******************** Totally rude! *********************
TRUE STORIES FROM THE SNAKE GORYNYCH
(Continued)
Eduard GEVORGYAN
15. SPIT OF TALENT
Having found himself in the epicenter of bedlam, smoothly turning into...
catcher's dances, Rybakov immediately fell into expression and a little
went wild, which was generally not his usual behavior.
- What does this song mean? - he cried, bravely putting his hands on his hips -
nagging. - What are you allowing yourself to do here in my presence, racalia! Now
I’ll waste everyone like I spit, you proto-beast!
- No need! Nicht shissen! - someone from the retinue squealed subtly
pseudopan, for some reason switching to German.
But it was too late. Talent spat.
It splashed. It came out. It was overwhelming.
For a moment, a dark whirlwind formed from those present.
arms, legs, torsos and unfinished bottles of Napoleon cognac in Poland
whom, naturally, was poured, but immediately crumbled into fine dust,
rising above the second altar and engulfing everything around.
And when the dust cleared across the palace-wells and palace-prospects,
Once there, this is the picture that emerged.
Over the outskirts of a city frozen in painful bewilderment,
Kli are two gigantic figures propping up the heavens. And they looked
at each other.
The heavens shook!
“Let it be known to you, dust of the earth,” I called out with a booming roar.
la one offigures - that I’m not some kind of sir, a writer, but
the true Lord of Lemuria, and returned to the world in order to own it!
- To hell with you, not the ownership of the world! - no less loud
responded another figure. “May you, in turn, be informed.”
It is clear that I am finally the Pillar of the Universe!
The stupefied residents, glued to the windows with their eye sockets, saw
as a dark cloud, similar to a person, spewed out violet
that lightning. This electric discharge rustled over the streets and
squares, touched the spire of the Admiralty and ricocheted into the Neva.
A fountain of boiling water splashed out a ton of boiled fish right
under the feet of a lonely pedestrian. Needless to say, a pedestrian
Was this expressive talent itself?
“Eh, I wish I could slurp my ears now...” muttered sadly
Rybakov, kicking away the paired catfish.
And at this time the terrible monsters that stood over the city took
guises, exchanged seismic blows, powerful discharges,
ball lightning and poisonous lampoons.
By evening the city was disgustingly dirty. The townspeople did not dare
go out into the streets, only Rybakov wandered like an inconsolable shadow, time
from time to time looking melancholy at the rather protracted battle
titans.
“My hour is coming, my hour is coming,” he whispered promisingly to the Atlanteans and
caryatids.
The caryatids were silent, the Atlanteans made eyes.
The hour has come.
And the talent came out to the starting position and climbed into the empty post -cop, just glancing farewell at the copper flashed in the alley
horse's tail and, pressing the snake with his foot, exclaimed:
- I’ll suddenly spit in a row!
And he spat...
A flash lit up the horizon, the annoying ghosts disappeared,
On the banks of the dam, a fresh wind brought the smell of long-eaten borscht.
16. CONDENSED DARKNESS
Spiritual reality folded, unfolded and opened
Stern saw a basement full of terrible contraptions. Until recently
for a time he believed that a nice house on the banks of the Neva could accommodate
More cute people who occasionally pee on cute things
and even published in nice publishing houses... I didn’t know
He, what is going on in his depths!
The secret floors of the St. Petersburg writers' house housed fates and necro-
lairs on two skyscrapers. Few of the initiates knew about crystal-
room, where the threads were pulled together in an elastic web, I controlled
those with flights of inspired thought, creative daring, kissing
moonlight and other stylistic beauties. There were even fewer
those who knew about the wooden hall, the proportions resembling a coffin,
but equipped with mechanical wonders on a spring,
worm and motor drive. This is where I looked into the hidden
Stern, frozen with horror, at the window.
Stolyarov himself stood at the long table, upholstered in worn zinc,
and his appearance was terrible. Large butcher's leather apron with belt
shaft of loins, casually playedhe wields a huge axe, with a blade
whose blood was dripping, and the satanic fire was burning in his eyes. Sue-
Rybakov hovered nearby, transferring clothes from the table to the laundry bin.
some strange moving pieces... Stern saw the head of Vit-
mana, and he felt sick. And when the head opened its eyes and meekly
said to her tormentor: “I always said that you chose not
that profession,” the observer fainted.
Having recovered, Stern discovered that a new
victim. Someone was writhing, squirming, spitting out irrefutable
accusations, but Stolyarov’s steel fingers closed around his throat, and
the victim wheezed.
Rybakov sniffed carefully.
- And the Cossack is a shitty one! - he said.
-Who is this? - Stolyarov said abruptly. - Yours, someone else's?
“Who will understand now...” Rybakov began soulfully. -
This, what’s his name, Drozdov?.. Skvortsov?..
- It doesn’t matter. If not with us - the enemy. If with us - even more so.
Saw to me!
And the chainsaw "Friendship" joyfully sang in the skillful hands of the venerable
science fiction writer Sprays flew.
The saving faint carried Stern into the very heart of darkness.
17. PROFESSIONAL AIR
And at this time, upstairs the same persons were walking around the blissful
corridors of the writer's raspberry, observing reverence and other necessary
pleasant little things that are cherished in everyday life. Emerging scandals are extinguished in time
we met, the collective drinking of citro was touchingly reminiscent of a meeting
chustray general secretary with the intelligentsia on duty.
And suddenly, disrupting the splendor of communication, he burst in from God knows where
disheveled Stern and shouting “Killed!” collapsed on the carpet and thrashed
in a fit, wetting the People's Commissar's carpet with tears and urine.
There was a scandal. They rushed to bring him to his senses, to clap
cheeks and bring the smelly potion to your nose. Having woken up, Stern told
everyone about what they saw below, and only the awkward silence of the public prompted
it seemed to him that there was an embarrassment. He looked up and was stunned.
Stolyarov and Loginov, Rybakov chi-
did you write your poems in Chinese to what’s his name, Solovyov? Galkin?..
Izmailov was talking to a large mirror in the lobby, explaining to him
all the advantages of the Malabar penal system. That's all
the rest were content and complacent.
- Away, away from me, terrible visions! - Stern cried, not
wanting to believe a terrible guess. - You are the troubles of the night, the dragons are evil -
new, and your true essence is down there!
And with a trembling finger he pointed somewhere in the area of his genitals.
There was friendly laughter in response. He scared Stern more than if
everyone would pitch in as wolves or undead and start chewing it.
- They have entered into force, they are not afraid of anything! - he realized.
As if to confirm the monstrous thought, the crowd surrounding
it suddenly became denser, merged into a single dense body, flashing
rainbow-colored with scales, and the three heads that crowned it grinned atsyn-
chronic smiles.
- What, scary, buddy? - Zmey Gorynych asked in unison.
“It wouldn’t be scary,” Stern stammered. - It wouldn’t be scary -
such a terrible thing to win!
-Who is this to win? - with sparkling eyes, in a pleasant voice, he exclaimed
the Serpent grew, farting smokily.
- You! - Stern answered proudly and wanted to spit, but in his mouth
dried out.
“We will not fight,” said the Serpent. - We'll have lunch.
And opened three mouths, like huge electric grills puffing
heat and old kebabs.
Stern ran. He rushed along long endless corridors,
galloped up the gnarled steps, hearing behind only rustling and mocking
smacking. He ran, but at the same time he was painfully thinking about
Who do the heads of the accursed Serpent resemble? One undoubtedly looked like
on the venerable St. Petersburg science fiction writer, whose double is a virtuoso
chainsaws - dashingly wielding an ax in the basement, the second, in kind,
master or false pan Stanislav, damn him, but the third?..
Is it really the MATER HIMSELF - a terrible thought came to me. Legs became cottony
nimnymi, and he leaned against the wall.
“Well, Borenka,” said the third head softly, “now we
with you and let's talk about dragons...
(Definitely to be continued)
----------------------------------------------------------------
Share your thoughts about the article