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- Sergey Rosedkin - |
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p r about z and |
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THE DRUNK Part 1 The chapter I P. 1 |
The drunk
The novel Everything, that is written further — Fruit of author's imagination. Any coincidence With the validity — Events, dates, names, surnames and so forth, — Mere chance. Part the first Chapter 1As I have regained consciousness1I speak at once: I am not afraid the God, line. While I am live — me will not intimidate, will not bend, will not break. Well, and after death … Here that and it: after death the person becomes helpless, defenceless — any can drag to sling mud at a corpse and to dance on its bones obscene toptatelnyj dance bugi-vugi. It is especially probable, if at the person — as it happens with me — uniform native soul nearby. All alone is about me. You will not tell more precisely. During lifetime to become absolutely free and absolutely fearless at all after all it is not difficult. Also it is not necessary to go mad, be pricked for this purpose by any rubbish or constantly to pump up itself a spirits poison. However, I resorted long years to such easy and primitive way of finding of freedom. No, the roof at me, thanks God, stood and costs on a place, the drugs always were too expensive for me, and is primary somehow, podspudno did not pull me to this overseas nasty thing. And here zmeichishko the green has bitten me krepenko, has poisoned-has softened reason with sweet poison-dope, has twisted rigidly with the tenacious brawny tail. Yes, freedom was. More correctly — sensation of freedom, illusion. There was zaglotish since morning a glass vodjary, will add by a dinner pair, yes in the evening three-four more and — itself lines to you not the brother and the God not a companion. However … When I have regained consciousness completely and absolutely, I had already no youth, a brush of the left hand, a family, that name reputation, and at least in the slightest degree equipped life. But I had: emaciated enough and in forty with small already a wrinkled face, a tired indifferent sight, an early grey hair, nervous system dressed in rags, a brain concussion, the weakened sight, a gastritis, kolit, a cystitis and a prostatitis, suspicion on a cirrhosis plus chronic vospaletsit souls, not speaking already about an osteochondrosis, a scoliosis, dandruff and a hungover shaking of hands. Once in the morning I have had a look at myself — such — as though from the party, and in a brain my inflamed the poisonous needle-thought was thrust: so to live it is impossible! Stanislav Govorukhin about all country and all over the country our perishing has cried out it, I about myself and only, but — thought was not less deafening. I have suddenly understood, that I — do not live. I even — do not exist. I simply — vegetate. I have turned to an amoeba, in a shoe monocelled, floating in a pohmelno-emetic broth of life. Terrible comprehension! I remember, when it mertsnulo in me, in my swelled up consciousness, just in dirty my window the powerful beam of the April sun has made the way. It, this beam, has punched neujut my started dusty room, has got me in a niche, in my sleeping corner, has forced to blink more strongly, to be wrinkled and regain consciousness from a heavy dark hungover dream. I suddenly have childly blurred in a smile, was pulled — to a crunch, before groan in joints, — have shaken a head as if shaking a dust from brains, and has unexpectedly told to itself: will suffice! So to live it is impossible! Yes, reaction also has begun with this powerful April solar beam in my tired organism ostanovitelnaja, awakening process has begun, sobering up has begun. The beam was there and then dissolved-has disappeared, but the instant already was. I have wiped vigorously a fist at first one, then other eye, nasharil on a floor, near to a mattress, points with the burst right fragment of glass, have fastened on a nose, have looked round. The kind of my dwelling has terrified me. I as if have seen for the first time all it. The room was almost absolutely empty. In a niche, it is direct on a floor, the inflatable rubber mattress on which I and slept-floated in the drunk laid I go, usually not undressing. On one wall, to the right of a window, the mirror in a dusty fringe and a web of cracks hung: a bottle has somehow started in it, having forgotten prislove, that on a mirror necha to expostulate, if a physiognomy it is drunk. On an opposite wall, in that place where once there was a wardrobe, were vsobacheny in bricks a little djubelej, on them two shirts, trousers spare, shtopanyj a jacket daily and quite still decent, from last forces saved by me a parabottom-day off a suit covered with the newspaper hung. I always remembered: if I will spend on drink also this suit I will make last short step from gomo the sapiens, gomo normalisa to gomo zhivotikusu, simply speaking, — to svintusu. In a corner at a window two piles of books, volumes fifty — everything towered on a newspaper, that remains from decent there is no time house library. On books four picture albums — fotoletopis my life laid, and on them stood bronze bjustik Sergey Yesenin who was still saved by any miracle, did not wish to be on sale. Near to books there was the most precious-invaluable thing in apartment — typewriter "unis" in a black leather case. I knew: even when I will die of hunger and thirst, this machine portable — a sign, a symbol, a talisman of my literary life — remains in inviolability. In other corner it is direct on a floor there was an old box of black-and-white "Record" which, despite the patriarchal age, still something showed and muttered. Yes all such dregs, mess also I get on, that on trezvjanke and to switch on it it would not be desirable. On a floor there were one more memoirs on former luxury — phone redressed by a dark blue insulating tape. On a wall hung same break radiodinamik. Well and, at last, doubtless and unique value two pictures on walls of a brush talented baranovskogo had artist Dmitry Shilova. One — my full-length portrait: I sit on a chair, a foot on a foot, the crippled hand is thrown for a back, is not visible, in right — the opened book, on short lines is clear, what is it verses. Other picture — a landscape: dark blue mountains, a strip blue Baikal and the transparent Siberian sky. Here and — all. In my room more anything, except a dust-dirt on corners yes two-three empty bottles, in that April solar morning I have not found out. In a hall at me hung, in built in, my hands the made case, filthy plashchishko and paltetso on fish to fur, nosimoe in the spring, in the winter and in the autumn, there were shoes yes the boots worn out to the uttermost impropriety. On kitchen the electric stove "Lysva" which served me both the furnace, and a dining table, on it — a teapot missed. There was from property a lame stool with the iron legs, the turned yellow bowl-sink, in it — pair of dirty plates, kastrjulka, a frying pan, spoons-plugs. All it was rinsed from time to time. Cut in number of two pieces I never especially also did not wash glasses: that from under vodka to wash-rinse — she disinfects. Unless from under port or from under cologne when you will rinse a vessel with utreshka that not so is repugnant hungover portion to swallow was. For completeness of a picture on walls the escaped screws stuck out and holes — traces of the disappeared cases, shelves and any kitchen sets to which the wife my dead woman, Elena Grigorevna, prebolshushchaja was the lover blackened. Most cosy in the house if it is possible so to be expressed, the bathroom-sovmeshchyonka was looked. In the — still in family — time I have capitally finished it: has revetted with a pink tile, has closed pipes, spaces under a bowl and a bathroom. Besides, shirpotrebovskuju a tin bath we were in time with the wife before accident to replace on more thorough, pig-iron so and up to that moment it looks decently. Though, of course, and in a bathroom-rest room desolation looks through from all corners: whitewashing from a ceiling was showered by places, cranes plaintively cry, the drain tank Indian neperestavaemo hums, the curtain oil-cloth holes sparkles … By then, when I have regained consciousness in bright spring morning, I lived and so, on-svinjachi, already there is more than the year, almost ones and a half. For this time I and rasfufyril all cosiness of the apartment, a cosiness which was created-moulded by us with the wife on particles more than ten infinite years. And after all I had all: there was a wife, there was a daughter, there was even a cat, there was a job and the house has been filled by all veshchyom and shmutyom, necessary for a normal life. I have regained consciousness, was frightened at all in casual day, no, was on April, 13th — my birthday. To me has knocked forty two. To a hedgehog clearly is a right moment and an occasion to clean a head and to think: about itself, the life to try to glance, foresee the end forward. Yes-a-a, if you were born 13th, moreover and a surname ancestors have awarded you not with the most cheerful — Neustroyev, — that, certainly, from a life it is necessary to expect the good a little. And still, to forty with small years to come to be in such deep, in such dark and smelly hole is it was necessary very and to try very much. It is good to try! 2I prosnulsja-has regained consciousness, by itself, in a preceding infarction condition. Recently the hang-over began to turn to original torture: in bashke — civil war and horse footfall, on a body as if the catarpillar has driven, yes then also lemehami the steel has ploughed up. And — as always — kultja it is burnt-plavit, as if the absent brush is shipped in raging boiled water. In such mornings (and such mornings each Divine day!) The first thought always: yes it is better to hang! And here focus all in that bystrenko to regain consciousness up to the end and during the moment, is quicker nasharit in the swelled up brains what-any encouraging myslishku — recovering. This time, after global reflexions that so to live it is impossible, such toning up thoughts it was found even two. First, I neither a word, nor a hint have not blurted out to these jackals — Miheichu, to Hair, even Valerys — about the appeared suddenly birthday. I am more than that, to it naveshal sticky vermicelli on ears as if I leave day on two, on three to Moscow: ostensibly possibility at me is pasted to get over there, to friends to a student's youth. They also were delighted to noodles: I it fine would facilitate a problem, hands would be untied also by superfluous cargo on conscience black would not began to pile up, if was winded from Baranova back home and with the end. Have believed, hanuriki so on the birthday I was not afraid of their visit. Secondly, Miheich to me from pleasure otvalil on voyage in capital the whole pile of iridescent pieces of paper. And as he was surprised, that I this time not otbrykivalsja from such burdensome sum — took at once and even plainly have not thanked. Was surprised, but a kind — Talejran! — has not submitted. The beard karlo-marksovskuju has stroked, has grinned, as always, meanly, hohotnul: — Use, the guy, my kindness — without prtsentov I give. Then — we will be counted. He, Gobsek smelly, and speaks with an accent on the first "about" — prtsentov. And still he speaks "pozvnish", to "dress" instead of to "put on" and confuses a word "effective" to "effective". «I, — speak, — I like effektnost in monetary affairs!» Having rummaged around under hard rubber of a mattress, I have checked up: here, darling, all tyshchi to the uniform. Was, there was, of course, a danger, that Miheich and it podelniki have tracked and have found out: anywhere I have not left yesterday, all and completely tutochki, on the still a lawful living space. But, on the other hand: and what with it a reason too to trouble itself? Such, as I, objects of attention, at them, podi, not one ten in a city. They are already assured, they are already quiet: all I completely their, is confused-is connected monetary putami on both feet and one and a half hands. Nikudashenki to me now from them not to escape, not to get to. They, most likely, also have solved: yes let though has not gone to Moscow — more strongly upyotsja, an extreme point will reach, lukewarm last signature and will put. Really, is not present it already to a reason to fuss and watch me, and I have warned Charles Marx, Miheicha it gadjuchego, that I hate filyorov and in general — allow to me to have a rest, even privzvizgnul I, from your criminal physiognomies. A beard has grinned mockingly: a pier, pokurazhsja at last, the drunk. Hair-worm has started giggling poganenko: a pier, here kobenitsja, a bough, here the actor haljavnyj, in nature. And Valery even a kind has made, as if has taken offence for «criminal physiognomies». However, maybe, and not only a kind has made: it, Valery, something began on me recently seriously to glance, with any even pity. They watch me or do not watch, but care never will prevent — I have reasonably and quite soberly solved in that April Christmas morning, on street to me to be put out not the trace. I, involuntarily ohaja, have pulled down the exhausted body from a soft pliable mattress, have limped to redressed phone (how much time shmjakal the poor fellow about a wall), has wound call signs Miti SHilova. I have got excited, when have declared, as if one-odinyoshenek has come to be in this cold city. No, there was with me last and razedinstvennyj the friend-fellow countryman in a place of Christmas and ingenious artist Mitja Shilov. — Mitja, — I have told with aspiration in a tube, — you is not present nearby? — No, — has told Mitja, — thanks God, no! — Then, Mitja, rescue me! — I have exclaimed, any more not muffling a voice. — today — my birth. Tughriks are, in bulk, but I cannot put out a nose from the house. Mitja it was cut at once — that here long to explain. While it reached, I have rinsed liquid ice from under the crane swelled up person, have cleaned on conscience a teeth, proskryob cheeks and a chin tupovatym already an edge, have straightened White Guard moustaches, have softened a skin with a nutritious cream from stocks of the wife. It is sacred: all this morning toilet ceremonial. It at me in blood: in svintusa has turned-has fallen, perhaps, but in trifles me you will not bend. Even, probably, in a coffin already I will carefully shave and I will revet more shortly nails on unique my hand. I undermine nails on oselke — conveniently, and accurately it turns out. And so, Mitja has arrived, having torn off itself for the sake of the friend-fellow countryman and opohmelki from a canvas in the size two on five metres under the name neither it is more nor less, as — « destruction of Russia». I have separated to it half-packs of cheap bank notes of the perishing Russia, have allowed the order of a forgery not to regret and have warned: — Try, Mit, to slip to me more imperceptibly — is children, to invite which to a table I today very much I do not want. — Has understood, — has shortly answered Mitja. It, as well as all ingenious people, in a sober kind the persistent taciturn person. To that, Mitja me knows: that is necessary and when I am necessary I will tell itself. Absence of importunate curiosity — here the main advantage of true friends. — The bag is? — I have still asked. — The package is, — has slapped Mitja itself on a back pocket of the shabby velveteen jeans. Mitja SHilov, my friend and a companion, unlike the well-known Moscow namesake and a colleague on a brush, — not the richest Russian artist. Far not most. While he ran through road on the market, I have rinsed for the sake of a holiday more carefully glasses, spoons and plates, keeping myself very much not to take a sip some unboiled water from under the crane: I will suffer, but is more sweet then the first portion will spill in a throat opohmelnaja. Mitja it was drew in half an hour on a threshold with a sack from own plashchevoj jackets in an armful. It appears, the package shirpotrebovsky has not sustained powerful tasty cargo, has burst on a seam. And that! In an armful was: two bottles (on 0,75) German vodka "Smirnoff", the plastic tank two-litre Polish shipuchki "Hershi", a bludgeon shtatovskogo a cervelat, a scarlet-juicy fat side Korean gorbushi, triangular kus a perforated Dutch cheese, bank litre the Portuguese pimply cucumbers with garlic, packing of Negro rice «Ankl Bens» and a sheaf zheltopuzyh the Israeli bananas which, speak, shopkeepers resourceful have got skilled at to store in a city mortuary, having rented it in skladchinu. The only thing, that, figuratively speaking, dripped balm on ours with Mitej patriotic souls and stomachs in a celebratory set — a loaf-loaf domestic baranovskogo breads, and that, maybe, baked of the Canadian wheat. Rice advertised we with the friend-messmate have settled to leave on then, and first only with cold snack have settled down in a room, having spread old number «New baranovskoj newspapers» before mine matrasnym a bed. I, of course, and itself could cover-lay the table, pour reviver on cut wine glasses though even the artificial limb has not fastened — it and hung on a carnation, over bed, but friend Mitja has not allowed me to trouble in this gala day itself with master's cares. He quickly also has artly created on the newspaper a still-life, by means of the knife similar on criminal finach, has decapitated false "Smirnoffa", nabulkal on half of glass, has lifted the. — As though I, Vadim, wished to lift for your health present "Smirnovsky" or "Capital", but all market has run — one this rubbish zabugornaja … Fie! Give ive we will drink for, that to following your birthday Russia-mother vozvernulas to Russia! — So we for me drink or for Russia? — podkolupnul I. — For you and for Russia, — it is serious, without a grin has answered Mitja: it hated jokes on this theme. — on such as you, Vadja, Russia also keeps. — On drunks such? — I nevertheless was not kept and, interrupting unnecessary objection, have nodded. — give, and that zaboltalis. Has gone well, though also false. I pohrustel pirenejskim a cucumber, Mitja on a primordial habit zanjuhal in the beginning a bread top crust, then have taken a sip shipuchki, poperhnulsja. — Faugh, lines! In it "Hershi" the first syllable akkurat in a point — herovyj a drink. SHCHas kvasku! That is flat. 3I knew, that in hour or so-one and a half it is necessary to say goodbye with Mitej: I should remain to one — to think. Besides, I yet did not know, have not solved — whether to devote it in my ripened, as abscesses, problems. Who knows, goodness knows: for the life one I otvetstven, and whether have the right to risk a life the stranger — let even the closest friend razedinstvennogo?. While it is necessary to be in time in an hour-one and a half nagovoritsja-naobshchatsja with Mitej. Especially, we did not see, esteem, month ones and a half — it blagovernaja Marfa Anpilovna suffer me cannot and in every possible way with our dialogue interferes. — Well, how at you business with « destruction of Russia» moves? — I have begun with the core, right after the second portion of fuel. — Has got stuck, — gloomy admitted Mitja. — Glazunov to repeat it would not be desirable, and it is impossible. And how to squeeze a theme such global in frameworks two on five? — And you could draw a picture — «the Birth of Russia»? — A birth?. — Mitja has thoughtfully pulled about the shchegolskuju, as at Repin, a small beard. — even to a head did not come … — Do not suffer, — I have pleased, — is already such. One of these days in one office has seen — a calendar such, a reproduction. You heard about artist A.Nabatova? — Like is not present. — I too — for the first time. You represent, it in the form of the young perfect and absolutely bared girl has represented Russia. She is born-leaves from any sphere — whether globe, whether egg, and can, both that, and another together. This sphere breaks up on two polovinki, into two faces: at the left — vestgot any, the knight-crusader, on the right — a narrow-eyed Asian face, mongolo-tatar. They, these persons — both the European, and the Asian — are dead, sine-are black, lifeless. And Russia — the very picture of health, all is full of a life, eyes blue are shone. However, angels-angels with wings already thorny on a head to it are going to try on a wreath, a background to a picture — burning churches, a bloody glow of big fires … Mitja listened to my clumsy description, wrinkled a forehead, trying, it is visible to present vjave a picture unknown to it, and, possibly, still to very few people known, A.Nabatova. Has sighed mistrustfully. — Also what, Russia at it — absolutely naked? Moreover, podi, and rasshcheperilas? It is fashionable shchas. — Tipun to you! Anything grease is not present — all with taste, rather. It, Russia, in a half-turn to the spectator costs. Only eyes-glazishchi — are not covered and perfect. — Well, well, safely. It is necessary to look, — ascertained Mitja. — Where, you speak, saw? — In ZHEU ours, in the third. There at them till now Lenin's portrait under glass hangs, in a tie and a jacket, and nearby here they bared have hung up Russia … — That's it — have hung up, — has muttered Mitja. — give ive, the birthday man, repetatur is better yes the verses esteem. The new portion at last has completely counterbalanced an organism. It wanted to eat. We with Mitej podnalegli on sausage from bisons and stolen at us and to us Koreans the sold red fish. When hardly have chewed, I and have given Meath the second gift in my Christmas day. — I, — have told I Meath, - I will not read the verses to you, and I esteem better the present verses. Listen: I have got number «Baranovsky life» from under a mattress. — I hope, you have not started to read local newspapers? — I that — grebanulsja? — Even Dmitry Shilov was offended. — One dermokratam wipes up a bum, another — kommunjakam. A plague on both their houses! — Well, here you get excited, — I have minded, — there are and in our newspapers gleams. Here, look, what poet at last have opened: Peal vseja Russia Heavens to the earth connects. My God, pardon and rescue! My people of the trouble do not know. With domes it is broken smothering, In mourning great power … Russia not from a knife perishes, — From ideas that lap krovavo … — Who it, who? How call? — It was excited Mitja. — Vladimir Turapin. Look, here its portrait. He from Moscow, but lived once, in the childhood, at us, in our area. So — the fellow countryman. Friend Mitja has seized the newspaper, has peered at the person of the poet, has run a sight in the lines vrezki. Then — has swallowed all selection of poetic lines. I knew, what impression will make this acquaintance. I smiled and fed up exhausted in pjankah a body. It from "Smirnoffsky" was already weightless, without serious consequences. In a head it is cheerful pobulkival a narcosis. The most important thing to the friend-visitor I have not told yet. — By the way, Mitja, and I after all am personally familiar with Turapinym — Yes you that! — Yes-yes! In hostel Litinstituta met. However, it in matinu drunk always was, so I then did not hear its verses. Look you, has let out nevertheless the book: from the collection verses are reprinted — as it there is called? — «Take care for Russia» … Uh you! Here listen: And even that who hates Russia, Banners of Russian people … are necessary Mitja even has jumped. — Die, Denis!. Thanks God, at last has appeared at us and after If Rubtsova the present poet! And there and then Mitja has thought suddenly: — Stop! I say lies! You, Vadja, too — the poet! I speak for a long time it to you … — Yes will suffice you, — I have waved kultej, — do not bend fibers — to Turapina to me never to jump. — Well, — after painful (for me) meditations has agreed Mitja. — Likely, it so. But also you fine write. In Baranove is stronger than you the poet is not present … — Well, will suffice! — already without a smile I have torn off. — that you me — for the boy hold? I as esteemed these verses, then have solved: all over! I will not translate a paper any more — will suffice! Has sat down Mitja again on a floor, has rushed was me to overpersuade, but I have interrupted: — All! Give on one yes we will finish, probably. The holiday a holiday, but also affairs is. Do not take offence, Mit! — I do not take offence, — is drunk have taken offence Mitja. — No, the truth, do not take offence, — I have slapped it on a shoulder a hand. — I one businessman difficult and dangerous consider, to me is fast your help it is required. podmognyosh? — What conversation! — has gallantly started Mitja. — That the Siberian has not helped the Siberian! He what for to see for solemnity, has again risen and, rocking, has toasted: — For Siberia which the power of Russia will grow — hurrah! And it has valiantly slapped almost full glass zabugornoj vodka. I suddenly too have risen and have drunk standing. We with Mitej — factory. He was born in Nerchinsk Factory, I — in Aleksandrovsk Factory: there are such districts beyond Baikal, in the field of Chita. We with Mitej should converge, not become friends, having met at will of destinies in chernozemnom the city of Baranove for tyshchi versts from Transbaikalia. Mitja suddenly osovel completely and with drunk persistence has taken in head to try to find out: what at me for problems, what for the help to me is required? He even has begun to cry, has begun to creak teeth: — One we, Vadja! One!. Russia perishes!. And even that who n-n-nenavi-i-idit Russia!. In as it is told! We will make the way, Vadja!. On idea it was necessary to stack Mitju to sleep, but … That's it — but: Marfu I was afraid of it poshibche, than Miheicha with its jackals. She, of course, already and home kept ringing, and in a workshop, searching in vain the person under surveillance of the hubby. Just about and to me will take in head to call and then it is terrible to imagine the further. marfa — not transbaikalian, Marfa most that on is — baranovskaja, the woman without any concepts about disinterested zemljacheskoj to friendship. And still it will suddenly be declared personally? And fists at it — with ingenious to Mitin a head everyone. — Mitja, — I have raised it and have stirred up one hand, — Mitja, about affairs then pogutarim, on trezvjanke. And now give ive on the autopilot home: just about a dinner, and yours Marfa Anpilovna already halfway to the house. — I spat on yours Marfu! — razduharilsja Mitja, sticking out sibirjachju a breast. — Yes mine it, marfa, — I have shaken it even more rigidly. — oh, Mitja, do not risk. Here to you the five-thousandth ticket — hide more deeply, in the evening pivka you will have a drink. And I to you will tinkle one of these days — you to me very much and will be very necessary. Well, give. I, having pretended as if I do not understand hints Miti about pososhok and other, pushing, have finished it to a door, have exposed-spent for a threshold. On everyone the fireman has looked out in a corridor — anybody and all five doors neighbour's are locked. — Mitja, do not take in head to sup now beer — you will suffer in the evening, — I addressed in Dmitry's who has vigorously walked to the lift back. — All by! Russia vsprjanet from a dream! — has waved away Mitja and has not fallen nearly. Anything, I have calmed myself, slamming and locking on all locks, latches and chains a door, — not vpervoj. I have returned to a room, have taken seat on the bed, have begun capitally and definitively all to think over. In one otravnoj to a bottle remains even more half. A grub — on a five. I poured in in myself from time to time on a drink and had a snack. When the large bottle has definitively become empty and behind a window the blue of April night was condensed, I was wearily pulled, have walked in a bathroom, have looked at myself in a mirror and have soberly thought: yes, so to live it is impossible! I slightly have not jumped over a side, for which — a gloom and a darkness. Today, in the forty second birthday, I also have regained consciousness: I not the poet, I have lost all, I do not live, me just about and at all will kill … Fear special was not. Was, the terrible inescapable insult boiled in me: profufukal a life! And more — fury, furiousness: really and my end will be same nasty? Yet really these jackals smelly with rotten souls and a teeth, peregryzut to me on eyes at all a throat, assured, that so it also should be! Well, is not present, swine! So I am simple under your yellow canines the throat I will not substitute! Yes where it vidano, that Vadim Neustroyev, the radical Siberian-zabajkaltsa, zagryzli any nasty chernozyomnye jackals! Figs to you! I have rushed prone on elastic as the young maid, the mattress and has fallen asleep. I should sleep very well. Very much! |
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© Rosedkin Sergey Nikolaevich, 2001 |
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E-mail: emp-reports@fustercluck.com |
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