And I was afraid to remain an unpregnant Mother of God!” Bubnov thought cheerfully and pulled the bullet out of his shoulder. The black blood that had accumulated under the bullet flowed lazily from the wound. Bubnov picked up the piece and put it on his shoulder. I had to go somewhere.
“I’ll even get to Zhitnaya! There, a telegram will be heard at the depot: the anti-machine people blew up the slice truck!” thought Bubnov.
He climbed onto the canvas and moved along the black sleepers.
As they walked, Bubnov thought about the new slicer, which, like a rider's horse, was calmly waiting for him somewhere in a dark space.
“I won’t tear the ground on foot now! the driver argued. - It is more interesting to live on a lomtevoz. And you don’t need to think slowly, as while walking. There, the mechanic thinks for you with iron thoughts.”
Six miles later Zhitnaya appeared.
Bubnov was tired from boring walking and from pressing bourgeois meat to his wounded shoulder, so he did not go to the station, but knocked on the gate of the very first courtyard: to drink water. The gates were not locked. Bubnov entered the yard. The dog, lying on the overheated straw, looked at him sleepily.
- Master! Bubnov called.
– Chivo need? a woman's voice called out from the hay barn.
- Drink some water!
– Chivo? Come in, I can't hear!
Bubnov entered the half-empty and half-dark shed and with difficulty made out an incredibly fat naked woman lying on hay and peeling seeds.
- Water, I say, drink! - said Bubnov, surprised by the white forms of an unusual human being.
- Speak louder, why are you squeaking like a mosquito! the woman advised.
Bubnov stepped forward to shout, and fell into a deep, wedge-shaped cellar, dug not to store food. Waking up, the driver looked up. The fat woman looked at him intently.
“Live here,” she said.
- Are you a widow? Bubnov asked, not understanding.
“I am whole,” the woman replied, and spat out the husk.
- I have a prescription. People are waiting for me,” Bubnov stirred on the earthen clods.
- Show me! The woman tossed him a box on a string.
Bubnov took out a prescription and put it in a container. The woman pulled the box towards her and read the prescription for a long time, moving her thick lips.
- Nothing! She hid the prescription between her huge thighs. - Sleep! I'm going to stare at you often!
The oak lid slammed shut over Bubnov's head.
On the Witte scale, this text is 79% L-harmony.
It's hard to believe, rips nimada taben!
Platonov-3 was incubated by St. Petersburg Zhuanmenjia seven months ago after two dis-failures that greatly undermined the authority of the Faibisovich and Co. school. In the general environment, the attitude towards St. Petersburg residents is similar to the yuwang xingwei of your choudie Martin at Savva's wedding: every mediocre baichi is capable of hitting the paralyzed Ilya Muromets on the port. And Faibisovich managed to prove to all the ignoble vans that he did not cheat in geninzh and was able not to paint a rhinoceros with RK.
This was demonstrated by the live table of Platonov-3.
We expect from him no more than 2 kg of blue fat. Places of deposition - elbows and knees, groin, prostate (sic!), cheek pouches.
Rejoice, CYCLOPIC.
Still, the military are pigs not only by definition.
Yesterday we got drunk with the colonel (the rest went hunting). And this pentan shagua crawled towards me. At first I started from afar, like a typical violet:
- Boris, you have no idea how tired I am of the smell of viviparous boots in the barracks. I forgot what clean men's skin smells like.
You know, I always get hairy from this kind of razbega. My ritual grins did not help, this hankun muden moved straight into LOB:
- Boris, did you test 3 plus Carolina?
- No. And I hardly try.
- Why?
– I prefer pure multisex.
Where does this quietism come from?
“From my psychosomo, Colonel.
- You are robbing yourself.
- Not at all. I just don't want to disharmonize my LV.
Rips, for every step the mention of LV is a blow to the dark crown. They were silent. The colonel took a sip of "Katya Bobrinskaya" and for a long time rested his eyes on me with a black eye:
- Boris, I'm asking for a reason.
(As if I didn’t guess, rips taben tudin.)
It turns out that despite his ADAR, this anteater is trying out a stinky 3 plus Carolina after lights out. With sergeants. And he complains about the soldier's smell. Gray liangmianpai. Like all his generation. But this is all - husho badao, my transparent-eared boy.
Chekhov-3: no surprises, but no snot either.
object strongly
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exhausted by the process and eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeebreath
Burial of Attis
Dramatic study in one act
Viktor Nikolaevich Polozov, landowner.
Arina Borisovna Znamenskaya, young actress.
Sergey Leonidovich Shtange, doctor.
Anton, an elderly lackey.
Part of the apple orchard in Polozov's estate. Anton is digging a hole between two old apple trees. It's evening.
Anton (breathing heavily). Lord... Jesus Christ... have mercy on us sinners. It is necessary to think of such a thing - to bury in the garden. It's like there are no other places. What have we come to, God forgive me. And I have a sin in my old age. Yes, and the master is ashamed ... oh, how ashamed, sir! It's a pity the old gentleman died, otherwise he would have said, as he used to, - throw out these card ballets from your head, Vityusha.
Enter Znamenskaya with a branch of lilac; she wears a mud-splattered cloak and a wide-brimmed Spanish hat.
Lord, Arina Borisovna!
Znamenskaya. You recognized me, Anton. How nice! Hello.
Anton (bows). I wish you well! How can you not know! How can you not know! (Fusses, throws down a shovel.) Excuse me, allow me, I will report this minute.
Znamenskaya. You don't have to report anything to anyone.
Anton (in a hurry to go into the house). How! How!
Znamenskaya (stops him). Wait. I say don't.
Anton. Yes, the gentleman, after all, has been waiting for you for a long time.
Znamenskaya. Dear, good Anton. Nobody has been waiting for me here for a long time. (Looks around.) Nothing has changed in two years. And the house is still the same. And garden. And even the weather vane above the mezzanine is still rusty.
Anton. But who will climb there to paint something, lady, my dear! I'm already in years, but the gentlemen do not want to hire workers, sir, because there is no money. Already calculated the manager, and the maid. I was left alone. What’s up with the weather vane - there’s nothing to fix the porch with!
Znamenskaya. Where is the swing? They hung on that apple tree over there.
Anton. The ropes sopreli, so I cut it off. And the gentleman didn’t even notice, sir, who should swing now? Natalia Nikolaevna and her children no longer come. (Recollects himself.) Mistress, my dear, you all deigned to splash from behind! Let the raincoat!
Znamenskaya (leaning on the trunk of an apple tree). Leave.
Anton. Are you tea from the station?
Znamenskaya. Yes. I'll stay here for a while and then I'll go. And you don't tell him anything. Do you hear?
Anton. Yes, how is it?
Znamenskaya. Tell me that he is still ... (Thinks.)
Anton. What would you like?
Znamenskaya. There is nothing. Goodbye. (Throws a lilac branch, walks away, but runs into Polozov. He is in a tailcoat and white gloves, holding a dead greyhound dog in his arms.)
Polozov. Arina ... Arina Borisovna.
Znamenskaya (turns away). Viktor Nikolaevich.
Polozov (in a daze). I…
Znamenskaya. I'm sorry to trouble you.
Polozov (with difficulty speaking). You... not at all. Excuse me. This is true…
Znamenskaya. I came to see your garden. Just. Has your dog died? Wait, is this the one? She is so small in her arms.
Polozov (puts the dog on the ground). I am very glad to see you. It's so unexpected, but very good. Very good.
Znamenskaya. What well?
Polozov. What are you here.
Znamenskaya. So strange... When I was walking from the station through a grove, I was overtaken by a drunken man on a horse. Naked to the waist, with some kind of mechanical thing in his hand, probably broken off from some machine. He knocked on the birch trunks with it and shouted: “Wait, wait!” Crazy man. What stay? Totally crazy man. And very vicious.
Anton (shakes his head). This, you see, the Vostryakovskys are mischievous.
Polozov (to Anton). Go get us some tea.
Anton. Right now, father. (Exits.)
Znamenskaya (leaning over the dog, stroking it). Yes. This is the same dog. Ancient Greek, as your sister used to say. And I forgot what his name was: Antinous? Orestes? Alkyd?
Polozov. Attis.
Znamenskaya. Attis! Dear Attis. Yes Yes. I asked you back then: who is this Attis? And you answered - Cybele's lover. But I did not know the history of Cybele. And I was embarrassed to admit it. Now, I'm not shy at all. We always took Attis with us on walks. He was so fast, handsome. And once he rushed to beat a ram. And you yelled at him like that. Viktor Nikolaevich, what's wrong with your face?
Polozov. Nothing. It seems - nothing.
Znamenskaya. Tell me, is it terrible that I'm here?
Polozov. This is very good.
Znamenskaya. I confess to you - I have not read any of your letters.
Polozov. I guessed.
Znamenskaya. I burned all eighteen letters in the fireplace. It's gross, I know. But something prevented me from reading them. Am I very bad?
Polozov. Arina Borisovna, let's go into the house. It's damp here.
Znamenskaya. No no. Let's stay, stay. I loved your garden so much. In May especially. Remember when the Panins arrived? And you and Ivan Ivanovich were shooting at bottles. In the evening we went boating. And Kadashevsky fell into the water. And the next morning, all the apple trees bloomed. All at once. And you said it's because I'm here. And Panin said that this was for the war.
Polozov. Yes... I remember.
Znamenskaya. But the war did not happen. Only in Konoplev a man hacked his family to death.
Polozov. I remember that too (takes her hand). Let's go to the house. You need to rest and recover.
Znamenskaya (looks at the dead dog). Strange all the same.
Polozov. What?
Znamenskaya. Dead dogs are like living dogs. A dead people they don't look alive at all. When I buried my father, I knew that it was not he who was lying in the coffin, but a completely different person. Therefore, I still do not believe that my father died. He is alive. And in general, what lay in the coffin did not look like a person. Do you disagree?
Polozov. Yes Yes. You're right. Although…
Znamenskaya. What?
Polozov. Go away!
Znamenskaya (looks at him incomprehensibly). What?
Polozov (shouting). Go away! Out! Now - get out!
Znamenskaya takes two steps back, staring into his face, then turns and runs away. Anton appears.
Anton. Your name is barin?
Polozov. No… that is, yes. Help me. (He takes the dog in his arms and carefully lowers it into the pit.)
Anton. And what about Arina Borisovna? Are they going to drink tea? I've covered it.
Polozov. Shut up. (Looks at the dead dog, throws a handful of earth at him.) Bury it.
Anton dumps the earth into a hole.
Seven years. Just seven years old. For a yard dog, this is nothing. And for a greyhound - the life span.
Anton. How! Greyhounds have their whole lives on the run. There is no breath. And the dog was nice. On the frets, it's clean, dense. And a sizeable one! Passion! And so it goes, and so it goes! Look, it happened. Your late father used to say: our Attis has a tong that a crocodile has - it will bite a hare in half. Forty-three foxes hunted down. Here are the things.
Polozov slowly wanders towards the house.
Living room in Polozov's house; Viktor Nikolaevich is sitting in an armchair and smoking a cigar; next to him is a Chinese tea table set for two; on the edge is a decanter of vodka. Anton enters with a plate of pickles.
Anton. Here, father, is all there is. And we ran out of privateers at Epiphany. What kind of privateers are there, if soon there will be nothing to buy bread.
Polozov. Go.
Anton (puts the cucumbers on the table, presses his hands to his chest). Father barin, have mercy! What are you doing to yourself?
Polozov. Go.
Anton. My heart is bleeding, looking! I know you from the cradle! How so, Lord Jesus Christ! Why do you want to ruin yourself like that, sir?
Polozov. Go!
Anton. Yes, I'm going, I'm going. God! We'll disappear for nothing ... (Exits.)
A cane is pushed through the half-open window and opens it. Shtange's head is shown.
Barbell. Victor
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Nikolaich, mommy, greetings! Your gates are wide open, brother! Immediately see the wide nature! Forgive me, mommy, I'm already through the window, in a filibuster way! (Climbs through the window; he is wearing a nanke troika, a white hat, in his hands is a cane and a bag with a bottle of Madeira.) Well, hello, mummy!
Polozov, without getting up, gives him a hand.
Barbell. What are you - tea cucumbers snack? (Notices a decanter of vodka.) Ah, pardon, vodka! Pretty! And I'll come to you with a drinking trophy too! (Puts a bottle of Madeira on the table.) Ein Geschenk, mein lieber Freund! I prefer Crimean Madeira to Spanish. You are alone?
Polozov. One.
Barbell. What is cloudy? What happened?
Polozov. Attis is dead.
Barbell. Dead? Oh no no no. It's a pity. It was a nice dog. Do you remember how it was in autumn then? Atu, atu! Sorry, damn it. Sincerely sorry. (Sits down.) Treat me, brother, to a cigar.
Polozov silently opens an empty cigar box and shows it to him.
Barbell. All out? To hell with them. (Animatedly.) Well, my mother, I will report to you: Crimea in the spring is such a beze, such a charm! We foolishly strive to go there in the fall and in the winter, and in the spring we knead our own mud here. And you go to Yalta in April - you will return a different individual. Miracle, just a miracle. Everything is blooming, warm, dry, the air is specially for our bronchi. Ladies are walking along the embankment. And very dishonest.
Polozov silently looks at Stange.
Barbell. What?
Polozov. Nothing. (Pause.)
Barbell. Am I talking nonsense?
Polozov silently smokes.
Let's drink vodka. (Fills glasses.) Crimean air. It intoxicates and deafens. Everything is somehow soft, beautiful. Sometimes it's even sickening. I'm not a fan of dessert, you know, but in the Crimea I suddenly start playing a kind of metaphysical sweet tooth. A hyper-optimist with a positivist flair. And trust me, I enjoy it. Ask! (Drinks.) And when you return to your native aspens, again melancholy piles up, but all this together - dirt, muck and boredom. Harness yourself to work - and go ahead, bird-troika! (Pause.) Why are you looking like that? Am I talking nonsense? (Laughs.) Tomorrow I have to cut the director of the bank. Imagine, mommy, a banker, and suddenly - a hernia! Why would a banker have a hernia? What did he overstrain on banknotes?
Polozov (drinks his vodka). Arina Borisovna was here now.
Barbell. Znamenskaya? Say mercy! I heard she had a benefit performance. She didn't stay?
Polozov. I kicked her out.
Barbell. You're crazy, mommy.
Polozov. I kicked her out. And now I want to kick you out. (Pause.)
Barbell. Get out, do me a favor. But can we have a drink first? (Fills glasses.)
Polozov looks at him gloomily.
STANGE (puts down a glass without drinking). Listen, is it because of her that you got so lemony? I told you for a long time - this person is not worth your feelings. Remember our old fight? Who turned out to be right? Don't mess with actresses, don't ruin your blood. I had two actresses - in Tambov and Odessa, two stories of violent insanity. Forget it, forget it completely and forever, as a friend I advise! Let's get drunk today, and tomorrow I'll take you to the Ivashevs. You haven't been with them for seven years, have you? In vain! Everything has changed there now, Nina Lvovna is in charge, and therefore there are literary evenings on Thursdays, with all the consequences, so to speak. A decent audience is going to, there are very intelligent people. Let's go, let's go for sure! Clear your mind, Mom. You can't rot alive at forty. Come on, brother, drink! For your health, then for mine, then for ours. (Raises the glass, but puts it back on the table.) Oh, mein Gott! I am a donkey. It's you who's bitching about the house, really - because of the house! And I, veal, forgot! Well, mommy, it's your own fault. Why are you clinging to this house like Plyushkin? In our province today all the estates are mortgaged, re-mortgaged! Who among the landlords now has money? Except at Ryazhsky. Well, he is a gigolo, every dog knows that. To tell the truth, it is impossible to have anything immovable in Russia today. I've been out all my life in other people's apartments, and happier than you - omnia mea mecum porto! This family nest is like a collar around your neck, right. Lay, lay, I beg you. Now, have a drink with me for good luck. (Drinks, throws the glass on the floor.) That's it!
Polozov drinks, puts an empty glass on the table. Shtange grabs her and throws her on the floor.
Barbell. Kiss brother! (Kisses Polozov, walks excitedly around the living room.) Everything, everything, to sell! And as soon as possible! All this junk, all this decay and coffin garbage. A Chinese vase, a stuffed shark, these crystal cups - what the hell are they to you ?! (Suitable for the collection of bladed weapons hung on the wall.) Unless you leave it. (Touches.) Machete, Navaja, Damascus dagger... what's this? (Takes a knife with a short metal handle in the form of a cross.)
Polozov. Mexican throwing knife.
Barbell. So it needs to be thrown? Let me, brother, I'll throw.
Polozov. Metni. (Drinking.)
Barbell. What would you like?
Polozov. In anything.
Shtange throws at the door, but unsuccessfully - the knife falls to the floor.
Barbell. I'm better with a gun. When are we going to pull?
Polozov. Some day. (Picks up the knife from the floor, examines it.)
Barbell. Yes Yes. For traction. Definitely traction. Thank God, the clearing has not yet overgrown. (Sits down at the piano, strikes a few chords.) Sell the piano too ... I'm already too late for the grouse current. Did you go without me?
Polozov. Walked.
Barbell. How many did you cut?
Polozov. No one.
Barbell. Here, mommy, and all because you went without me! And you shoot three times better than mine! (Plays the piano.) Your basses rattle like in a barrel. So you didn't pull it up? Although you, brother, do not play?
Polozov. I don't play.
Stange (sings to his own accompaniment). Not a game-a-yu, not a game-a-yu, not a game-a-a-a-yu. Listen, I didn't ask - why did your Attis die?
Polozov looks at Stange, then suddenly throws a knife at him with force. The knife digs into Sergey Leonidovich's left side up to the hilt. Stange freezes for a moment, as if listening to something, then slowly gets up, looks at Polozov, opens his mouth and falls dead on the carpet.
Anton (carefully opens the door). What was your name, father?
Polozov. No. Go.
Anton closes the door. Polozov goes up to the dead Shtanga, sits down beside him on the carpet, sits for a long time, looking at the dead man.
I want to tell you something. In fact, I haven't told anyone about it yet. So it's hard for me to speak. Very hard. This happened quite recently. Even very recently. Three or four minutes ago. Although I thought about it for a very long time, from the age of sixteen. But it opened up today. Now. At the very moment when you stood in the middle of the living room and listed the things in it. He didn’t even list them, but named them: a Chinese vase, a stuffed shark, a glass slide, a collection of knives, a piano. You stood free, spoke somewhat mockingly, rather flippantly, as you often do, but ... (pause) you have no idea what a serious matter you were doing at that moment. You called the names of things. And all things corresponded to their names. And it shook me like thunder. Yes! All things correspond to their names. The Chinese vase was, is and will be a Chinese vase. Crystal will forever remain crystal and will be crystal when the moon falls to Earth. You stood in the midst of dead things - a living, warm-blooded person - and you alone did not live up to your name. And the point is not at all in the properties of your soul, not in your decency or immorality, honesty or deceit, not in the good and evil that fill you. You just didn't have
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name. Like all of us. The person has no name. Sergei Leonidovich Shtange, Mr. Doctor, Homo sapiens, a thinking animal, the image and likeness of God - these are not names. These are just names. And there is no name. And it won't. (Pause. Polozov gets up from the floor, sits down in an armchair, sits for a while.) Anton. Anton! Anton!! Anton!!!
The curtain is slowly lowering.
There is something in this script M-unpleasant, rips taben.
I can't figure out what?
When I return (sorry for the husho badao), I will ask you more gently - my little xiaotou, what is M-unpleasant in the text of Chekhov-3? And you, rips shagua, will answer, as always, with a question - what is L-pleasant about him? And I, Boris, will not give you an answer.
Nabokov-7.
This is the HIGHER. And not only because of the high percentage of compliance. Higher by definition. During the process, the object behaved monstrously aggressive: he turned the table, chair and bed into chips, ate the stylus, ripped the erregen object (a mink coat in honey) to shreds and glued them to the walls (using his own feces as glue). You ask - what did this monster write? A chip from the table, which he dipped into his left hand, as if into an inkwell (starrus). Thus, the entire text is written in blood. Which, unfortunately, did not work with the original.
nabokov-7
Cordoso way
All happy families unhappy alike, each unhappy family is happy in its own way. It all started with an ordinary pencil. A twenty-pfennig blue pencil stuck out of Alexander's hand, dry as a Berlin postmaster's phrase: one end was sharpened, the other ruthlessly wrapped in a bandage, and Svetlana, soaking it with cheap cognac, applied it to her nipples at night. She did it late at night, the procedure dragged on and turned into a suspicious ritual. Svetlana was sitting on the windowsill of a large window with Dutch binding, looking out into the night garden, holding a pencil more often near her left breast. The moonlight flowed unimpeded over her too sloping shoulders, glided over her too thin neck, shamelessly straight back, sparing only the vague ovals of the hollows of her collarbones. Svetlana understood what she was doing, but did not realize the full measure of responsibility for what she had done. Not without reason, having woken Alexander in the morning with quick, almost hysterical kisses, she showed him her right palm, then with a catlike movement she pulled Steinmeier's silver ordnung box from under the pink pillow, flat as an elevator operator's joke, but polished like a corporal's buckle. Stretching and cracking his joints musically, Alexander would sit down on the warm bed, open the ordnung-box and carefully, so as not to spill the transformer oil, take out a strip of aluminum foil. Svetlana had a towel ready. Having rapaciously blotted the foil, Alexander pressed it against his wife's pale forehead and covered it no less rapaciously with a plush scarf. Svetlana peered at the cracked ceiling and smiled senselessly. At twenty-two, she was a wise woman who professed two iron principles in relations with fattening men: to meet only after preliminary seduction and to take money without fail before pumping up sick stone cutters. Alexander almost matched her ideal of a latent husband, although in six months of coexistence she never got used to his ritual bags, the rusty stains from which gave her reason for barbs and reproaches that caused her to avalanche hysteria. “I only eat white meat!” she shouted to him, leaning forward until a crunch in her spine and touching with her narrow chin the edge of a silver dish full of prostates of young men baked under grated cheese and mercilessly sprinkled with lemon. Alexander coughed in disappointment and hurriedly covered the dish with a briadle napkin. Most of the acquaintances frankly condemned their ambiguous union, considering it a misalliance, and only Luka Vadimovich, with his every minute readiness to chop off the heads of invisible Cossacks, blindly supported Svetlana's choice. “Opristy pratt, dear!” he repeated, squinting and sniffing. Svetlana loved to kiss his sluggish old hand, which reminded her of her sleepy childhood in Torzhok, of curly-haired Nikolai, who drilled 126 holes in a wheelbarrow and polished them every morning with earthworms, of jumping over the swaddled and plaintively wheezing Borl, of birches stuffed with jacques, of the moon dugout and of course - about the first meeting with Colombina. Giving Alexander her overripe body, she remembered Colombina's nimble tongue, her thin fingers, shattered by the sullenly obliging commissar Gerd, and the cloying wave of Greobia fell upon Svetlana. “Why don't you do a side insert? Alexander asked, putting a sandal case on his penis. “Why have I long been deprived of the pleasure of contemplating Orolama?” Svetlana silently averted her bearish eyes and walked into white hall, where Steinmeier's torso rested on a carved table. She absentmindedly looked at the stains of decay, scars and marks from beatings covering her torso, climbed the jade steps, sat down and, bowing her head, watched Alexander's thick sperm, leaving her vagina, juicy falls on the chest of the torso. “To launch mice or swallows into it? she thought, digging her nails into her suspiciously rounded knees. - Barn mice are unlikely to take root, and getting mother-of-pearl mice is a hassle. I'll launch better swallows. The width of the chest allows. Alexander did not approve of her passion for glass. “You once again give rise to gossip,” he said. - Understand, dear, we are born for indirect touches. Our feelings are just elementary geometric shapes carved from the compressed bones of our ancestors and immersed in an aquarium of rose oil. And believe my sensory experience, there is only one living thing that can live in this aquarium - a cephalopod with a portable oxygen apparatus that has recognized the difference between water and rose oil as a sufficient necessity. He is doomed to make smooth circles around the ball, cube and pyramid, mimicking and blazing. His scorched essence imitates figures, as we imitate his imitation.” “But why do we have nothing to lose?” Svetlana asked. “We have nothing to lose, my angel, because all our conscious existence we acquired not phenomena, but noumena,” he answered, and Svetlana calmed down for a while. Their marital life proceeded sinusoidally, sometimes with an obsessive recurrence, however, which irritated only the uninitiated. On Wednesdays and Saturdays, Alexander went to the presence. Service, like a well-dried butcher's log, did not burden him too much, but, being a man of principle, he gave himself entirely to it, forgetting not only Svetlana, but also Steinmeier's ordnung box. “If I am firmly convinced of something, bonroy does not exist for me at all, therefore, I can combine the incompatible,” he said to Samson, who nodded incomprehensibly. Colleagues loved Alexander for his frankness and impartiality, although his titanium prostheses of the latest model, as well as the armrest strewn with pimples of diamonds, caused outbursts of unreasonable anger in them. Spitting and sobbing, they pulled on hair gloves tied, oiled and numbered by the shot Ludwig Farkoni, tore the seals from the sealed bath, scooped up handfuls of liquid glass and threw them with all their might into the old man's flabby thighs.
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Schwartz, barely able to get naked. "I'll take the whole!" squealed the reddened Samson. "On Valentine's Day, we'll pour mercury into thimbles!" Tiberius Ivanovich threatened. "Twelve!" snarled the tapir-like Hasek. Schwartz did not have time to wield state-owned scrapers. Alexander endured everything calmly. “Gentlemen, I am always on the side of the weak. Voil? le premier acte,” he said, wiping the golden bricks. The authorities were afraid of him, but appreciated him. Spiravlenko, that burly, oralamic loon, hung like a Christmas tree with medals and fistulas, calling Alexander to his office, drove for hours along the stained-glass windows, clinking rails and thumping with a counterweight, before starting a conversation. Alexander waited in silence, inserting his index fingers into the meat boxes. “You don’t realize, Cordoso,” Spiravlenko finally said, stopping and killing himself. “I am aware, Gordon Zhakovich,” Alexander answered with furious firmness and, freeing his fingers, showed how he was giving an account. Spiravlenko puffed, blushed, turned gray, fell ill, sweated, stank, but soon let him go in peace. When Alexander drove out of his office on a brand new gobte, his colleagues enviously showed him his powdered genitals. “Lucky you, Cordoso!” Samson wiped himself sullenly. “Lucky always strong!” Alexander retorted, buttoning up his birch corset and heading for the dining room. He returned home well after midnight, when ink shadows corroded the carcasses of agonizing homeless cows to the bone. Svetlana always waited for him in the pre-bedroom, swearing and plunging her feet into a vase of ferret pate. “Umorab has come!” he called to her from the hallway. “Izaberia is waiting for her Umorab!” - Svetlana sang, tipping over on the Bulgarian giblets. Dressed in a man's skin, freshly stripped by the servant Athanasius from another volunteer donor, Alexander crawled into the pre-sleeping room. “What will the geobnorobdist Umorab desire?” Svetlana asked, sorting through the offal with her knotty fingers, studded with Marseille rings for knocking out jellyfish. “Umorab craves heart-rending!” Alexander gritted his teeth. Svetlana started kissing her knees. After 28 seconds, Alexander was fast asleep, his face buried in a ferret pate. On Mondays and Fridays, they went out to dinner at the Belarusian restaurant "Sapphiry". The doorman and the waiters greeted them like family: they began to beat Alexander already in the hallway, they let Svetlana enter the hall and there they attacked her. He, like a real man, got weighty cuffs, while she was rewarded with sonorous slaps in the face, from which her face went numb and her forearms ached for a long time. Sitting down at table No. 18, Svetlana immediately applied the banker's light to her face. “Today they are, frankly, in poor shape,” Alexander moaned disappointedly, climbing into the birut and hysterically demanding a menu. The couple never changed their gastronomic preferences, ordering the invariable Tokyo 1889, marsh herb salad, the roots of the wisdom teeth of elderly proletarians, marengo from lapdogs, parhat with toad caviar, menisci of Belarusian 3rd league football players under vomit. For dessert, Svetlana took rock crystal with whipped bull's saliva or "Shelter". Having had their fill, they would move into the tabernacle encrusted with planes, wipe the prisms and trample the hamsters for about forty minutes, then roll down the greasy trough into the cloakroom. “The degree of destination!” Alexander smiled. "A spear! Yes, sixty-two!” Svetlana sobbed with pleasure. They returned home in the morning. And everything would have been happy in their joint existence, everything would have continued sternly and obediently, the life of the spouses would have slipped along the greasy gutter to the happy laughter and delicate squeal to the very coffin, if Svetlana did not want a child. At first she spoke of him insidiously, casually, casually, in a hurry, in an undertone, in passing, casually, half insinuatingly, half jokingly, half seriously, half grimly. But every day these conversations took on an increasingly threatening meaning, acquiring reality, like yellow skeletons that crawled out of the graves of an abandoned gypsy cemetery at midnight, stood in a circle and with difficulty lifted up a thousand-year-old marble torus covered with white moss with barely noticeable holes, overgrown with smoking flesh, so that the spring wind squeezes out the sound of eternal return from the marble throat of Thor. “We need this like air, like water, like a handful of your black powder,” Svetlana repeated, covering her husband’s shoulders with lightning-fast pricks of a red-hot needle. “If we get married, the stoemir will never forgive us!” At first, Alexander kept silent, brushed aside, denied, laughed off, passed by his ears, did not take it to heart, did not take it into his head, did not pay attention, ignored, pretended that he did not understand what, in fact, in question. But the wife turned out to be persistent to the point of inversion of the intestines: only three weeks had passed, and the white rubber hose was already resting in a saucepan with linden honey, while hundreds of new thermometers penetrated Alexander's tweed dress. Alexander's last bastion - uritko - collapsed a week later, after Svetlana boiled her husband's oak table in goat's milk and filled the boxes with elephant droppings. "Fine. Do as you like,” Alexander straightened his tendons. “But I warn you - I will take an active part in this, since the idea is not mine.” - "Darling, I will not regret anything for juicy happiness!" - the moderately swollen wife assured, tore the skin on her left temple, dressed in first-class frozen gelatin armor and hurried to the MOOORZ. “Zhebraim, zhebraim, zhebraim,” she growled dreamily, rushing along the street littered with corpses. Left alone for 14 hours, Alexander indulged in reflection. “Of course, I must understand and accept her impulse,” he thought, sitting down with milk and worms in a quiet and darkened throat-cutting room. - She is a woman, she wants to be a mother, she wants to fiddle and move, count and type. She can't wait to experience that archaic feeling of motherhood that makes women degrease their bones, shoot in the dark, cry at telegraph poles, suck on sea pebbles, crush and stomp. But am I able to cut in half the stone of her feelings? Do I have enough strength, needle files and birch bark suitcases? Will I be able to cast reproachful glances through the second-story window all night long? Pressing a boot on a rotten part of a eucalyptus tree? Passing electricity through a dog? Dream of your mother-in-law, and then the mother-in-law of your closest friend? Digging shallow holes? Is it humane to kill Maybugs? Pull and move? And the more questions he asked himself, the thinner and more prominent became the platinum crust covering the pink tuber of his confidence. Time has passed. The bread clock ran through at 5:45 am. The door of the throat-cutting room silently opened, and the butchers entered with the morning sacrifice, bowed to Alexander, and set to work. One pressed a shaven-headed Japanese youth to the sacrificial washstand, the other ripped open his throat with a crooked Turkmen knife. But if earlier this ritual, well known from childhood, always calmed Alexander, inducing sleep and complacency, now throat-cutting had an unexpectedly exciting effect on him. When the slaughterers began to squeeze the blood out of their heavy bodies
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agonizing Japanese, Alexander jumped up, ran up and kissed his own palm with all his might. The Rescuers looked at him in fear. When they left, he dipped his hands into the warm blood. I must, he thought intently, must as a husband, must as a monad. The ablution gave him strength. Jumping up, he broke the ceiling beam with his head. Svetlana returned joyful, with a pile of funny mortells. "Today!" she screamed into Alexander's hairless chest. “I'm ready, cheap!” - Alexander scoffed and snarled. Conception took place at noon. Svetlana cleaned the bedroom with bandages and burrs. Her husband tormented her for a long time, attacking with glass beads and retreating with homemade cakes. “Khohorep, khohorep, khohorep!” she sang, actively interfering with him. “Sislov! Sislov! Sislov!” Alexander roared, trying his best to sweat. The servant Athanasius deftly waved them. About eight hours later, Alexander vomited cum on a rubberized sheet. “Too Kessie, obrodo…” muttered the pale Svetlana, pulling herself up on the palpitation rope and vibrating her torso. Athanasius skillfully stuffed Alexander's sperm into her. “Equal, cattle!” she suddenly shouted, dropping an avalanche of slobbery kisses on the servant's dumbfounded face. “Ferdinand nasal…” Alexander exhaled, plunging into a shallow sleep. Having sealed the vagina with walnut ligature, Svetlana hurried to the incubator. After nine months of woolly silence, reminiscent of the profile of a young Roosevelt, they met in the nursery. The husband greeted his wife with roses, honey cuts, dried udders, cleavers, flowers and dandruff, presented with his characteristic frenzy. “I miss you terribly, dear dear! He laughed hysterically and gnashed his teeth with envy. “I adore you, you bastard!” Svetlana could hardly restrain her indifference, feeling an approaching attack of vipra. "Don't help me?" she asked. “I will argue!” Alexander laughed and cried. "Don't help me?" she repeated, clinging to him. “Fill with milk!” he flexed. "Don't help me!" - Svetlana straightened up and immediately gave birth. Alexander was doused with someone else's life. “Spin it, spin it!” - Svetlana squealed, barely coping with her guts. Athanasius began to circle the child. “And the clock?” - Alexander exposed prostheses. “Lok again!” Svetlana laughed, jumping up and down. Athanasius whistled into the child's navel with a Central Russian whistle, rubbed his wrists, blew into his spine. The child grew up right before our eyes. "He wants me!" Svetlana smiled disappointedly, tipping over backwards. Alexander rushed to help, not sparing his nails. Athanasius rushed for the stick. "Stars!" Svetlana squealed, hugging her son with a crunch. Athanasius waved his club. From the blow, the pale-emerald bank of the river, hanging over the greasy water like a hunchbacked giantess, cracked and began to slowly and terribly collapse down. Svetlana's nimble hands entered the child's body. Athanasius laughed, carefully winking at his shadow. The wind carried the smallest pieces of Alexander's brain over the evening field.
I want to sleep, rips.
Too bad there aren't any hyperon pillows here.
Appreciate what you have, my boy, don't be a kebidi liangmianpai.
There will come a time when no moshujia will save you from loss and disappointment. Remember the Tao Te Ching: "I am frugal, so I can be generous." Great Lao wrote this about love, I'm sure rips laowai.
In our uncertain times, it is very easy to color a rhinoceros. It is much more difficult to fashion a soldier out of prostate pus and remain an ethically sane creature.
Bright dreams to you, child of unusual tenderness.
And quiet thoughts about my prostate.
P.S. Amazing dream! I haven't SME like this in a long time: I'm in plus-plus-direct, the ocean, a huge iceberg of blue fat. On it, like fleas (starrus), our 7 objects jump. Long long jumps with a long hover in the air. They are looking, looking for each other. (Blind?) Finally, they find: olo everyone (except Akhmatova-2) gets up. Nabokov pierces Platonov, Platonov pierces Chekhov, Chekhov pierces Pasternak, Pasternak pierces Dostoevsky, Dostoevsky pierces Tolstoy, and he, weeping, pierces Akhmatova. And she, L-positive laughing and squealing dis-actively, opens her wet shell and pisses on the blue skin of the iceberg. And her urine washes away the blue fat. Like it's just ice.
Pasternak-1.
I give without comment. Then you will know why.
Incredible weather today, never seen anything like it in my life: pale blue plus-directly high sky with a faint emerald hue in the west, blindingly cold sun, stunning visibility.
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– Look! exclaimed Pantagruel. “Here are a few pieces that haven’t thawed yet.
And he threw on the deck a whole handful of frozen words, like jelly beans, shimmering in different colors. There were red, green, azure and gold. In our hands they warmed up and melted like snow, and then we really heard them, but did not understand them, since it was some kind of barbaric language...
... I wanted to keep a few indecent words in oil or shifting with straw, as snow and ice are preserved.
Francois Rabelais
"Gargantua and Pantagruel"
There are more idols in the world than real things; this is my "evil view" of the world, my "evil ear"...
Friedrich Nietzsche
"Twilight of idols, or how people philosophize with a hammer"
January 2.
Hello mon petit.
My heavy boy, gentle bastard, divine and vile top direct. Remembering you is a hell of a job, rips laowai, it's hard in the truest sense of the word.
And dangerous: for dreams, for L-harmony, for protoplasm, for skandha, for my V 2.
Back in Sydney, when I got into traffic, I started recall. Your ribs glowing through your skin, your monk birthmark, your tasteless tatoo-pro, your gray hair, your secret jingji, your dirty whisper; kiss me in the STARS.
But no.
This is not a memory. This is my temporary, cheesy brain-yueshi, plus your purulent minus positive.
It's the old blood that splashes in me. My muddy Hei Long Jiang, on the muddy bank of which you shit and piss.
Yes. Despite the innate Stolz 6, your FRIEND is having a hard time without you. Without elbows, gaowan, rings. Without the final cry and hare squeak:
in ah no!
Rips, I'll dry you out. Some day? OK. Top direct.
Writing letters is a terrible thing these days. But you are familiar with the terms. All means of communication are prohibited here, except for pigeon mail. Packages flicker in green W-paper. They are sealed sealing wax. Good word, rips nimada?
AEROSANI - also not bad, I was chewed on them for six hours from Achinsk. That diesel roared like your clone fighter. We rushed along very white snow.
“East-Siberia is big,” as Fan Mo says.
And here everything is still the same as in the 5th or 20th century. Eastern Siberians speak old Russian with a touch of Chinese, but they prefer to remain silent or laugh. Lots of Yakuts. We left Achinsk at dawn. The snowmobile was driven by a silent "white badge", but the Yakut navigator in the uniform of a midshipman laughed all the way, like our magician Lao. A typical representative of his cheerful, L-harmonious people. The Yakuts here prefer soft teeth, dress in viviparous fabric made in China and actively try out multisex: 3 plus Karolina, STAROSEX and ESSENSEX.
rips rips, way- a stalker!
In six hours from this kuaihuojen, I learned that:
1. The favorite dish of the Yakuts is venison in crow juice (juice is squeezed out of a medium-sized live crow, in which they put deer tenderloin, a little sea salt, reindeer moss, and everything is stewed in a cauldron until plus-direct. Will we test in 7 months?).
2. The favorite sex position of the Yakuts is on four points of support.
3. Favorite sensor film - "Dream in the Red Chamber" (with Faye Ta, remember her purple robe and smell when she enters with a snail on her hand and a pile of wet water lilies?).
4. Favorite joke (as old as permafrost): building a toilet in Yakutia. Two sticks - one frozen ,
to pick off from the anus, the other - to fight off the wolves. Top direct humor. A?
Although, when I got out of the seat after six o'clock, I was not laughing.
PROSTATE. Purple outline in the eyes. Minus positive. Bad-kan ser-po. Creative mood.
Only you will understand me, you nasty liangmianpai.
The place of my seven-month stay is very strange. GENLABI-18 is hidden between two huge buttock-like hills.
There is a hint in everything, rips nimada that ben.
The hills are covered with light forests: larches, fir-trees. I was met by a colonel - a square, L-deranged macho with a cloudy look and a direct question: HOW DID YOU GET? Answered honestly: minus-robo. This pen tan sha gua was disappointed. When we went down to the bunker, I completely lost the sense of time: GENLABI-18 is located in the former air defense command post. Deep laying. Reinforced concrete of the Soviet Committee era. Half a century ago, buttons were pressed here during the day, and Soviet rocket men masturbated at night.
Happy: at least they had objects of masturbation - TV and CD.
There is not even a sensor-radio. Verbotten: All medial plus-gemain. All equipment is based on third-generation superconductors. Which? Yes. Do not leave S-thrashes in magnetic fields.
Accordingly, they are not fixed by anything,
Well, the temperature in the control room is -28°C. Not bad, rips laowai? They work there in costumers.
I'm lucky that I'm not an operator or a geneticist. Plus-plus-happiness that my suitcase arrived with "Zhud-shih", which means - with my L-harmony.
I hope everything will be ling ren manyi-di, and in these seven months I will not turn into an albino mole with pink prostate.
And so, my gentle bastard, the countdown has begun. 7 months in the company. 32 "white tokens", 1 colonel, 3 lieutenant operators, 4 geneticists, 2 medics, 1 thermodynamicist. Plus the logostimulator you don't know well. And this is 600 miles away.
This is our dahuy, as they say behind the Great Wall of China.
Weather: -12°C, wind from the left hill. Some white birds on larch. Fritillaries? Are there white grouse, piglet? A propos, you are completely indifferent to Nature. Which is basically wrong. And minus active.
Wish me not to curdle here from melancholy, obo-robo and frost.
Tonight for the night - moxibustion the old way, plus da-byid lizard fat. The bas-sam oil has arrived, thank the Cosmos. "Five good" is also intact. Remembered; "Thirst, intercourse, insomnia, walking, sitting, worrying - everything that can cause agitation of the urine is prohibited." It's a pity there will be no one to hold the jug at night.
Let's see what they eat here. Bear "s hug, my skinny hankun muden. Kiss you in the STARS.
Boris.
4 January.
Nin hao, dry moth.
The rotten days of Vorberiten are over. Tired of asking and commanding. Despite the fact that almost all "white tokens" are over-enlisted, instead of a brain, they have a protein pulp for incubation.
Yesterday at dawn a mountain of equipment came crawling. Thank Cosmos, my part got up not in the control room, but in B-hydroponics. No need to change clothes and sweat. In general, everything begins, rips nimada. Your warm Boris is well settled in this concrete ji-chan. My cabin at the second end. So the groan of bio-greenhouses is not heard. This is a minus direct sound that has always annoyed me in all business trips.
I got to know everyone. Geneticists: Bochvar - a red-cheeked, talkative hare with a dozen marmolon plates around his lips, Witte - a gray German, Karpenkoff Marta - a corpulent lady with a TEO-Amazon past, likes: clone horses, old-gero-techno, aeroslalom and talk about M-balance. Fan Fei is a peppy Shanghainese your age. Brilliantly speaks old and new Russian. It can be seen that the large zhuanmenjia walks well in gening (the coefficient of L-harmony of gait is more than 60 units on the Schneider scale). They talked to him about the dominance of Chinese blockbusters. He doesn't care about Tudin, of course.
Doctors: Andrey Romanovich, Natalya Bok. White clone rats from stinky GENMEO. Dealing with them is hard. ground meat. But the thermodynamicist Agvidor Khariton is a nice, plus-direct Shaonian. He is a descendant of Academician Khariton, who made H-bomb for Stalin. It was not the thirst for money that brought him into our concrete anus (like your soft friend), but SEX-BENGHUI: he, a solid multi-sexer with experience, parted with his two gentle pistons and, out of grief, asked for business trip.
Who is in this hole charge his doublet? Not overtimers, rips laowai. Himself likes: Fifth generation semi-sport flyers, the Himalayas, old male mathematicians, cherry cigars and chess. Let's play tonight.
All the military, including operators, are totally uninteresting. Veiny amps. They use the old rusmat, which I can't stomach even with northern sauce.
AND!
About Mr. Colonel - inf. by default. - as my pok was joking. papa.
This is all shangshuihua, you ask? And I'll nod, rips nimada.
Here we are waiting with you kid in Apple pie order. You kept scaring me: "Mit meinem BOBO muss ich scheiden."
To you, how gentle bastards, it will be easier to survive this. It is enough for any well-washed hand to touch your fins - top direct, huaidan, plus-posit, xiaotou! The hand of the giving van will not be impoverished, and your proteus mother-of-pearl sperm will not thicken.
Unfortunately, I am wired differently and my LM is not proteistic.
I am whole.
And proud of it, rips.
Therefore, just as I did in Barcelona, I will keep you zhong shi by shifting the M-balance and preserving my divine L-harmony. I'm sure Zhud-shi will help by Kosmos blessing.
Pray for me in Russian. A propos - in front of me lies "Chzhud-shi", opened on your unloved chapter 18.
NIRUHA WHICH IS ONE OF THE FIVE APPOINTMENTS:
“When a fragment of a weapon is stuck in the lower part of the body, feces dry, glang-thabs, heat in the lower body, urinary retention, bloating, worms, skran fresh and old rims.”
a piece of your juicy weapons, bastard, stuck in my Heart chakra. And there is nothing about this disease even in Chud-shih. And don't laugh, Chun Ren, at "Recognizing Diseases by the Mirror of Urine." I am older and smarter than you, and I will repeat to you 77 times: your favorite bloodletting is not a panacea for all diseases.
Remember the great Vernadsky: L-harmony is not associated with purity of blood. Your quasi-meditations with Ivan and the subsequent joint bloodletting are complete khusho badao.
minus directive of this savage- two plus-our-plus-directs. I'm not afraid of your Tibetan swallow-tail bloodletting knife, but I feel sorry for your young blood leaking into the ground for no reason. Better my lips suck her.
And in general - enough about the body. This is our age difference creaks in my biophilological joints.
You are happy - you have 12 years left. How much, rips nimada!
I write without envy.
For three years of our scam Have you noticed that despite purulent character, I retained the childish ability to sincerely rejoice for the people close to me.
And closer to you, sha gua, I have only my pale body with a permanently burning prostate.
But enough about beicandi. It's time for something pleasant: food providing is top direct here. That is, simply - no ha that ben. And very laconic a cook, not a garrison one, albeit in the form of a sergeant.
Rate, my leech, MENU for today:
fruhstuck
maple sap
Poridge laminaria
Sheep butter
oat bread
Coffee N
Coffee T.W.
Green tea
Lunch
Rye croutons with goat brain
Meadow herb salad
Chicken press broth
Nutria fillet with young bamboo
Fruits
blackberry blub
meal
Kumys
Wang tan soup
Cheesecake with arable land
compline
Birch pulp with hominy
Sbiten ginger
Spring water
Boris.
5 January.
And yet you are a huaidan, nimada.
I'm trying to forget you sticky disgusting with Cyrus and Daisy, and I can't. Even here, in this frozen ABOUT.
I understand now Why you asked for forgiveness for so long, begged not to punish you through BORO-IN-OUT.
Not because you are born rapid half a ruble by L-harmony and sugar pig by karma.
With your tears, bows and kissing the table, you plasticine a more serious sin. More sweaty connection.
Kir is a simple sha gua, without a hint of L-harmony, sticking his thin zuankong into a fashionable GERO-KUNST. Daisy is a tao bai xing who came from Pskov to St. Petersburg's ART-mei chuan. She is not able to maintain an elementary tanhua and, like Rebecca from your favorite series, she is only able to repeat the end of the interlocutor's phrase, covering up her stupidity with hebephrenic laughter.
Cyrus keeps her for what she gives him between muscles, even Popoff knows this.
You became snot relations with this misalliance and minus-positive pair because of my false W-ambitions, and I, a naive noble van, did not guess For what.
You needed pathetic Cyrus and Daisy, like a paper screen behind which you gave yourself to lead straight with Natasha.
With this vile minus-active scolopendra. She wrapped her pale venous legs around you, whispering: in ah no and you ripped her up withered with his pestle. YOU DID IT naturally like grandfathers and fathers.
And you were proud of your M-courage, narrow bastard: "I'm punching natural!"
Fake abomination worthy of skunkers and diggers.
Beibidi xiaotou, keichidi liangmianpai, choudi xiaozhu, kebidi huaidan, rips nimada ta ben!
And that's all I'll roar
into your gilded ear,
sticky scum.
Boris.
6th January.
Ning hao, my beauty.
Today is wonderful weather and a lot of events.
First: my prostate time calmed down. After? 16 moxibustion, niruhi and rubbing the fat of the da-byid lizard.
Second: no one writes to our colonel. Joke.
Nobody writes here. TS 332. Letters fly one way only.
AND!
Third: they brought objects.
This is worthy of a detailed description. I was sitting in the jet, scanning yesterday's crop. Loud Bochvar entered: DRIVE!
Get dressed and go upstairs. There was already sticking out all our white-token garrison.
Going around the left hill, an antediluvian snowmobile was dragging white living-xiaoche, which were used by the Chinese during the Three-Day War in Mongolia.
We drove up.
The captain of something (it seems to be the FPV) got out of the snowmobile and reported to the colonel. We opened living-xiaoche, began to display objects. You know I cold-blooded lizard, but RK saw for the first time.
That's why?
Was inadequate curious.
There are seven objects: Tolstoy-4, Chekhov-3, Nabokov-7, Pasternak-1, Dostoevsky-2, Akhmatova-2 and Platonov-3.
Despite the heat inside the living-xiaoche, all RKs were wearing spacesuits with collars and a tub-boot on their right leg. They lowered the ladder, began to receive them. They walked calmly. Placed professionally. Seven chambers upholstered with natural felt: 3x3x3.
More details: Tolstoy-4.
The fourth reconstruct of Leo Tolstoy. Incubated in Krasnoyarsk GWJ. The first three were not entirely successful: no more than 42% compliance. Tolstoy-4 - 73%. This is a man, 112 cm tall, weighing 62 kg. Its head and hands are disproportionately large and account for half of its body weight. The hands are massive, like those of an orangutan, white, folded; little fingernail the size of a five yuan coin. A large apple disappears into Tolstoy-4's fist without a trace. His head is three times the size of mine; nose half-face, uneven, bumpy; eyebrows overgrown with thick thick hair, small watery eyes, huge ears and a heavy white beard to the knees, whose hair resembles Amazonian water worms.
The object is calm, mute, like the other six. He likes to draw in air through his nostrils noisily and exhale heavily. Sometimes he brings both fists to his face, slowly opens them and looks at his palms for a long time. He looks about 60 years old. He was raised in 3 years and 8 months. In his cell, he has a transparent late constructivist table (Hamburg, 1929), a bamboo chair (Cambodia, 1996), and a helium-filled bed (London, 2026). Lighting - three kerosene lamps (Samara, 1940). Erregen object - stuffed albino panther. That's right, rips laowai.
Next: Akhmatova-2.
The second RK of Anna Andreevna Akhmatova.
Incubated in GENROSMOB. The first attempt - 51% compliance, the second - 88%. The object outwardly fully corresponds to the original age of 23 years. Grown in 1 year 11 months. Severe pathology of internal organs: almost all are displaced and underdeveloped. Artificial heart, pork liver. M-balance 28. Restless behavior, automatism, PSY-GRO, yandyanfyn. Emits frequent guttural sounds, sniffs the right shoulder and objects In the chamber: an ebonite couch (South Africa, 1900), a luminous ball of free soaring. Erregen-object - the bones of a male Neanderthal, filled with liquid glass.
Am I not being too dry, my golden-eared hankun? Read. You are GERO-KUNSTLER, rips choudi xiaozhu!
Nabokov-7.
Our gen-moshujia spent 8 years with him. The first RK appeared in the underground MUBE, back when I lived with Siamese twins and did not know your charms. Judging by the record of Academician Makarevich, rejection reached 80%, the object was amorphous and was kept in a pressure chamber. Nabokov-5 was incubated (sic!) on the day of the signing of the Munich Convention on the prohibition of RK and F-type cloning. The project was frozen, the object was killed. But six months later, Nabokov-6 was incubated (secretly from IGKC) in VINGENIZH, Voronezh. There were many problems. But here is Nabokov-7. 89% match. Fantastic, rips that ben! The highest level of all seven. Though outwardly it is not noticeable: the object looks like a plump woman with curly red hair. All his muscles vibrate finely, which creates a barely noticeable contour around the body of the object. Sweat trickles down my body and sloshes in my overstuffed boots. Furniture: a kitchen table (USSR, 1972), a round chair on a screw rod (Bucharest, 1920), a soldier's camp bed (us army, 1945). Illumination: Four randomly placed green light sources. Erregen-object - a woman's mink coat, covered with bee honey and suspended from the ceiling on a golden hook.
Pasternak-1.
“The first RK pancake - and not lumpy!” our German joked bluntly. Pasternak-1 was incubated by the Omnipresent and Immortal Alois Vaneev. Compliance - 79%. The most zoomorphic creature of all seven. The resemblance to a lemur is striking: a small head covered with white fluff, a tiny wrinkled face with huge pink eyes, long, knee-length arms, small legs. He sways and makes trumpet sounds through his nose. According to the LOGO correlation, there is no furniture in his box. But 64 intense light sources and a living erregen object: a sixty-kilogram Persian clone cat. Dying? From obesity, mon petit.
Dostoevsky-2.
An individual of indeterminate sex, of medium height, with pathology of the chest (protrudes forward with a keel) and face (the temporal bone has grown together with the nasal in the form of a saw handle). His felt cubature illuminated by soffit. Erregen object is a jasper box filled with diamond sand.
Platonov-3.
A real work of gene art from St. Petersburg. Remember sweetie piston mine, the yogi described by Gurdjieff, who stood for twenty years on the tips of his fingers and toes in the courtyard of a Buddhist monastery and whom the monks once a month carried out to the river and washed like a bench or a table? Platonov-3 is the same table made of human flesh. His heavy bones are covered with yellow skin, his flat face looks down, a huge white cock dangles between his legs, For Platonov-3 - a beech cabinet (Paris, 1880), a crystal chandelier (Brno, 1914), an erregen object - ice in a wooden box, upholstered with cotton.
AND.
Finally - Chekhov-3,
Very similar. Even - gaofen, rips nimada. Although compliance is only 76%. One defect is the absence of a stomach. Well, yes, this is xiaoshi, as Uncle Mo says.
All objects are on the BIOS, so there are no problems with eating and defecation. In general, everything is still chantaidi.
Although why am I writing this to you, sweaty nits, with such a betraying plus-direct relatives?
Are you capable understand simple and dis-active baofa of my body? Do you understand, as a thinking monad, that there is NO ONE closer to YOU than my body?
Boris.
Jan. 7.
P.S. A snowstorm is not a hindrance to clone doves. These creatures will fly through everything. Even through the Great Wall of China
January 9.
It has begun, thank God.
The weather calmed down, after lunch we were given a lift by TFG. The geneticists wanted to start tomorrow, but the colonel insisted.
I didn't mind. Khariton also did not have snot.
Witte broke down a little, but Karpenkoff did not support him much. And at 20.34 we launched.
Rips sha gua, I see you sitting in your GERO-KUNST cave, eating Pakistani locusts and drinking Dutch beer.
What does this short phrase mean for you - a multisexer, a traitor and a proteus: WE LAUNCHED?
Nihil.
I have always envied your ability nothing don't be surprised.
However, this is the envy of a cripple without an organ, so she incorrect, rips laowai.
Actually, I have nothing to be surprised about either. Although I'm not every day in the HS business trips. For your festering information, in Russia there were only TWO attempts to obtain GS: GS-1 drove into crack stump tan sha gua Safonov; GS-2 mediocrely dried up MINOBO three years ago, afraid of IKGC sanctions. Zvetan Kapidic was the logo stimulator in the first project, Yuri Barabanoff in the second one. Both are super-plus-vans in their field.
But the GS is a collective hankun muden, in which the absence of any nits puts the whole project under rezak.
Understanding this, we ALL went upstairs at 20.00, undressed, made big ring and performed the good old samadhi Lta-na-dug. The soldiers laid out the mandala on the snow with blue sand. The polar night was wonderful: high stars. northern lights, calm.
At 20.34 Khariton turned on the system, and I distributed paper and writing instruments to the subjects.
Genetics in spirit.
The military too.
All in all, externally- everything is favorable. I pray every half hour. And I tear six of my hair to keep the hexagram KUN (fulfillment).
Wish GS-3 plus-plus-plus direct and pray for the project in Russian. I kiss you on the scarlet parts.
Bobboboboboboboboboboris.
January 12th.
All!!!
We did IT, my gentle boy. And we did it for the first time in Russia. Congratulate your active friend.
I prayed, the geneticists prayed, the colonel prayed - and the Jade Emperor heard our timid voices from the concrete o covered with pure Siberian snow.
All systems worked, all objects are alive and after the script process they fell into suspended animation. Plus plus direct. We walk down the hallway and smile at each other like baichi.
By 9.34 the first phase of GS-3 was successfully completed. Am I going to see the BLUE Lard?
Wait, rips huaidan.
Now it remains only to wait. I will, rips nimada. I'll start writing you letters, long as your divine o l o. But not today. Because?
First I will send you what is already here nobody no need.
Except me.
But it's all right, rips. The first to complete the script process was Dostoevsky-2. When the indicator flashed and the system shut down, I entered his cell with two sergeants. The spectacle, I tell you, is not for zhengjiedi gongyan: after a 12-hour script process, the object was severely deformed: the chest protruded even more forward, tearing the spacesuit, the ribs broke through the skin. insides and a beating heart are visible through them. The pathology of the skull intensified, the very “saw handle” protruding from the face protruded even further, as if the Almighty was trying in vain to pull it out of the human child. She has thick black hair. The hands of Dostoevsky-2 seemed to be charred, the steel pencil stuck to them forever. Dostoevsky-2 sucked diamond sand into his nose. And this means that your brilliant friend did not make a mistake with the Erregen object. (And not only with that, rips!)
After disabling the BIOS and short convulsions, the object fell into cumulative suspended animation.
Which?
Will last 3-4 months.
Blue fat will be deposited in his lower back and on the inside of his thighs. I am sending you (for my script collection, naturlich) his TEXT, thanks to which up to 6 kg of blue fat will be deposited in the author's body. Kiss.
Boris.
Dostoevsky-2
Count Reshetovsky
At the very end of July at three o'clock in the afternoon, in an extremely rainy and chilly time not like in summer, a carriage with a cape, splashed with road mud, harnessed by a pair of unprepossessing horses, rolled over the A-to the bridge and stopped on G-th street near the entrance of a gray house three stories high, and all this was extremely unusual, how not quite, sir, and about the chicken word about the chicken word is not at all good.
Two respectable gentlemen got out of the carriage, dressed, however, no longer in summer, and not in St. Petersburg style: Stepan Ilyich Kostomarov, adviser to the State Department for special assignments, was dressed in a short sheepskin coat, belted with a dead, but extremely long yellow-black snake , members of another - a wealthy heir to an early deceased general and therefore - a man without specific occupations, Sergei Sergeevich Voskresensky, were covered with narrow motley silk in the manner of Venetian harlequins, giving performances in the squares when he had the pleasure of showing his own, and she is this vile creature absolutely.
There are other people, the mere sight of which acts on us somehow suddenly overwhelmingly and touchingly, which makes the chest shrink and causeless tears come to the eyes, and this is very pitiful, if a person is predisposed, but try to understand what it is not good for yourself.
This is exactly the impression Kostomarov and Voskresensky made with their appearance on the few passers-by; two commoners, a student and an elderly lady, stopped like pillars dug into the ground, pillars pillars pillars, yes, milestones, and with undisguised excitement they followed the amazing couple with their eyes to the very entrance. This three-story house belonged to Count Dmitry Alexandrovich Reshetovsky and was one of those wonderful houses of its kind, to which on Tuesdays or Thursdays, like bees to a hive, yes, like nimble, busy bees to a new, soundly finished hive, although the hives have a different design. decks have houses and boards and earthen beehives, and so the secular Petersburg public deigns to stretch. However, since it was Wednesday, the visitors were met not by a doorman in an embroidered gold livery, but by the lame Cossack Mishka, the faithful orderly of the count, who went through the entire Turkish campaign with him and became a kind of Sancho Panza for the count, but this is a complete disaster and it is impossible to imagine his position and position does not have to be ins and outs of the cavalry guard or simply bad a man and in Russian - a scoundrel.
Without any bewilderment on his smallpox-beaten face, Mishka took off their unusual clothes from the gentlemen and limped upstairs, quickly quickly quickly quickly quickly - to report to the Count The Lord, left alone, began to grope-with grope-with grope-with each other in the most decisive way. Stepan Ilyich, with his long, bony fingers, clutched at Sergei Sergeyevich’s sloping shoulders and, nimbly, somehow too nimbly, sort of like a crow’s agility-c agile-s, sorting through them, began to descend lower-s lower-s down-s - down Voskresensky's chest, belly and hips straight to his very feet in smartly turned-up Swiss boots. Voskresensky, clasping Stepan Ilyich's waist with his chubby arms, began extremely quickly to pluck his back with small, but rather sensitive pinches, from which the skin of the skin of the skin was thick in places like that of African buffaloes—s on Kostomarov's back immediately turned blue and swelled with blood.
“Sergey Sergeevich, I urgently ask you for one favor,” the dead dead dead Kostomarov was the first to break the silence, returning to the interrupted conversation. “While we are still here and, therefore, we can speak without witnesses, frankly, I ask you not to remind the count about that nasty, nasty, nasty story with this a lady who makes us all sick sick sick sick. I understand that you are a person, so to speak, uninterested in this matter, and therefore you don’t care how it all is how how how it all this tangle is a disgusting tangle how it will turn out for the count and Lydia Borisovna, but I am very interested in this matter, and most importantly, he is interested in the successful resolution of it, without tantrums and without continuing dreary scandal.
“Come on, Stepan Ilyich, I’m tired of repeating myself,” Voskresensky replied, grimacing in pain from severe, severe pain, very sensitive pain. - If you still consider me a person uninterested in this matter - that is your right, friend of the count, but to believe that I, as this most disinterested person, is able to simply spoil, yes, spoil, certainly spoil, sir, not very close people - insulting, sir, and even ashamed.
“I didn’t mean to offend you at all,” Kostomarov shuddered, point-blank into a heavy, fixed emphasis, solid, if not obsessive, and point-blank, looking at Voskresensky’s blue-shaven cheek. - Understand, I am a friend of the count, not only in a secular sense, not only not only at all, but also in a cordial sense in this full sense. And I am extremely interested that everything goes well and everyone forgets this dirt and baseness.
“I’m sure it will happen like that,” Voskresensky picked up, realizing how unstoppable and even merciless Kostomarov is in his peacemaking. - For my part, from all the solid solid side of the good, very good and respectable side, I will do my best disinterested person.
Mishka entered and invited them to the count's office. They silently silently followed the servant, and soon the count, with his characteristic sincere impulse, greeted the newcomers, rushing towards them from a huge table littered with papers with the most valuable papers.
Count Dmitry Alexandrovich Reshetovsky was in all respects an extraordinary person, if not to say - strange, and in this even unusual and strange strange strange strange, by the way. His late father Alexander Alexandrovich, although from an ancient, but not very wealthy family, served in the cavalry, retired early, got married, got three three three sons, sold, in obedience to the new fashion, his estate near Pskov, moved with his family to Petersburg Petersburg Petersburg, where he suddenly showed himself in the commercial part, began to participate in farming and quite successfully, as a result of which he acquired yes yes yes yes yes yes three large houses, and having rented them out profitably, he lived happily until his death, leaving his sons decent condition yes but what about sons sons and not that and not that yes yes.
The eldest son - Dmitry Alexandrovich, received from papa house on G-oh, did not at all follow in the commercial footsteps of the parent, but rather - on the contrary, in a word, quite the contrary, to the universal to the universal and the most pernicious disbelief, showed such indifference to the material side of his existence, if not to say contempt, that he soon found himself forced to pledge in kind having played a dirty trick a house with all property with everything, with everything, with giblets, with everything, with belongings, with and with all fundicure, with. He used the money he inherited for the most incredible things, it’s just something, just something, travels and trips, leaving not a single exotic place on earth where his foot would not set foot and not something foot an ordinary foot in a chrome boot on alcohol soles the kindest most kind adventurer's leg. In appearance, the count was well over thirty, he was a little taller than average, a little quite a bit, thin, round-shouldered, very dark-haired, with a pale, always excellently shaven and powdered face, the features of which betrayed an inexplicable strangeness very very very very very impossible to the devil knows What is this complex and contradictory nature. However, his eyes-with eyes-with eyes-with very good-with good-with good-with his eyes - black, fiery and extremely lively, constantly shone with some kind of genuine delight from everything that was happening around.
- Lord! You can’t imagine how utterly happy I am to see you,” the count exclaimed loudly, preventing Kostomarov, who had already opened his mouth, to explain the strange reason, like something completely out of the ordinary, like a shame on such an unexpected visit. - Imagine, I slept badly today, that is, so badly that I got up to wet my head this something this something bad bad bad, but when I was awake, I hit Mishka in the muzzle, I thought I was dying, but it turned out not to be in the ovens, but in myself!
The count grabbed Voskresensky by the arm, which made him immediately embarrassed and looked at Kostomarov in embarrassment, but the count count count, not paying attention to Sergei Sergeyevich, continued to speak with fervor, turning directly to Kostomarov:
“Stepan Ilyich, my dearest friend, if you only knew what has been going on in my soul since the sleepless night! That is, a sleepless night has nothing to do with it, right right right God is with her, with the night, because the main thing is that in my whole life I have never experienced such a premonition, not so much, but - predestination events like today today today! It's just an embarras de richess of all feelings, some kind of shock! Imagine, gentlemen, I have not yet drunk coffee, like Mishka, even beaten for nothing, but not entirely shocked, however, thanksgiving is not written on the muzzle, but nimbly nimbly nimbly brings me an envelope, and I certainly predetermine the content of the letter, the plot, so to speak!
The Count suddenly fell silent in the strongest tension, demanding an immediate response from listeners who were listening or listening. spectators people or bien publique but there is nothing to rush for if you are utterly happy deeply infinitely happy happy happy simply and humanly.
“Excuse me, count, but why is it so suddenly ...” began Voskresensky, struggling to cope with embarrassment and desperately exchanging glances with Kostomarov. But the count immediately interrupted him; a bit having calmed down, however, terribly heavy, unbearable, sir:
- And in the letter, my dear and only friend Stepan Ilyich, this scoundrel, this insignificant base little soul again demands an explanation! It's like I'm that Madame Burlesque! And I know in advance every word, every most insignificant, stinking line from this message! What is what is what is assuming: gift of prophecy? You will laugh! And rightly so, rightfully so! Although - not immediately, not immediately, not immediately. Of course, I broke everything at once, and punished Mishka, so that under no circumstances, under any circumstances, even, like the third day, under bloody Circumstances do not accept letters from Herr von Leeb! But then ... - the count shook his head, as if all his teeth were twisted. What happened next, my friend? The cannon hadn’t fired yet, but I had already predetermined the chaque moment, quite completely - now Lidia Borisovna will come to me, and just like that - the bell is ringing, Mishka is running! But you'll never guess what she came to me with! Yes, and do not take my word for it, if I say it really, really, or say it if I please!
He squeezed Voskresensky's hand tighter and, trembling, as if in a strong fever, pulled him towards the door, which was heavy to heavy, lined with copper.
- Let's go now! I'll show you I'll show you I'll show you, I have to show you everything! We will all remember this day forever, ma parole! If only this bastard didn't ruin everything!
“Excuse me, count,” Kostomarov finally found the power of speech, stopping the count with possible delicacy: “I don’t dare to doubt the importance of what you want to discover and discover how opening to open and open to us, but the matter with which we have arrived is resolutely urgent, it concerns first of all first of all this ladies and your honor, the honor of your family, and I, as your close friend, and Sergey Sergeevich, as a person, by the will of fate, dedicated to this unpleasant business ...
“No more, my friend! exclaimed the Count, his eyes flashing. “I beg, I demand that you follow me into the living room at once!”
Kostomarov and Voskresensky looked at each other, suddenly feeling a strong excitement, transmitted yes, yes, as if transmitted to them from yes from yes from the count, which left them only to obey his impulse.
Dmitri Alexandrovich grabbed them by the hands and dragged them through the passage room into the living room, the door to which was, however, locked with a key, as it were, not quite obviously, sir, but firmly, very tightly, very firmly, sir.
Mishka, dozing in the entrance, jumped up, seeing the count, and remained standing with an expression of readiness for anything on his impenetrable, as always, face, albeit swollen from beatings. The count, meanwhile, took hold of the key in order to unlock the door correctly, to unlock it thoroughly and everything straight ahead, but suddenly, turning to Voskresensky, he spoke with the same fervor:
“My dear sir, I do not doubt the sincerity of your intentions and I see that you, you, you have come here not out of idle curiosity, but to help us all get out of this ... from this ... from this hell into which this vile woman plunged us. Therefore, you are ready to fight for all of us, insulted and dishonored, are you really ready? So right?
“I’m ready,” Voskresensky turned even more pale, and the familiar feeling of shame that had tormented him at the Glinskys’ party returned again to this right turns and awkwardness, and there even pity, however, not for himself.
- And if you are ready - go in first! the count hissed sternly, unlocking the door lock. - Mon heure a sonne!
Voskresensky entered the living room. The society gathered at the count's consisted of a variety of people - those who were familiar to him and completely unfamiliar. They all stood around a small high table with champagne and appetizers and snacks - from various things of the most delicate nature, something and something. extraordinary absolutely. Lidia Borisovna, Ivan Stepanovich Chernoryazhsky, Larisa, Nicolas Glinsky, Viktor Nikolaevich Odoevsky and Petya Kholmogorov stood out from the audience. Was just as much thinned after after the last emergency events like this, yes, in a word, dubious, yes, yes, yes, Volotsky’s company, however, has not lost its former fury. There was also a half-witted Englishwoman who appeared out of nowhere, who looked more like a man, gone crazy on the ground physiological questions and sitting alone in armchairs with joyfully meaningless and not very not very although the truth is true and not stupid but not yes, yes, but how perfect expression is present.
As soon as Voskresensky entered, everyone turned to him at once. But before he had time to bow, the count immediately jumped out from behind him and, like a hare, pressing his hands to his chest, jumped around the living room. Voskresensky and Kostomarov were petrified and like hewn and or simply chopped stones, stones for foundations at a penny in silver apiece. However, the audience smiled as if on cue.
- Here you are! Lidia Borisovna exclaimed with malicious joy, folding up her fan and pointing it at the galloping count. - Again, our count jumped like a bunny! So - my excellency came to them as a word first but no exhortation!
Loud laughter echoed throughout the living room.
- Another mess! screeched the voice.
- Here you have the old cute eyes, sir! roared another,
- Vox populi in a new way! the third laughed.
- These are all the consequences! Glinsky remarked caustically.
Resurrection, opening his mouth. followed the count's leaps, Kostomarov's eyes flashed with hatred at Lidia Borisovna.
“I saw this fat man somewhere,” she waved her fan at Voskresensky. - But why is Mr. Kostomarov here? Isn't it because it's like relatively or or is there another excusable a or because I'm here? Haven't you fallen in love with me, Stepan Ilyich?
A new fit of laughter swept through the audience.
“To fall in love with you, Lydia Borisovna, is an infernal shock!” Bakov roared. - This is worse than a Janissary knife! I would not have agreed for a hundred for a hundred, for a hundred thousand, one hundred and one hundred thousand in banknotes!
- Stepan Ilyich is a desperate man, not like you! Chernoryazhsky quipped.
He doesn't care about money! Glinsky chuckled.
- To him another need! squealed Popov, just as sincerely as honest gracious sovereign or empress or commoner but with but with ambition.
The guests laughed. Only Larisa did not share in the general merriment, but covering her face with her hands, occasionally looked with horror at the galloping count.
- What are you doing so strongly and yes, yes, and somehow vaguely and be silent, Stepan Ilyich? Lidia Borisovna continued with a grin. - Why are you here? This is after you were asked so urgently from here just now?
“I’m here, madam,” began a purple-faced Kostomarov, “because my close friend Count Dmitry Alexandrovich is now in mortal danger. And that danger is you.
- Oh, so you, therefore, for a friend or for a close friend, or for a good person for L "homme qui rit or for a comrade, have come to intercede? Count! Your Excellency! Is Stepan Ilyich really your friend? Is this true?
– Quite right! muttered the jumping count.
- Here you are! And I, stupid or not very but so but no no but I thought you and him were friendly only in whist and on Nevsky to the young ladies! And then suddenly - a friend! I do not believe! Kill me - I don't believe it!
- Stepan Ilyich is my old, kind and close friend, this is the holy truth! the count exclaimed with fervor, without ceasing to jump. - I'm ready with him for any field! And it’s not so good for anyone all of a sudden and I won’t allow this and this to slander our holy friendship!
“Have mercy, Count, who here dares to sacred encroach! snorted Lydia Borisovna. – Now we are not talking about Friendship, but about something completely different. And, listen! How long are you going to jump in such a manner? You are not a hare, and so not a bear, and not boar and not at all bustard and thus not chickens chickens and not a racehorse and not even a jockey, like Bogomolov, but jump! Bogomolov, at least tell the Count!
Everyone turned to Bogomolov, who was drinking his Madeira at some distance from everyone.
“I, sir, Lidia Borisovna, sir, have one iron principle, sir,” Bogomolov began gloomily. “Don’t give advice to anyone, except your wife, sir, the cook, and two of your direct heirs, sir, mine, so to speak, Castor and Pollux. Only to them I give advice, sir, and not always with words, but for the most part, with something like this, sir, - he raised his weighty fist and showed it to everyone. - In my house, it's called concrete education-s. And if their excellencies, s, are far from being in my power, s, therefore, accordingly principle I don't care specific I can't give advice, sir.
- But in vain, Bogomolov, right in vain! - exclaimed and shouted, and so the movement but the voice voice voice and straight to universal pleasure: - Oh, someone, but our graph is very lacking in concrete! Isn't it, gentlemen?
- C "est charmant, c" est tres rassurant! screeched the voice.
- In the spirit of the times! - I heard another.
“Gentlemen, why not ask us and us convincingly convincingly, with good and direct, Mr. Bogomolov, to everyone’s pleasure and satisfaction, to abandon our principle, even for a quarter of an hour, and even deliver us an une minute de bonheur? suggested a slightly tipsy Nicolas.
- Please, gentlemen! Bakov picked up.
- Bogomolov does not believe the words! - Petya, who had been silent before this, spoke contemptuously. - It is necessary to ask for his interest!
“But we will ask him for interest! Chernoryazhsky himself concluded, and even, as it were, summed it up and did not reason with it, sir, jokingly making way for the count jumping past him and taking out his purse. Voila, gentlemen!
He pulled out a five-ruble banknote from his wallet:
- Make contributions, gentlemen, I beg you!
“However, that’s enough, Ivan Stepanovich,” Volotsky remarked to him reproachfully. - You're going too far. Every petit, yes petit petit, like the petit morceau of a merry yes-yes-s, has some kind of moral limit.
"I'm not joking, gentlemen," said Chernoryazhsky seriously.
“What does that mean, sir?” Kostomarov asked in a voice trembling with indignation.
“And that means, my dear Stepan Ilyich, that the peacekeeper’s mission, which you so incompetently deigned to bankrupt on the third day of the day, has now passed from you to us, and it means that we now have to make peace and put things in order in this crazy house. And don't you dare look at me and it's me like I'm drunk, I'm not drunk! - shouted Chernoryazhsky so loudly that everyone fell silent at once, only Larisa sobbed, but the count continued to jump.
- I don't understand what you're getting at? Lidia Borisovna asked. - Explain to us what you finally want?
“I want to clean up this house once and for all!” - Chernoryazhsky said sternly, approaching Bogomolov - Nikolai ... how are you ...
- Matveyevich, - sullenly sullenly and this is not very not very, Bogomolov prompted.
- Nikolai Matveyevich, you will receive not five and not twenty-five, but five hundred rubles, if you stop the abomination of fornication in this house this very minute!
- How is he suspend? Lidia Borisovna was amazed.
- I want Bogomolov to flog Count Dmitry Alexandrovich! Carving before our eyes! Chernoryazhsky shouted. – Now and here!
- What? - Lidia Borisovna asked, as if half asleep, slowly, slowly, and how hard all the jam is approaching Chernoryazhsky - How did you deign to put it? carve?
- Cut out! Flog! Cut out for sure! Here! In front of everyone!
“This is mushroom,” Kostomarov said unexpectedly for himself and for those around him. “I…I…demand.” I demand.
Everyone looked in a daze now at Chernoryazhsky, then at the galloping count. Lidia Borisovna silently, silently, silently and quite close to the flushed Chernoryazhsky, somehow short-sightedly looked in into his eyes, and suddenly, with all her might, struck him in the face with the hilt of a fan
Everyone gasped. The blow fell right on the eye and he grabbed it with his right hand, covered it or crushed, and with that hand he still continued to compress the banknote.
“Now, get out!” - Lidia Borisovna pointed with a fan with the same and the same Viennese fan at the door to the white door.
Chernoryazhsky himself turned out to be so unprepared for such a turn of events that he did not come to his senses immediately, but when he came to himself, growled inhumanly and rushed at Lydia Borisovna; and perhaps it would have been bitter for her if Volotsky, who blocked the path of Chernoryazhsky, had not awakened first of the guests.
- Ivan Stepanovich! he managed to say, but he was immediately pushed away with force by Chernoryazhsky and, flying off about three steps, fell on a chair on a Viennese chair, albeit quite simple and without varnish at all.
The noise from his fall brought the guests to their senses, and in a moment several strong hands grabbed the meaninglessly growling Chernoryazhsky.
“Gentlemen, push this scoundrel out!” - ordered Lidia Borisovna.
She was very pale, which made her unusual beauty, whether it stretched straight or not, become even more strange and attractive.
Chernoryazhsky was led to the door.
- With this creature ... this rubbish ... I will kill you! he growled, resisting.
- Push him, push him! - Lydia Borisovna shouted angrily and cheerfully
- This is mushroom ... this is mushroom ... - repeated Kostomarov, as if in oblivion.
- We will not allow fist law with a lady! Let his greyhounds flog! the drunken Bakov roared. - And the counts and princes par excellence - to the guillotine! Law of Correspondence! Carbonari, vivat!
- A new Benckendorff has been found! screeched the voice.
- She's crazy! Crazy! Trust me! Larissa screamed. - My God! Is nobody going to stop her! Is there no one, no one no one who would block or let to erect and to make a stronghold pockmarked of my dreams, who would stop this vile?!
But no one heard Larisa's scream in the uproar. Meanwhile, the snarling Chernoryazhsky was led out of the living room.
- That's better! Lidia Borisovna called after him. - Bonne chance, Ivan Stepanych! You didn’t put things in order here with someone else’s hands, so our count will have to jump like a bunny for a long time! And Bogomolov will live without your five hundred rubles! Will you live, Bogomolov?
- I will live, madam, - with gloomy calmness and how it is there Earth the earth about the earth, yes on the earth and everything in appearance, it was clear that absolutely Nothing, Nothing. “Flogging counts is not my business.
“You are unfair to me, Lidia Borisovna,” the count, jumping, out of breath and completely wet with sweat, muttered with difficulty. “Believe me, I don’t find anything wrong with thinking that about you just now, because everyone is inclined to think that way, they’ve been thinking ill of you lately. And for this, everyone has reasons, and quite weighty ones. In many ways, you yourself give a reason, you constantly give even many different reasons, and after everyone has done conclusions about your every faux pas and think ill of you, including me, so you are offended by everyone and approach everyone with reproaches, although the main reproaches always, always go to me! And it's just scary, c "est tres serieux!
– Vrayment? Lidia Borisovna flushed with pleasure, opening her fan and fanning her hot and blushing but not but not painting like white ground, but not yet scarlet but not crimson and pink and not cherry, sir. All these these changes took place in her extremely frankly and there like a sheet and with extraordinary speed.
“Count, you know who I am!” Yes, and everyone knows that just now Kholmogorov even hinted in the newspaper, did not hesitate: “a luxurious idiot”! What a luxurious idiot with a deployed and black dahlia flowers, and the villa is a villa, and greyhound like any homely and depraved but quiet and overdressed demand? Vaughn and Odoevsky will confirm! Confirm, Ilya Nikolaevich?
Odoevsky, who was standing next to Kholmogorov, who had turned white with anger after mentioning the notorious article, was about to answer, but then the door flung open, Mishka came running in, limping like wooden butter with a report:
- Sir, there God knows what, two people with a car of some kind and ten people dray! They say that to you and you know already!
– Ah-ah-ah! Here is the denouement! Finally! cried the Count, straightening up and sinking into an armchair in exhaustion. - Call, Mishka, call everyone to one!
The guests looked at each other. The door swung open in an instant and eleven loaders wheeled into the living room and immediately got out. Two Germans remained with the car, speaking no Russian at all; one of them held an oblong wooden case in his hands. The Germans, with restraint, but also with somehow a position of unbalance and an ordinary gestalt, like everyone else, and, not at all embarrassed, took up the car.
Voila, gentlemen! the count exclaimed with fervor, jumping up and running to the car. “This is the miracle that will save not only us all, but the entire human race!” Herr Gollwitzer, herr Sartorius, wir sind bereit, bitte schon!
Sartorius opened the case and everyone froze in amazement: in the case lay a small naked man, probably less than a arshin in height. It was not a dwarf at all, of which there are plenty of them in St. Petersburg today - namely small man that is, it is not small, but very very small, and a turn is a turn like elbows and knees, and where is the stomach where is the stomach and a completely proportional addition. He lay in his case as in a coffin, eyes closed
But as soon as Sartorius took his hand, the midget opened his eyes, looked around and smiled at everyone with a strange, extremely kind and soulful, but also painful smile. His face, however, was pleasant, thin and dry, with regular features and large blue eyes. His smile affected the guests so much that they all seemed to be petrified. Lilliput waited a minute or two and said in a low, insinuating voice:
“Let’s get together, brothers and sisters.”
And at the same moment the Germans started their car and all its mechanisms began to move, and the guests, as if spellbound, went to her. There were three recesses in the machine, in which three were placed at once, and therefore three, and could be sewn together at once; to these three already sewn together, three more were hemmed, three more - and so on until infinity that is, to the end and this and this to Peace and Will and to world happiness as he wanted as he believed and hoped.
– I urge everyone to pay attention to the needles! cried the count, who had come to the strongest excitement. - This is something amazing, just real ... it's incredible ... c "est curieux, ma parole ... the needles of the needle are like that and everything is all hollow from the inside, but the strongest, strongest, thinnest, but extremely agile like a silk worm and are stuffed inside with opium, s and not even opium but opium balm and allows through the holes the smallest holes to seep into the blood and relieve pain during stitching and not even pain a pleasant extremely pleasant feeling! I want to be in the top three! Who is with me?
“I’m with you, Count,” Bakov, sobering up in an instant, quickly responded.
“Me too,” Larisa stepped forward from the crowd.
They stood side by side in the recesses, and the machine immediately sewed them together. With joyful tears in their eyes, they emerged from the recesses and awkwardly, as if learning to walk again, moved around the living room.
“I’m beginning to understand nothing,” Odoevsky said with sullenly growing anger.
“Let’s sew together, brothers and sisters,” said the midget again.
- No. This is not for me! Lidia Borisovna threw the fan away and ran out.
- This is ... the devil knows what ... some kind of villainy! Glinsky ran after him.
“This is mushroom, mushroom…” Kostomarov followed them, muttering.
- Scoundrel! Odoevsky shouted into the count's peaceful face and rushed out with all his might. The others rushed after him. The only guest left in the living room was the Englishwoman, still seated in her armchairs with a blissful smile on her face. The police, who soon arrived in time, arrested the Germans and the midget. The car was confiscated. Stitched together by the count, Larisa and Bakov soon left Russia and settled in Switzerland, where they lived in happiness and harmony for another four years.
Larisa died first. An hour after her death, Bakov strangled himself. Both corpses were safely cut off from the count's body and buried. Count Dmitry Alexandrovich himself, and this and this he is a little but not the whole And not forever.
So, rips nimada taben.
Put N3 in my white wen-jianjia and don't you dare show it to your idiots. I press.
Boris.
January 14th.
No ha, xiaotou.
Today I took the liberty of skiing. Almost an hour climbed the right hill. He sweated and breathed minus-directly: hypodynamia. A lot of snow and it is not always under the crust.
Failed. But at the top - wunderschon.
Magnificent shangshuihua, fresh dry wind, magpies on larches and - satisfaction.
He took off his skis and sat on a fallen Christmas tree. I thought not only about you, xiaozhu In the bunker there is a holiday and rejoicing. Discipline: 0. The Colonel drinks in the morning. I refrain.
I read "Chzhud-shih" about six tastes. When I got to the sweet, I remembered your addictions. Remember: "Excess of sweets gives rise to mucus, obesity, depresses heat, the body gets fat, diabetes, goiter and rmen-bu appear."
Don't get carried away with soft sugar, I'm warning you seriously.
I am sending you a text produced by Akhmatova-2. During the script process, the object was not deformed at all. Only severe bleeding: vaginal and epistaxis. The object entered the accumulative anabiosis accordingly.
I am sending you a text produced by Akhmatova-2. During the script process, the object was not deformed at all. Only severe bleeding: vaginal and epistaxis. The object entered the accumulative anabiosis accordingly. If this creature lives for four months and accumulates two kilograms of blue fat, this will be our top direct and the triumph of GENROSMOB.
Akhmatova-2
three nights
I
I prayed to viaducts and graveyards,Melted the ice of the evening gates,
I forgot about the sadness of the careless,
Out on the overgrown path
Yes, she hurried to the blind conflagration,
To keep my clothes from being torn off by the wind,
So that the raven does not drip black blood,
So that the girls do not utter a sound.
I was greeted by solemn people,
They hid snake smiles
Opened my leaden arms
And they tried not to break the children's oath.
If tears froze in the cold -
We were hiding behind the tesovy gates.
If the scream broke off from the bell tower -
We locked ourselves with barn locks.
Yes, they watched the wretched pilgrim,
Don't let the guard dogs drink
We did not throw stones at swarthy beggars.
For the night, the beloved shirt was released,
Tore my carved necklace,
Sealed my pale forehead with a kiss,
He cast a burning spell on his chest:
Do not go to the land of the hungry and cheerful,
Do not love the green-eyed and fearless,
Do not kiss between the eyebrows of the curly-haired youths,
Don't bear children to blind legionnaires.
II
Asked me to fixCute face -
Insert quivering nostrils
Copper ring.
Brought and beckoned
And then she took it.
And ate until the ringing
bit.
Burn me, skillful executioner
Put your own brand.
Let this body know
Devotion to Shamo.
I already sobbed for you -
Dry eyes.
Now I don't have much pain...
The storm is over.
A long way is prepared
On a damp graveyard,
In front of the odalisque house
I will stand up to my full height.
lean over and kiss
Dear threshold.
Curse me, the former
At the crossroads.
I will forgive you everything sister
My bitter.
Let me pray
For you, snake.
III
Three friends lived in the village of Urozly,Three young collective farmers in the village of Urozly:
Aye-bye!
They grew up in poor families
They were the first to enter the collective farm,
They became the first Komsomol members
In the village of Urozly.
Aye-bye!
They believed Lenin-Stalin,
They believed in the Bolshevik Party,
They believed in their native collective farm.
Aye-bye!
As the snow melted in spring
They began to build a school
Gaptiev, Gazmanov and Khabibulin.
good school
spacious school,
School for peasant children
Aye-bye!
Gaptieva dug clay with a ketmen,
Gazmanova knitted straw,
Khabibulina kneaded the adobe,
With strong legs she kneaded the adobe,
I put young manure in the adobe,
To keep the school strong
To keep the school warm
To make the school bright
Villages of Urozly.
Aye-bye!
The kulaks lived in the village of Urozly,
Greedy fists in the village of Urozly,
Evil fists in the village of Urozly:
- Lukman, Rashid, old man Faziev and Mulla Burgan.
Aye-bye!
Fists learned about the school,
Fists shook with anger,
They clenched their fists,
Went to harm the fists:
The fists set fire to the straw,
Saman was stealing fists,
Fists were thrown like rotten horsemeat,
The kulaks mocked the collective farm.
Aye-bye!
Didn't endure
Collective farm friends went to the district -
I will look for management on fists,
Ask for protection from the fists,
Waging war against the kulaks.
Aye-bye!
Friends came to the city of Tuymazy,
Collective farmers came to the GPU,
They came with a serious conversation.
Comrade Akhmat greeted them warmly,
Black-browed, gray-eyed comrade Akhmat,
Hero Civil Comrade Akhmat,
Companion of Lenin-Stalin Comrade Akhmat.
Aye-bye!
Komsomol members told him everything
Gaptiev, Gazmanov and Khabibulin,
The whole truth, everything was told as it is,
All the sadness and all the pain told
All their worries were told.
Aye-bye!
Comrade Akhmat equipped the detachment,
Comrade Akhmat sat on a white horse
And Comrade Akhmat led the detachment
In the village of Urozly led a detachment.
Aye-bye!
They seized the kulaks like lousy dogs:
Lukman, Rashid, old man Faziev and Mullah Burgan
fists scared,
Fists clenched
Fists were dirty with fear.
The people judged the kulaks,
Punished the kulaks of the people -
The people hung kulaks on the gates:
Lukman, Rashid, old man Faziev and Mullah Burgan.
Aye-bye!
The collective farmers of the village of Urozly rejoiced,
Sabantuy was arranged in the village of Urozly,
Glorious Sabantuy in the village of Urozly;
Three fat sheep were slaughtered in the village of Urozly.
Gaptiev prepared baursaki,
Gazmanov cooked beldyme,
Cooked Khabibulina belyashi.
Aye-bye!
They began to give water to Comrade Akhmat,
They began to feed Comrade Akhmat,
They began to sing songs to Comrade Akhmat,
They began to ask Comrade Akhmat:
What do you wish, dear comrade Akhmat?
Comrade Akhmat answered them:
I liked the Komsomol
Gaptiev, Gazmanov and Khabibulin,
I want to spend the night with one of them.
Aye-bye!
Friends smiled
Friends are confused
Friends answered:
- Do not be angry, comrade Akhmat,
Do not be angry, comrade Akhmat,
We are Komsomol friends, comrade Akhmat,
We grew up in poor families, Comrade Akhmat,
We swallowed tears together, comrade Akhmat,
We prayed together to Lenin-Stalin, Comrade Akhmat,
We entered the collective farm together, Comrade Akhmat,
They became Komsomol members, Comrade Akhmat,
We are building a school together, comrade Akhmat,
We will sleep with you together, comrade Akhmat.
Aye-bye!
Comrade Akhmat was surprised,
Comrade Akhmat agreed.
Let's go to the Dubyaz meadow
Gaptiev, Gazmanov and Khabibulin,
They set up a yurt made of white felt in the meadow.
They rolled out camel felt in the yurt,
They covered the felt with Chinese silk,
They took under the arms of Comrade Akhmat,
They brought Comrade Akhmat into the yurt,
Divide comrade Akhmat,
They rubbed his hard plow with mutton fat,
To better plow his girlfriends.
Undress girlfriends-collective farmers naked,
They lay down next to Comrade Akhmat.
Aye-bye!
Their comrade Akhmat plowed all night:
Gaptiev three times,
Gazmanov three times,
Khabibulin three times.
Aye-bye!
In the morning, as the sun rose,
Girlfriends got up, got dressed, inflated the samovar,
We gave Comrade Akhmat tea to drink,
Brynza fed comrade Akhmat,
Comrade Akhmat was equipped on the way,
Comrade Akhmat was put on a horse.
Comrade Akhmat rode across the steppe,
Across the wide steppe, Comrade Akhmat,
Comrade Akhmat to the city of Tuymazy,
Comrade Akhmat for big things.
Aye-bye!
As nine moons passed
They gave birth to Gaptiev, Gazmanov and Khabibulin
Three sons:
Ahmad Gaptiev,
Ahmad Gazmanov,
Akhmat Khabibulin.
They became strong, brave, dexterous,
They became smart, cunning, wise,
They became unselfish and merciless
And there was no equal to them
Neither in Urozly, nor in Tuymazy,
Neither in Ishimbay, nor in Ufa,
Not in Kazan big.
Aye-bye!
Learned the great Lenin-Stalin
About three Akhmatov,
He called to himself three Akhmatov,
He called three Akhmatov to the service,
To the Heavenly Moscow of three Akhmats,
To the Invisible Kremlin of three Akhmats.
Aye-bye!
Since then, three Akhmat
They live in Heavenly Moscow,
They live in the Invisible Kremlin,
On Lenin-Stalin live:
Akhmat Gaptiev
On the horns of Lenin-Stalin lives,
On the six horns of Lenin-Stalin lives -
On mighty horns
On viscous horns,
on branched horns,
On bumpy horns
On triple helix horns:
The first horn in the future heals,
The second horn heals the Past,
The third horn heals the heavenly.
The fourth horn heals the earthly,
The fifth horn in the right heals,
The sixth horn heals the Wrong.
Aye-bye!
Akhmat Gazmanov
On the chest of Lenin-Stalin lives -
On a broad chest
On deep chest
On a mighty chest
On a flowing chest
On the chest with three nipples:
In the first nipple - White milk,
In the second nipple - Black milk,
In the third nipple - Invisible milk.
Aye-bye!
Akhmat Khabibulin
Lives on Lenin-Stalin's muds,
He lives on five mudyas -
On heavy muds
On crimson mudas,
On furry mudas,
On hunchbacked mudas,
On the muds under the ice crust:
In the first muda - the seed of the Beginnings,
In the second muda - the seed of Limits,
In the third muda is the seed of the Path,
In the fourth muda is the seed of Struggle,
In the fifth muda is the seed of the End.
And so they live forever.
Aye-bye!
Pay attention to the handwriting; this is for our green conversation, rips nimada! If you stubbornly write vertically like a pentan, your L-harmony will sooner or later need three Akhmats!
SHUTKA.
I'll sniff tonight. And read the Three Kingdoms. Envy, rips laowai.
Not your Boris.
January 15.
I got up with difficulty. Totally manipulative.
And all because, rips, in the age of pragmatic positivism, I remain a hopeless radis-romantic.
We had a direct sniff yesterday with Agvidor.
They drank birch sap.
He went to play pix-dix with Karpenkoff, Bochvar and Sergeant Belov (touching lao bai xing, but not shagua).
And I, instead of a decent reading of the "Three Kingdoms", was suddenly drawn to?
You won't guess, rips xiaozhu.
Yeah, I won't say it myself. I'll send you the text of Platonov-3. This most exotic individual produced the most M-predictable text. I turned out to be 67% right. Outwardly, Platonov-3 has not changed at all: as it was a coffee table, it remained so.
Platonov-3
prescription
Stepan Bubnov was shoveling the furnace little by little and did not hear how a man climbed into the cabin of the slicer.
Are you Bubnov? shouted the outsider in a high, non-proletarian voice. Stepan turned around to show his class superiority and saw a stocky guy with a face crushed by the tense inconsistency of current life. The guy's head was flat and devoid of vegetation beyond his years, due to the tight passage through the airy black soil of revolutionary times.
- I'm a shredder from the depot! Zazhogin Fedor, - the guy shouted, trying to block the class roar of the firebox with his bourgeois voice.
- Did you by any chance borrow a throat from Wrangel? Bubnov asked, closing the furnace.
- I have a mandate for you from Comrade Chub! Zazhogin seriously reached into the pocket of his tunic. - Let's go to Bolokhovo! There the white bastard presses hard
Bubnov scraped off the excess fuel oil from his palm into a tin and took a clean piece of paper from Zazhogin:
Engineer Bubnov S.I. is ordered to urgently deliver the proletarian slice truck N316 to the Bolokhovo junction for solidarity coupling with the Rosa Luxembourg armored train.
Beginning depot comrade Ivan Chub.
What is this mandate? Bubnov folded the paper without any respect for it. "It's a prescription, you shallow man!" I could have conveyed in words why wasting a bourgeois dowry in vain! How long have you been at the depot?
- Second day! - respectfully looked into the slashing Zazhogin. – I am now from Vologda! We assembled the train there, but did not deliver it - the counter-revolution smashed it to pieces!
- Is it under Khlyupin or something?
- Beneath him!
“Where is my old cutter?” Petrov?
- He was sent away with the Armenians for sugar! To Razdolnaya!
- Found something to send for! Bubnov disapproved angrily. - The working stomach will live without sugar - there would be liquid! Well, get to the knives!
Zazhogin disappeared into the kromsalnaya. Bubnov removed the brake from the brake, pulled the balancer. The connecting rods set off and went with a whistle to knead the steppe air. All around, to the very horizon, an inhuman plain unfolded, overgrown with dreary grasses, oppressed by sun and wind. When Sirotino passed, Bubnov set the reverse on medium thrust and looked into the slasher.
Zazhogin sternly wielded a barbid knife, shredding the dried corpses of the enemies of the revolution and throwing the boneless chunks into the storeroom.
"Grab! Bubnov thought positively. “If only metal would be normal!”
In Ostashkov, four legless donors and a pregnant woman with a piece of rail asked for Konepad.
- Jump yourself! We don't have a simple couple! Bubnov warned them.
- Let's jump, comrade, but how! - donors were delighted with the warmth and movement. We have nothing to break now!
– Why do you need people's iron? Bubnov asked Baba. - Your business is to pull benefit from the uncultivated land!
- A husband in Konepad sells log cabins by weight, but he still hasn’t done a steelyard! All outweighed by sandbags! - the woman answered in detail, carefully leaning the rail against her stomach in order to lull the disturbed child with a cold and calm substance.
“Look what you think, vosheboyschiki!” Bubnov chuckled. - And when you intend to sell the land according to the kulak covenant, will you also need a steelyard?
- The earth, brother, can only be outweighed by the right mind! - answered instead of the sleeping woman the smartest disabled person.
- With the right mind, it is necessary to outweigh not the earth, but earthly fools! Bubnov snapped. - Their rotten regime has accumulated so much that not all of them fit in the ground at once! You have to wait a lot until the old ones rot and give way to new places!
Lomtevoz with a roar passed the hollow and puffed uphill
- Gimme traction! Bubnov shouted into the pipe and opened the firebox.
Zazhogin poked his thoughtful face out of the slasher and began throwing chunks into the firebox, mercilessly dipping them into a trough of fuel oil.
- Whose chunks are we going on? asked another legless man. – Tea on kappelevits?
“You can’t get far in the officer’s field these days!” Bubnov reasoned with him. - They burned their white fat on fierce fear! There is nothing to cut from their bones!
- So, on the bourgeois prem? - The disabled person perked up.
- On them! shouted Bubnov.
- And I was the only one from Kostroma to Yaroslavl on the local kulak slices! continued the invalid, sympathetically crawling up to the roaring furnace. - Even when he was on his feet! So we did a hundred miles in half an hour! Steam whistled a mile away! That's what it means - a fat class!
Suddenly, several pieces of fast lead hit the cockpit and the tender, breaking through them along with the bodies of two invalids and a woman. The shot invalids fell down
on the greasy floor and twitched for a long time, reluctantly parting with a boring life. Baba died without resistance in her sleep, and the child, due to the proximity of the rail, continued to sleep deeply in his stomach, not feeling the loss of his mother.
Bubnov leaned out of the cab and saw ahead of him a handcar with people and a machine gun. He pulled the balancer and closed the siphon. The Lomtevoz began to brake furiously and quietly crawled up to the deadly trolley. Superheated steam with useless frenzy beat out of the leaky cauldron into outer space-
- Hey, lads, who is rich in shag? - asked from the trolley incomprehensible people.
- Whose blood are you, murderers? Bubnov asked.
- We are red, with a passing point! – definitely answered the commander of the trolley. – And what are you like?
- Depovskie, your mother to the Virgin! Why are you spitting lead in your bastard?
- Yes, we are here, such a thing, we are offended by the mahr for the third day! - the commander came up with a crooked face. - Not a single bastard will stop! And without smoke - it's sickening to fight! The louse will seize with boredom!
Bubnov looked around. He himself had two rolls of shag left; Zazhogin, judging by his cloudy eyes, did not indulge in smoking. Picking out the golden shag from the disabled was contrary to Bubnov's large-boned nature.
– We don’t have mahr, fulugan! he shouted to the bow-legged. - Follow her to the whites!
The commander silently sat on the handcar and ordered the Red Army men: they piled on the yoke, ready for anything, and the handcar easily rolled away. The living climbed down from the sledge-car and watched the trolley with long glances, in which there was more envy for the unhindered passage of space than reproach for the dead.
- You should tin it, master! the invalid advised ingenuously, looking at the leaky tender as if it were a miraculous icon with oozing water.
- We’ll only get your crap! - Bubnov did not pay stern attention, bored because of the gloomy immobility of the slicer. The two surviving invalids crawled excitedly around the stalled car: the sudden death of their comrades had an effect on them like moonshine. Zazhogin was economically poking around in the slasher, as if nothing important had happened. Finally Bubnov came up with.
- That's what, the stubs of the world revolution! - he turned to the disabled. - It is necessary to move the slicer from its place in order to crawl to Zhitnaya. There they will tin our tank and let's go further!
- How can we move such a burden? - the invalid doubted happily.
- I will tie you to the connecting rods on both sides, you will help the wheels! Without this, the car can not cope, the steam is rotten, the tank is broken!
“Let’s bury our dead comrades first!” suggested the disabled person.
- It's possible! Bubnov agreed. - Something, but we have a lot of shovels!
They dug a mass grave in the steppe, they put two legless people and a pregnant woman in it. Something prompted those who buried that the pregnant woman should be put together with the rail, which she continued to press to her stomach, even while dead, taking care of the peace of the child. When they began to cover the bodies with indifferent earth, the talkative invalid became emotional:
- Together with them, we sacrificed the legs of the chunky flotilla "Comintern"! Then, listen, for fifty versts near Bobruisk there was no smell of a single slice! Everyone went to the front! Scrap trucks are standing! How to take out the wounded? Well, three companies gave up their lower limbs in favor of the recovery of the enemies of capital! On our feet, we instantly reached Yukhnov!
His comrade was also about to say something cordial, but only growled because of the poverty of the human language, which had dried up a lot in the revolutionary wind. Pouring a low mound over the grave, they stuck a shovel into it, on which Bubnov scrawled with a piece of rubble:
Here lie accidentally killed people.
They found a coil of wire in the tool box, and screwed the disabled to the connecting rods of the drive wheels. The disabled were importantly silent, inwardly preparing for unusual work.
- Throw little by little! Bubnov warned Zazhogina. - And then we won’t crawl to the place - we’ll disintegrate!
Zazhogin began throwing buttered chunks into the cooling firebox. The slices crackled, surprising the guts of the wounded slicer with unexpected warmth. A little slow time passed, the slicer started off and rolled quietly. The accustomed invalids shouted to each other through wordlessly working metal
- Comrade Bubnov, why did they hit us with a machine gun? Zazhogin remembered, straightening up.
- Wanted to smoke! Bubnov peered painfully into the yellow steppe horizon.
“Here are the bashi-bazouks!” Zazhogin was surprised. - Because of a harmful relic, people are ruined!
- Smoking is not a relic, but mustard for the insipid beef of life! Bubnov reasoned, twisting the goat's leg as proof.
Zazhogin, incomprehensibly, disappeared into the slaughterhouse, as he could never reconcile himself to the need to draw in unnutritious smoke. It didn't fit in his flat but curious head.
Before the sledgehammer with the invalids had time to get tired, hurried riders on horses shining with sweat appeared on both sides of the canvas. In hoarse, war-weary voices, they ordered the slicer to stop.
- Who are they? Bubnov asked them, swallowing the wind. Without answering, the riders took out weapons hardened in battles.
- White, comrade Bubnov! Zazhogin looked. “Is the front broken?
- Where are they! The driver reassured him. - These are stubs of no importance! They are behind their time, and the new is too tough for them! Come on, Fedya, dig into the tool - there must be weapons of destruction!
Zazhogin opened the toolbox and pulled out two sawn-off shotguns with muzzles incapable of surprise. Bubnov twitched the shutter of the sawn-off shotgun, sending a sleepy cartridge into the barrel and, leaning out of the cab, began to land heavily on the whites. Zazhogin, who lately has often dealt with the destruction of someone else's life, calmly waited for the enemy to approach a lethal distance. Taking advantage of the slow speed of the slicer, the whites grabbed hold of the riveted iron and climbed over it, pushing off from the exhausted horses. The invalids, swinging on the connecting rods, greeted the defenders of the fading class with a choice obscenity.
- Fedya, a white louse is boarding us! - stated Bubnov, transferring weapons to hand-to-hand combat. “Let’s make holes in their rotten bodies!”
"Who are you to disobey orders?" - the one-eyed cavalryman asked the driver, the first to penetrate the inside of the slicer-
- Slave of world communism! Bubnov deliberately answered and blew off half of his face from a sawn-off shotgun.
One-Eyed disappeared into fast space. Two others fell on Zazhogin, tired of waiting for the enemy on an honest side. One stuck an aristocratic dagger in his back, the other grabbed the shredder's throat, not giving him the opportunity to sincerely scream in pain. Zazhogin screamed into his gut and his cry, like superheated steam in a closed boiler, tripled the strength of the destroyed organism: Fyodor hit one of the attackers with his knee in the thin stomach, and shot the other in the neck with a sawn-off shotgun.
"What are you up to, you fool?" the hare asked angrily, sitting down on the floor and busily plugging the wound with his fist. Zazhogin jerked the bolt and crushed the skull of the second, who fell into a sleepy reverie. The whites who climbed onto the roof, sensing something was wrong, fired down at once. One of the bullets imperceptibly dug into Bubnov's shoulder, the rest entered inanimate objects.
- Fedya, guard the door, I'm right now! Bubnov warned and jerked the balancer.
Lomtevoz began to slow down, so that the sparks from under the wheels lit up the evening steppe and the bodies of the whites who flew from the roof onto the rails.
- Ego you can’t catch on a mare - technique! Bubnov concluded approvingly, also falling to the floor according to Newton's objective law.
Zazhogin was thrown with his back against the levers, which caused the dagger to go even deeper into the flesh of his back. The wounded hare was thrown headlong on the balance beam, and he quickly died.
The sledgehammer stopped.
- Comrade Bubnov, look what the enemy put in my back! asked Zazhogin.
The machinist pulled a White Guard trophy out of his back and showed it to him.
- Look, gold miners! No to a bayonet - in a simple way! - Zazhogin yearned, and the blood, previously blocked by the blade of the dagger, gushed into his lungs.
- Liquid across the throat rushing! he reported to Bubnov, coughing. - You won't say goodbye!
- And you say goodbye with your eyes, brother! Bubnov hugged him.
Zazhogin gathered himself to stare into the driver's eyes with all his might, but suddenly looked through them - into unearthly space - and died. Bubnov raised his White Guard cap and put it on the hacker's face.
“And his voice is non-proletarian, and his head is a carpet, but he died like Marat!” Bubnov thought sternly and jumped off the sliced truck.
All around, crippled whites were dying in the twilight. Bubnov did not finish them off, but went to untie the disabled. But the sudden braking killed them too: the wire went too deep into the bodies of the tied, cutting important veins. The invalids died half asleep, pouring steaming blood over the silent iron, which did not thank them for their help.
Who will I share the victory with? - Bubnov was angry at the legless - You are not a white bone to break so easily!
Behind him, a hand stuck out of the darkness and put a sickle to the driver's throat, intending to cut it off like an overgrown ear.
- Get away from the slicer! the voice ordered. Bubnov stepped back - to where the heated earth was resting from the blind sun.
- Now stop! the voice commanded.
Bubnov stopped. Some gloomy people ran up to the slicer, scurried around and rushed away. There was the serpentine hiss of a pickford cord.
- What are you doing, bastards? This is the good of the people! the engineer shouted in the voice of a mother who was irretrievably losing her child.
In response, a tense flame flared up and pieces of the sliced truck flew into the steppe. Bubnov and the night owls were laid down by a wave on the ground.
- Beluga unfinished! Bubnov spat sand out of his mouth. - From grief completely crazy, Wrangel lackeys!
- We are not white, do not boil! - answered him
Bandits, you mean?
And not bandits!
- Then - expelled from the party?
We are not red! the voice insisted.
- So - the Makhnovists?
We are not anarchists! Anarchy is the new opium for the people: Jesus Christ with a Mauser!
– Yes, who are you? - Bubnov was completely angry.
We are children of nature! explained the darkened man. We are fighting against machines! For complete and unconditional liberation from mechanical labor! Can you read?
“I couldn’t before the revolution! Bubnov answered proudly.
- As soon as dawn, I will give you my book - "The Power of Machines", Everything is written there. My surname is Pokrevsky. Now let's bake potatoes, and I'll tell you everything about cars in words
Why should I hear about cars! I have been living in the depot since I was fourteen! I know all the engines!
- And the essence - you do not know! With machines, a person will never come to world happiness! They will make him bourgeois and make himself a slave! What holy communism is there when iron digs the earth for you! This is the meanness of the world! She must be fought to the bone! Let's destroy the cars and pave our way to the red paradise with their debris!
- And plow - again on a mare?
“Not on a mare, dark man!” On ourselves and plow, and sow, and we will grow fast!
-This is not for me! - Bubnov, tired of driving, killing and talking, yawned. - I will not climb into the collar! And I can't live without slicers!
From the fluctuation of the night air, he realized that people exchanged glances.
- Will you kill? Then quickly go ahead - I don’t like to get sick!
We don't touch people! - answered the invisible ones and disappeared.
Bubnov lay down on the warm earth and fell asleep, He dreamed of something painfully dear and huge, from which there is nothing to hide from, that it is impossible to kill, forget or bury, and with which it is impossible to merge forever, but you can only love an orphan with unrequited love. Then this huge and native shrank into a shining water drop and dripped on his shoulder. Bubnov woke up. The sun stood at its zenith and stupidly warmed the earth and Bubnov lying on it. Pieces of a blown-up slicer were lying around. An unburned chunk of bourgeois flesh was lying next to the driver's feet, which had not turned into proletarian steam. Bubnov looked at his shoulder and saw in it the butt of a White Guard bullet.
“Hooked, all the same! And I was afraid to remain unpregnant the Virgin! Bubnov thought cheerfully and pulled the bullet out of his shoulder. The black blood that had accumulated under the bullet flowed lazily from the wound. Bubnov picked up the piece and put it on his shoulder. We had to go somewhere.
“I’ll even get to Zhitnaya! There, a telegram will be knocked out at the depot: the anti-machine people blew up the slice truck! thought Bubnov.
He climbed onto the canvas and moved along the black sleepers.
As they walked, Bubnov thought about the new slicer, which, like a rider's horse, was calmly waiting for him somewhere in a dark space.
“I won’t tear the ground on foot now! the driver argued. - It is more interesting to live on a lomtevoz. And you don’t need to think slowly, as during a walk. There, the mechanic thinks for you with iron thoughts.
Six miles later Zhitnaya appeared.
Bubnov was tired of the boring walk and of pressing bourgeois meat to his wounded shoulder, so he didn’t go to the station, but knocked on the gate of the very first courtyard: to drink water. The gates were not locked. Bubnov entered the yard. The dog, lying on the overheated straw, looked at him sleepily.
- Master! Bubnov called.
– Chivo need? a woman's voice called out from the hay barn.
- Drink some water!
– Chivo? Come in, I can't hear!
Bubnov entered the half-empty and half-dark shed and with difficulty made out an incredibly fat naked woman lying on hay and peeling seeds.
- Water, I say, drink! - said Bubnov, surprised by the white forms of an unusual human being.
- Speak louder, why are you squealing like a mosquito! the woman advised.
Bubnov stepped forward to shout, and fell into a deep, wedge-shaped cellar, dug not to store food. Waking up, the driver looked up. The fat woman looked at him intently.
“Live here,” she said.
- Are you a widow? Bubnov asked, not understanding.
“I am whole,” the woman replied, and spat out the husk.
- I have a prescription. People are waiting for me,” Bubnov stirred on the earthen clods.
- Show me! - the woman threw him a box on a rope. Bubnov took out a prescription and put it in a container. The woman pulled the box towards her and read the prescription for a long time, moving her thick lips.
- Nothing! She hid the prescription between her huge thighs. - Sleep! I'm going to stare at you often!
The oak lid slammed shut over Bubnov's head.
On the Witte scale, this text is 79% L-harmony.
It "s hard to believe, rips nimada taben?
Platonov-3 was incubated by the St. Petersburg Zhuanmenjia seven months ago after two dis-failures that greatly undermined the authority of the Faibisovich and So school. In the general environment, the attitude towards St. Petersburg residents is similar to the yuwang xingwei of your choudy Martin at Savva's wedding: every mediocre baichi is capable of hitting the paralyzed Ilya Muromets on the port. And Faibisovich managed to prove to all the ignoble vans that he did not cheat in geninzh and was able not to paint a rhinoceros with RK.
This was demonstrated by the live table of Platonov-3.
We expect from him no more than 2 kg of blue fat. Places of deposition - elbows and knees, groin, prostate (sic!), cheek pouches,
Rejoice, CYCLOPIC.
Boris.
January 16th.
Still, the military are pigs not only by definition.
Yesterday we got drunk with the colonel (the rest dragged
to hunt). And this pentan shagua useful to me. At first
started from afar, like a typical violet:
- Boris, you have no idea how tired I am of the smell of viviparous boots in the barracks. I forgot what clean men's skin smells like.
You know, I always get hairy from this kind of razbega. My ritual grins did not help, this hankun muden moved straight into LOB:
- Boris, did you test 3 plus Carolina?
- No. And I hardly try.
- Why?
- I prefer clean multisex.
Where does this quietism come from?
“From my psychosomo, Colonel.
- You are robbing yourself.
- Not at all. I just don't want to disharmonize my LV.
Pause.
Rips, for every step the mention of LV is a blow to the dark crown. They were silent. The colonel took a sip of "Katya Bobrinskaya" and rested against me for a long time ezhins eyes:
- Boris, I'm asking for a reason.
(As if I didn’t guess, rips taben tudin.)
It turns out that despite his ADAR, this anteater is trying out a stinky 3 plus Carolina after lights out. With sergeants. And still complains about the soldier smell. Gray liangmianpai. Like all his generation. But this is all - husho badao, my transparent-eared boy.
Chekhov-3: no surprises, but also without snot.
Subject is severely exhausted by the process and iseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee...
Read it.
Chekhov-3
Burial of Attis
dramatic study in one act
Viktor Nikolaevich Polozov, landowner.Arina Borisovna Znamenskaya, young actress.
Sergey Leonidovich Shtange, doctor.
Anton, an elderly lackey.
I
Part of the apple orchard in Polozov's estate. Anton is digging a hole between two old apple trees. It's evening.ANTON ( breathing heavily). Lord... Jesus Christ... have mercy on us sinners. It is necessary to think of such a thing - to bury in the garden. It's like there are no other places. What have we come to, forgive me, Lord. And I have a sin in my old age. Yes, and the master is ashamed ... oh, how ashamed, sir! It's a pity the old gentleman died, otherwise he would have said, as he used to, - throw out these card ballets from your head, Vityusha.
Enter Znamenskaya with a branch of lilac; she wears a mud-splattered cloak and a wide-brimmed Spanish hat.
ANTON. Lord, Arina Borisovna!
Znamenskaya. You recognized me, Anton. How nice! Hello.
ANTON ( bows). I wish you well! How can you not know! How can you not know! ( Fussing, throwing a shovel.) Excuse me, let me report this minute.
Znamenskaya. You don't have to report anything to anyone.
ANTON (in a hurry to go into the house). How! How!
Znamenskaya ( stops him). Wait. I say don't.
ANTON. Yes, the gentleman, after all, has been waiting for you for a long time.
Znamenskaya. Dear, good Anton. Nobody has been waiting for me here for a long time. ( being looked around.) Nothing has changed in two years. And the house is still the same. And garden. And even the weather vane above the mezzanine is still rusty.
ANTON. But who will climb there to paint something, lady, my dear! I'm already in years, but the gentlemen do not want to hire workers, sir, because there is no money. Already calculated the manager, and the maid. I was left alone. What’s up with the weather vane - there’s nothing to fix the porch with!
Znamenskaya. Where is the swing? They hung on that apple tree over there.
ANTON. The ropes sopreli, so I cut it off. And the gentleman didn’t even notice, sir, who should swing now? Natalia Nikolaevna and her children no longer come. ( It catches on.) Lady, my dear, you all deigned to splatter from behind! Let the raincoat!
Znamenskaya ( leaning on the trunk of an apple tree). Leave.
ANTON. Are you tea from the station?
Znamenskaya. Yes. I'll stay here for a while and then I'll go. And you don't tell him anything. Do you hear?
ANTON. Yes, how is it?
Znamenskaya. Tell me what, he's still... ( Thinking.)
ANTON. What would you like?
Znamenskaya. There is nothing. Goodbye. ( He throws a lilac branch, walks away, but collides with Polozov. He is in a tailcoat and white gloves, holding a dead greyhound dog in his arms.)
POLOZOV. Arina ... Arina Borisovna.
Znamenskaya ( turns away). Viktor Nikolaevich.
POLOZOV ( in a daze). I…
Znamenskaya, Sorry to disturb you.
POLOZOV ( speaks with difficulty). You... not at all. Excuse me. This is true…
Znamenskaya. I came to see your garden. Just. Has your dog died? Wait, is this the one? She is so small in her arms.
POLOZOV ( puts the dog on the ground). I am very glad to see you. It's so unexpected, but very good. Very good
Znamenskaya. What well?
POLOZOV Why are you here.
Znamenskaya. So strange... When I was walking from the station through a grove, I was overtaken by a drunken man on a horse. Naked to the waist, with some kind of mechanical thing in his hand, probably broken off from some machine. He knocked on the trunks of birches for her and shouted: “Wait, wait!” Crazy man. What stay? Quite a crazy man And very vicious.
ANTON ( shakes his head) This, you see, the Vostryakovskys are mischievous.
POLOZOV ( Anton). Go get us some tea.
ANTON. Right now, father.
(leaving.)
Znamenskaya ( leans towards the dog, strokes it). Yes. This is the same dog. Ancient Greek, as your sister used to say. And I forgot what his name was: Angina? Orestes? Alkyd?
POLOZOV. Attis.
Znamenskaya. Attis! Dear Attis. Yes Yes. I asked you back then - who is this - Attis? And you answered - Cybele's lover. But I did not know the history of Cybele. And I was embarrassed to admit it. Now, I'm not shy at all. We always took Attis with us on walks. He was so fast, handsome. And once he rushed to beat a ram. And you yelled at him like that. Viktor Nikolaevich, what's wrong with your face?
POLOZOV. Nothing. It seems - nothing.
Znamenskaya. Tell me, is it terrible that I'm here?
POLOZOV. This is very good.
Znamenskaya. I confess to you - I have not read any of your letters.
POLOZOV. I guessed.
Znamenskaya. I burned all eighteen letters in the fireplace. It's gross, I know. But something prevented me from reading them. Am I very bad?
POLOZOV. Arina Borisovna, let's go into the house. It's damp here.
Znamenskaya. No no. Let's stay, stay. I loved your garden so much. In May especially. Remember when the Panins arrived? And you and Ivan Ivanovich were shooting at bottles. In the evening we went boating. And Kadashevsky fell into the water. And the next morning, all the apple trees bloomed. All at once. And you said it was because I was here. And Panin said that this was for the war.
POLOZOV. Yes... I remember.
Znamenskaya. But the war did not happen. Only in Konoplev a man hacked his family to death.
POLOZOV. I also remember this takes her by the hand). Let's go to the house. You need to rest and recover.
Znamenskaya ( looking at a dead dog). Strange all the same.
POLOZOV. What?
Znamenskaya. Dead dogs are like living dogs. Dead people don't look like living people at all. When I buried my father, I knew that it was not he who was lying in the coffin, but a completely different person. Therefore, I still do not believe that my father died. He is alive. And in general, what lay in the coffin did not look like a person. Do you disagree?
POLOZOV. Yes Yes. You're right. Although…
Znamenskaya. What?
POLOZOV. Go away!
Znamenskaya ( looks at him uncomprehendingly). What?
POLOZOV ( screaming). Go away! Out! Now - get out!
Znamenskaya takes two steps back, staring into his face, then turns and runs away. Anton appears.
End of free trial.
Unless, of course, you are a vegetarian, the contents of our brochure will certainly interest you. After all, it is dedicated to very tasty, valuable and revered food products: lard and various smoked meats. They are indispensable participants in our daily and holiday table from time immemorial.
Fat is a product that has long been loved and even adored by many Slavic peoples. Although it is believed that it is the Ukrainians who value this food more than others: “Khokhol without fat, like a fly mre!” Maybe this is true, given that lard is a universal, multifunctional, ecological product, the healing and gustatory properties of which have been known since time immemorial to almost all peoples of the world. After all, on the table ordinary people there was not often meat. Therefore, the peasants attached much more importance in comparison with it to various animal fats, to which lard belongs. It is no coincidence that when they wanted to emphasize the prosperity of a person, they said about him that he eats “fat”. It was believed that the fatter the food, the better it is, and the best among the people were considered cabbage soup, which is so fat that you “can’t blow it through”.
Salo was used both for food and for medicinal purposes, and in the economy. Therefore, it was important to keep it as long as possible. To do this, interior fat was melted, poured into pots and stored in cellars. pieces lard(fat) was salted and packed in boxes, barrels, and sometimes stuffed into intestines and stored like that.
The culinary use of this valuable product has always been very wide. Soups, cereals, vegetable dishes were seasoned with lard, they were fried on it. In Ukraine and in the southern provinces of Russia, cabbage soup and borscht were seasoned with smoked bacon with garlic, and it was also added to other soups. Fried pieces of pork fat - cracklings - were often served with potatoes and cereals by Belarusians and Ukrainians. Salo was considered best product for the traveler.
The practice of using fat for medicinal and cosmetic purposes is rich. Even today, rural grandparents are often advised to apply a piece of "old" fat to an aching tooth as an anesthetic. And lo and behold, it helps! - tested on myself. You can grease your cheeks with melted unsalted bacon when going on a ski trip to protect them from frost ...
Of course, people who care about their health know that it is not worth it to abuse lard, as a product that is high in calories and contains saturated fatty acids that increase blood cholesterol. As you know, high cholesterol levels threaten the occurrence of atherosclerosis and aggravate the course of cardiovascular diseases. However, from time to time, it should still appear on your table. After all, as a source of animal fats - vital nutrients - it simply has no price. The lack of these substances can lead to disruption of the central nervous system, weakening of immunobiological mechanisms, the occurrence of degenerative changes in the skin, kidneys and organs of vision.
The benefits and taste of lard and other meat products are difficult to overestimate. This was already known in ancient times. But, as you know, these are very perishable products. Therefore, our ancestors had to take care to keep them for their table as long as possible. Nobody knows already. who and when invented methods for salting and smoking lard, meat or fish. The important thing is that they allowed not only to improve the taste of these products, but also extended their shelf life.
The preservative effect of salt is that its presence leads to dehydration of microorganisms present in the product. Unfortunately, their development only stops, but they continue to live. Therefore, meat products and fish prepared for salting must be fresh and “healthy”.
The optimum salting temperature should not be below 2 degrees Celsius, otherwise meat products and fish will be salted unevenly and slowly. Temperatures above 4 degrees Celsius are also not recommended, as they may deteriorate.
At home, lard is salted in dry salt or in brine (wet salting).
Salo has long been not only salted, but also smoked. The same, however, as meat (more often beef), which was also harvested for future use: smoked and, of course, salted. Prepared in this way summer period it was the main meal of most of the population (excluding, of course, the days of fasting).
Smoking is the treatment of salted and winded meat products with smoke, which is formed during the slow combustion of firewood and sawdust, special tree species (mainly ash, alder, aspen, oak, beech, cherry, pear, apple, apricot and juniper). In the process of such processing, smoke substances kill the microflora on the surface of the product. Possessing also antioxidant properties, they prevent the oxidation and rancidity of fat during storage of the product.
In order for smoking substances to "do their job" faster and better, it is recommended that the product prepared for smoking be pre-salted and, in some cases, boiled.
At home, cold and hot smoking is used. At the first stage, the products are heated slightly in the smoke, but longer: at 18–25 degrees, the process continuously lasts from 2 to 7 days, depending on the size of the product. With hot smoking, the smoke temperature is 35–50 degrees, and the procedure time is from 12 to 48 hours. It is believed that when hot smoked, products are well saturated with fat and therefore turn out to be more tasty. The advantage of cold smoking is that products prepared in this way can be stored for a longer time.
Smoking, of course, is a more labor-intensive process than salting. Among other things, it requires special equipment - a smokehouse. The easiest way is to smoke small products by hanging them in chimneys above the attic floor (pre-wrap them in gauze). To do this, you need to remove several bricks from a brick pipe, install a horizontal thick metal rod with hooks, on which to hang products prepared for smoking and tied crosswise with a rope made of natural materials. Having done this, return the bricks to their place.
A smokehouse can also be made from two metal barrels without a bottom, placed one on top of the other. Pull a filter between them - a wet sickle or burlap to clean the smoke from soot. Arrange a firebox in the lower barrel, where firewood and sawdust should be burned on a steel sheet. Moreover, when you smoke, they should smolder, slowly and continuously. In the upper barrel, install a metal rod with movable hooks for products (make sure that they do not touch each other during the smoking process). Cover the top with a large piece of burlap. Thus, it will be difficult to smoke small pieces of lard, brisket.
We hope that the recipes given in our brochure will help diversify your table, make it richer, healthier and more delicious. Bon appetit!
Salo and lard dishes
Salo Ukrainian
After the pork carcass is cut, a layer of fat with skin is removed from the spinal part or from the sides. For salting, it is better to take lard removed from the spinal part of the carcass, where there are practically no layers of meat.
Lard should be cut into rectangular or square pieces, weighing at least 0.5 kg. Cut large pieces of fat in the middle deeply so that they are better salted. Grate the pieces of bacon on all sides with salt and pour it into the cuts. Salt pre-dry either on a baking sheet in the oven or in a pan right on the stove. Fold the salted lard in rows in a barrel or in a box, sprinkling each layer with salt. After a few days, the fat should be shifted, moving the lower layers up, and additionally sprinkled with salt. Salo will be ready for eating in 20 days from the time of salting. It should be dense, white or have a pinkish tint, but without yellowing and rancid taste. Salt should be stored in a dark, cool, dry place.
— Look! exclaimed Pantagruel. “Here are a few pieces that haven’t thawed yet.
And he threw on the deck a whole handful of frozen words, like jelly beans, shimmering in different colors. There were red, green, azure and gold. In our hands they warmed up and melted like snow, and then we really heard them, but did not understand, since it was some kind of barbaric language ...
... I wanted to keep a few indecent words in oil or with straw, as snow and ice are preserved.
Francois Rabelais
"Gargantua and Pantagruel"
There are more idols in the world than real things; this is my "evil view" of the world, my "evil ear"...
Friedrich Nietzsche
"Twilight of idols, or how one philosophizes with a hammer"
January 2.
Hello mon petit.
My heavy boy, gentle bastard, divine and vile top direct. Remembering you is a hell of a job, rips laowai, it's hard in the truest sense of the word.
And dangerous: for dreams, for L-harmony, for protoplasm, for skandha, for my V 2.
Even in Sydney, when I got into traffic, I began to remember. Your ribs glowing through your skin, your monk birthmark, your tasteless tatoo-pro, your gray hair, your secret jingji, your dirty whisper; kiss me in the STARS.
But no.
This is not a memory. This is my temporary, cheesy brain-yueshi, plus your purulent minus positive.
It's the old blood that splashes in me. My muddy Hei Long Jiang, on the muddy bank of which you shit and piss.
Yes. Despite the innate Stolz 6, your FRIEND is having a hard time without you. Without elbows, gaowan, rings. Without the final cry and hare squeak:
in ah no!
Rips, I'll dry you out. Some day? OK. Top direct.
Writing letters is a terrible thing these days. But you are familiar with the terms. All means of communication are prohibited here, except for pigeon mail. Packages flicker in green W-paper. They are sealed with sealing wax. Good word, rips nimada?
AEROSANI - also not bad, I was chewed on them for six hours from Achinsk. That diesel roared like your clone fighter. We raced through very white snow.
"East-Siberia is big," as Fan Mo says.
And here everything is still the same as in the 5th or 20th century. Eastern Siberians speak old Russian with a touch of Chinese, but they prefer to remain silent or laugh. Lots of Yakuts. We left Achinsk at dawn. The snowmobile was driven by a silent "white badge", but the Yakut navigator in the uniform of a midshipman laughed all the way, like our magician Lao. A typical representative of his cheerful, L-harmonious people. The Yakuts here prefer soft teeth, dress in viviparous fabric made in China and actively try out multisex: 3 plus Karolina, STAROSEX and ESSENSEX.
Rips-rips, traveler!
In six hours from this kuaihuojen, I learned that:
1. The favorite dish of the Yakuts is venison in crow juice (juice is squeezed out of a medium-sized live crow, in which deer tenderloin is placed, a little sea salt, reindeer moss, and everything is stewed in a cauldron until plus-direct. Will we test in 7 months?).
2. The favorite sex position of the Yakuts is on four points of support.
3. Favorite sensor film - "Dream in the Red Chamber" (with Faye Ta, remember her purple robe and the smell when she enters with a snail on her arm and a pile of wet water lilies?).
4. Favorite joke (as old as permafrost): building a toilet in Yakutia. Two sticks - one frozen, to pick off the anus, the other - to fight off the wolves. Top direct humor. A?
Although, when I got out of the seat after six o'clock, I was not laughing.
PROSTATE. Purple outline in the eyes. Minus positive. Bad-kan ser-po. Creative mood.
Only you will understand me, you nasty liangmianpai.
The place of my seven-month stay is very strange.
