Why Rising A Chainsaw Starts To Stall
“A beast can never be so cruel as a person, so artistically, so artistically cruel.”
F. M. Dostoevsky “The Brothers Karamazov”
“It’s not about the road we choose; what is inside us makes us choose the road. “
O. Henry “The Roads We Choose”
Most of the characters in the novel are fictitious, and those whose prototypes exist in reality have never done anything attributed to them by the author.
The WHOLE WORLD. Theater
Fun, gentlemen, fun!
Of course, no one had the clock, but the person did not adapt to such inconveniences, moreover, at a good pace, and within a week they had already begun to think something. When the sun (according to the definition of Siniy, “the baldoch”) was exactly above the top of a hill rising above the lake, above a pile of tall cedars, a sort of knightly plume decorating the bald crown, this was the time for a legal dinner, since the ordnung is an ordnung, this is well known.
Of course, they already glanced ahead of the lake, at the cedars and the sun. But quite a long time passed before the red-haired Hans appeared on the edge of a huge, but shallow pit. He spread his legs wide in polished boots, clinging to the Schmeiser hanging on his chest, gazed at diggers digging in the pit for a long time. He spent time, the red-haired bitch, used his tiny little piece of power to the full extent. Pretending not to notice how they glance at him furtively. His camp nickname was Chubais. For redhead and mischief. Hans was deeply offended at her, but what can you do about it?
The SS man stood still for a while, diligently depicting that in a fit of thirst for high aesthetics he admired the landscape, then he yelled at the top of his mouth:
And prudently stepped away from the place where they usually came out of the pit along a gentle slope, he sensitively springed. Willy appeared with a shepherd on a leash. This Rudolph frankly uploaded, no worse than the katsetniks, and Hans and Willy treated the service with all the zeal, there was nothing to catch them and try.
“Stripes” perkyly reached the slope, parted by the brave cries of Hans:
The shepherd also contributed, barking and twitching on a strong wicker leash. Her muzzle was thorough, but did not interfere with barking.
While the “minke whales” were trimmed in order to achieve the ideal line according to the rules, Fritz played with a hefty hunting knife with a folding handle made of birch and neighing cheerfully:
There was no weapon with him. Blacks were taught bitter experience, someone once took possession of the gun of a distributor, although that was insured by the guards. Well, it makes no sense to select a knife, what will you do with it in this situation?
Fritz dexterously plodded loaves into quarters, and cut the sausage by eye, keeping only a minimum of justice. However, he and the quarters turned out hopelessly far from symmetry. Someone, as always, grumbled gloomily, knowing that this would not change anything, and Fritz, again, as always, cursed just as routinely:
Blue through his teeth and in rhyme briefly explained where this particular notorious solidarity is in this case, but did not argue anymore. It’s still useless. He walked away with a loose gait, sat under a cedar and squeamishly began to peel the skin from his stump. This was the whole dinner. A quarter of a loaf and a piece of slippery, cyanotic-pale liverwurst. Not just lunch, but also the daily lottery. Thanks to Fritsev gouging. Involuntarily, this turned into an event with which the life here was damn poor: a bigger piece is a serious reason to be glad, a smaller piece is, accordingly, a reason for sadness. Classic camp experience set. According to the apologists of the genre.
When all three brigades received a poor income, Fritz shook the empty package:
Nobody paid any attention to him. And this boorish joke has long fed up, Fritz was a limited subject, not capable of flying creative imagination.
No matter how wretched the dinner may be, they scrambled it quickly. This is not the case to pick and choose. But the afternoon rest was completely different. It was supposed to be for an hour, and they fell apart freely on the sun-warmed earth, pulled out the “Prima”, which they also had time to get used to. Of course, the local aesthetics and snob Volodya Vasilyuk, as usual, did not consume May Prima in its original form, but carefully used tobacco from two cigarettes in its pipe.
Vasilyuk snorted, jerked his cheek with a hefty and crimson birthmark that was not inferior to what adorned the bald head of the last general secretary. On the part of Siniy, this was a pure mockery, because Stalin didn’t like Stalin, being a pathological democrat, and therefore he became very angry, although he tried not to show it. To further aggravate his rudeness, Blue, before stretching himself in a relaxed pose, as if by chance unzipped a striped pea jacket to the bottom. On his chest he flaunted a church with a considerable number of domes. But below the left nipple the profile of Joseph Vissarionovich, executed with great resemblance, was just chenille. “Our blatant will channel under the legendary,” thought Vadim lazily. “He couldn’t sit under Stalin, he couldn’t even be a kid, he’s not the same year, he doesn’t fit.”
Peaceful silence reigned in a huge clearing. All three brigades of “minke whales”, diligently diluted away from each other, blissfully puffed on cheap cigarettes; every now and then fluttering ears. Here and there, sunny sparkles glistened here and there, the taiga turned green, the sky turned blue, a shallow but wide pit that absolutely no one needed, neither those who dug it, nor those who ordered to dig, generally no one on our sin the earth.
“There is a new idea,” said the Headmaster, swallowing saliva in advance noisily. A cool egg is taken, cut in half, the yolk is carefully removed.
“Heard already,” Blue dismissed. With cheese, or what?
“No, I’m saying, the idea is new.” The ham crumbles finely, finely so that the pieces are no bigger than a match head, the fried mushrooms are chopped just as finely, all this is mixed with dill, onion, a little salted.
“Peppers,” Blue said gravely.
“You watch how fantasy works.” And I thought, our bureaucrats can only take bribes.
“God, I’m abstract,” Blue grinned. “Suspiciously, you know.”
“I’ll not be patient,” said Brother, after thinking. “How long will it take if you crumble no larger than a match head.”
“And be patient,” Emil advised. But then you catch the buzz.
And the conversation confidently moved along this rut - they remembered who was eating what goodies and under what circumstances, at what geographical latitudes all this happened, and they also shared their culinary recipes, instantly inventing new ones that differed in two indispensable conditions: an abundance of dishes and their inaccessibility to “scoops”. One Vasilyuk was silent, although he could have wedged himself with knowledge of the matter: even if he was listed as a “music critic of leading democratic newspapers” on his luxurious business cards, he received the main income from the culinary arts — he colorfully painted the merits of those Shantar restaurants and cafes where he was fed for free and even they popped the bundles with themselves (institutions that did not pay this tribute, of course, appeared on the newspaper pages as low-grade gluttons, for which Vasilyuk had already been beaten by restaurateurs a couple of times). Since the city had an unspeakable number of restaurants craving for advertising, Volodya’s well-fed life was provided for a couple of years in advance, it was possible to be distracted by “reviews of Shantarsk’s musical life” (as experts said, Vova’s involvement in music was limited to the fact that he visited once twenty years ago entertainer at a concert of a visiting saxophonist).
Alas, Vasilyuk did not take part in the culinary discussion for the simplest reason: from the first day he appeared in the concentration camp, he carefully raised his nose and avoided the barrack neighbors, believing himself to be something of a white sagib among the natives. The brother, a simple-minded man and, in general, ingenuous, even offered to make a good “dark” one, but he was persuaded not to get involved.
Why Rising A Chainsaw Starts To Stall
And now the scandalous reporter was reclining on a thick carpet of yellowed fallen needles, like Stenka Razin on a historical canoe in the middle of a no less historical picture, letting out a smelly May haze as if it was a Dutch “Capsten” made of multi-colored tin cans. For the sake of completeness, the only thing missing was the Persian princess, but the rules of nature came into play. Vasilyuk played the role of the Persian princess in his intimate life. Which again was clearly reflected in his work: according to Vova, the music star number one of all Siberia was represented in his reviews by a certain Shantar bard, who had been playing the role of a removed Cossack under the “Persian Princess” in recent years. And vice versa, when the quietest pianist Misha Faisenberg once could not stand it and gave a good kick to Vasilyuk, who was trying to surrender to him, instantly turned under a greyhound feather-like feather into an agent of the freemasons trying to Zionize Shantar jazz.
Then, the Headmaster told how, having been with a delegation of the Shantar City Hall in Africa, for the sake of studying the best urban planning practices there, he ate fried locusts. At other times, this epic saga might have caused gagging, but after a scanty camp haunch and fried locusts caused a Pavlovian reflex. Bratok picked up the baton, telling how once in Thailand he had wrapped a couple of bowls of swallow’s noodles. He was just so chubby by that time that he did not really remember either the taste or the look.
“And all the same, they cook the best in Kakheti,” the elderly Caucasian man Elizbar Shalvovich made his usual conclusion. I swear by the glorious name of Mdivanbegi.
And he squinted nostalgically, flashing with many golden teeth, smacking something that was visible only to him.
Allah knows him what he did in the wild. Not everyone here loved to be frank with his neighbors in the barracks, sometimes telling himself only the necessary minimum. However, Vadim had long and seriously suspected that Bratok, already on the second day dubbed the gray-haired Associate Professor, involuntarily hit his eye and not his eyebrow. Sometimes Docent’s remarks betrayed him as a clear intellectual. Though by no means a beggar, otherwise he would not have ended up in a concentration camp. What-what, but the poor didn’t smell.
“Exactly so, dear,” said a Caucasian man, Elizbar. If absolutely precisely. Mdivanbeg-uhutsesi. Something like a vizier under the old Georgian kings. He smiled sadly. “But this does not mean at all that my great-great-grandfather was a vizier.” likely serfs at the vizier. The vizier would probably have a surname. And it turns out like with your peasants. If he has the surname of Generals, his great-grandfather must have been not a general, but a serf of the general.
“Wah, daraga, kanecno,” said the newly-minted Vizier. “What conversation, listen, yes?” If the front is uncomfortable for people, come on, I’ll at least get out, at least two outfits. Nobless lick, mon angel.
“Again I went to scratch in Georgian.” Bratok snorted. You do not swear at me, an hour? And then I know you.
“Not a mother,” assured the Associate Professor.
“You should have seen the zone, the kitten.” Blue grimaced with obvious displeasure. “Although decent, though not very.” Do you think this is a zone? Do you think this is a guard? This is a laugh from the Murzilka magazine.
He stretched out, smiling serene, but there was still a frightening ice in his eyes, covering some terrible depths. Vadim became unpleasant for a moment, he turned away.
“It would not hurt, of course, to introduce a few concepts here,” Blue continued lazily. “To put everyone on the shelves, to identify the cockerel.” he glanced at Vasilyuk. And then somehow unusual, honestly I’ll tell you, gentlemen are good.
“Well, you sat back a hundred years,” Brother shook his powerful shoulders.
“And this, kitten, has been impressed for a lifetime, be you an honest businessman for at least a hundred years.” It’s not for me to watch how this Masha, between the decent on the bunks, rests, without giving up the hollow for public use. Well, and everything else.
“Run away,” Brother advised.
And all of them, with the exception of the “Persian princess,” began to eagerly stare in the direction from which the sweet and captivating vision was approaching, quite material, however.
This is Freilaine Margarita, a camp doctor with the rank of SS Hauptsturmfuhrer, deigned to take a lunch walk. As the inhabitants of the second barracks (and maybe the rest of the barracks too) had suspected for a long time, solely for sadistic purposes, in order to cause additional moral injuries. The red horse. Not an Akhal-Teke argamak, but also not a village nag. Almost silently walked on a thick carpet of yellowed needles, effortlessly carrying on his back a charming creature in a black SS uniform, stretching the figure like a sausage peel, golden hair flowed from under a high cap, scattered on the back, flew up to the beat of the horse’s steps. There was such silence that it seemed that one could hear the blood filling the cavernous bodies. Some hastened to roll over to the belly, to give extra reason for footwork.
“Whoever says,“ Oh, I’d let her go, ”will be very unoriginal, gentlemen,” concluded the Headmaster.
“I don’t give a damn,” said Brother. “Oh, I’d let her go.”
When the corresponding gossip subsided, the newly-minted Vizier sadly said:
“I had to go to the toilet,” Brother said with knowledge. I somehow stuck a flight attendant in the toilet on the St. Petersburg airplane. A bit crowded, of course, but there is a buzz here. Ten thousand meters, overboard the wind whistles, they burst at the door, and I. Oops! Oops! Such a manamba!
“Interestingly, will Margo get out today?”
“And why do you think she goes here every day?”
The gentlemen in the striped, as they say, turned into eyesight, good until wide
“They say that women are riding on an orgasm from riding,” the brother suddenly said.
“A scientific fact,” Blue said. Only it seems to me, eagles, that this doll also sometimes hangs from the swire. Her pupils are sometimes specific.
The horse stopped sideways to them above the water itself, the beautiful horsewoman slowly reached out, throwing her hands on the back of her head, with the appearance that she did not suspect the existence of a dozen spectators.
“Lady Godiva,” the Associate Professor said with a slight tremor. Like in the picture.
“Are you talking about Collier’s picture?”. Vizier said suddenly, also not in the most indifferent voice.
“Coventry,” said the Vizier. Where is the story, according to legend, happened. There she hangs, in Herbert Art Gallery. Beauty, right?
“I explain it in a popular way,” the Vizier grinned. He lived in England eight hundred years ago, one duke, and introduced taxes in his city for complete lawlessness, even a wolf howl. Well, his young wife made a show to him: they say, do not drive outrage, there’s nothing to cut from people. And he drove the oncoming show to her: if you are so kind, drive through the whole city on horseback in a naked form, then I will withdraw the tax code.
“I would have looked at the crack,” said Brother.
“One peeped,” the Vizier grinned. And he went blind right there.
“And you are a difficult person with us.” the Associate Professor said thoughtfully.
“Wah, daragha, there are times.” the Vizier grinned. A simple man, and even in stagnant times, had nothing to do in business, especially when it came to production. And the picture is beautiful, right? Old houses, a horse in a tremendous blanket, this haze, and already a girl.
“Why didn’t you buy her?”. Seriously asked Brother.
“The damn British don’t sell.” Asia.
“This bitch may not have heard of Godiva,” Emil interjected. “But he knows how to compost brains for peasants.”
“A wacky affair,” the Associate Professor reasonably concluded. In our position, gentlemen, no special efforts are required. Just demonstrate a sort of ass.
Margarita was still sticking out on the shore, and this sight was very reminiscent of the Levitan landscape, to which a figure carved from Playboy was vulgarly glued. Then she directed the horse into the water, and he willingly went.
“But do you have a plan, guys?”. Suggested Emil. How to catch and fuck her? Anyway, free time. At least scoop up a scoop.
“And this is an idea,” Bratok perked up. This must be coughed up. Only such a cartoon should be arranged by the whole brigade, and certainly behind the camp. How could it be otherwise? If, say, half cuts down these goats, ”he nodded at the two SS men,“ and the other takes Margot by the ass. ”
“The other brigades are close,” Blue said gravely. They will not be able to overlook, a rascal will rise.
“But this is smarter,” Blue nodded without the slightest mockery. This, boy, is very much like a sensible plan. Of course, you need to work it out, but if you paint the roles and rehearse a bit. Mouth, of course, shut up, we will rest on the bunks.
“Then we’ll sit in the punishment cell,” the Headmaster said carefully.
The brother waved carelessly:
“Damn it,” the companion grinned, nicknamed Bormann.
Vadim, no matter how hard he tried, could not guess him. Borman was already definitely in his good years, exceeded fifty, definitely, but there was not enough gray hair, strong, fit. Either he went to business, or from the provincial administration, somewhere this well-fed booth was already looming, or on a box, then whether in the newspapers.
“Then why are you stalking the stalk?”
But there wasn’t much indignation in Bormann’s voice, and Blue grinned, feeling that the last word remained with him:
A long machine-gun burst spread the air very close by, and the second one crackled right away, it seemed, just above the ear itself. It was Chubais who reacted to the unexpectedness with incredible speed, pressed the “stripes” to the ground and did not let them jump up. All lay in the sand, instinctively cowering into a ball. Having come to their senses a bit, they began to raise their heads, but the machine gun rattled right away, and the red-haired Hans yelled, sitting down:
Shooting rang out again on the left, clearly moving away, it was perfectly audible how the branches rattled, how the guards echoed and the shepherd excitedly poured.
“Exactly, someone rushed for a breakthrough,” stated Blue, spitting out coarse, crumbly sand. It will not work, I smell it.
A couple more bursts burst, already at a considerable distance, pistol shots slammed randomly, a chase rushed through the woods with a noise and a hoot. And very soon everything died down, then triumphant cries rang out.
A little later, Hans-Chubais barked:
They jumped up and lined up in gussel, in the back of the head to each other, according to the routine of numbers that had already become familiar. From the side of the thicket, three SS men approached, dragging an unlucky fugitive, colleagues greeted them with a joyful hooting.
“You don’t want to shit, don’t torture your ass,” Blue concluded philosophically. Jolly, gentlemen, jolly.
Good evening to you.
They pulled themselves up to the camp at a good pace, imperceptibly accelerating the pace, and in the end they trotted down, trying to get ahead of the rest of the brigades. This time they succeeded, they were the first, breathing heavily and plopping with heavy slippers, who seemed to weigh half an hour, jumped out onto a narrow path. The SS men aren’t at all racing.
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