The Rascally Romance (in a single helluva-long letter about a flicking-short life) - Сергей Николаевич Огольцов

buddy kicking back around. The serviceman had some really nice weed on him and on high we went.

Then we lay upon the plank decking covered with some make-belief mattresses of padded jackets, and he started continuous lapping on about the whole of our great power since long being under the control of secret network of a certain shadow organization with well-developed structure of branched interaction because we all were moving toward one great goal, regardless of whether we realized that or not… In general, he performed much better than a company zampolit at the Sunday political classes, that kinda Knight Templar from Dnepropetrovsk delivering his profound briefing to the surrounding darkness in the clink.

But if you were such a fucking Frank Mason how could they fucking rake you up to a construction battalion, eh? However, I did not interfere with his structural analysis because he was the decision-making body in charge of that quite decent weed distribution.

Then the door opened and shed in some light from the bulb in the corridor while letting a droll Gingerbread Man of Tatar origin roll inside. Wow! Who's that with so round happy mug? Alimosha! What's brought you here, bro?.

On the arrival of his truck to the gate, the on-duty Left-tent suspected him of being in a state of intoxication to some degree, the stars even intended to search Alimosha and detect a possible attempt at smuggling alcohol into detachment barracks. At that point Alimosha began to knock himself on the chest, then he unbuttoned his pea-jacket, and flung it open to demonstrate what an honest serviceman he was, and as for the smell on his breath it was not his slip at all but resulted from Zhigulyovsky beer drunk accidentally in absolute belief it was lemonade or some other potable shit in the bottle which he came across in the dark basement, which bitch could it possibly leave there? The Lefty ordered to lock him up but Alimosha still could not shut up all the way to the clink. That was why he joined our conference in so immodestly unbuttoned state.

About 5 minutes later, Alimosha knocked on the door and asked an on-duty dipper if the stars was still around.

Nah, gone to the Stuff barrack.

Then Alimosha took a bottle of wine from the sleeve in his pea-jacket and ordered to take it to Vitya Novikov in First Company because the buddies there were already waiting for it. The on-duty dipper locked us again to run the errand.

Then Alimosha took the second bottle from the second sleeve losing so hard and shapely biceps, after which, falling into the classic groove:

"The warriors remembered the days of their youth,The battles they fought in by each other's side…"

In the morning all three of us were, of course, released so that not to reduce the workforce called to fulfill the current five-year plan drawn by the Communist Party and the Government of the Soviet Union… As for the Caucasian with his threats of killing himself after a spree of murders in his native Dagestan, he was transferred to Separate Company…

~ ~ ~

I had already seen that Uzbek in the Canteen and remembered, for it was because of him that I came across the idea that you might get stoned even without any weed but by simply hitching your wagon to the wake wave of some other buddy’s drag… That time we went to the Canteen after the lights-out where the youngs doing their fatigues "on the floors" were already washing the hall.

We chose the table in the corner and landed there to be out of the way, they still had wide swaths to clear before reaching that area. The joint was circulating our chosen company in a reciprocally attentive manner and the drift took a ho-ho bent – we looked at each other's mugs and were wetting our pants with laughter.

And that Uzbek was dragging his soaked rag, to-and-fro, at about five-seven meters off us when he suddenly joined the crowd with his snicker… In short, witnessing our good-humored recreation, he got recharged and dragged the same way – in our wake, without any weed.

We called him to approach and offered the heel which he rejected. Well, it's clear too, the roughed young feared that the on-duty piece of shit from his company would drop in to see what's how around there…

And then I saw the same Uzbek again among the MCU squad-team of youngs, he was riding the same truck-back with me. And at times, when on the road, he sang songs in the mother tongue attuned to their Central Asian modal-tonal harmony. Not much of like the Italian opera stuff but, on the whole, listenable, sort of Jimmy Hendrix when without his guitar. The other Uzbeks got perked up and the road ended more quickly. Good fellow "aqyn", or maybe "ashoogh"? Well, in short – lahbooh…

Sergeant Misha Khmelnytsky couldn't pronounce his name in any way, and, in the end, he said, "Okay! You will be Vasya!" So, one time as we were riding home, Khmel commanded: "Vasya! Sing up!"

I marked that the Uzbek was in no mood, sad and reluctant, but Khmel did not shut up, "What? Can't get it, salabon? The command was ‘sing up!’"

Well, the lahbooh started a song… The rest of the Uzbeks looked at him like angry dogs and scolded in their dark language, muttering, “You bitch, are you a canary for this motherfucker?” Of course, I did not know their language, but certain utterances need no translation.

Now, the lahbooh gave out one verse and steered to coda, but Khmel demanded more, "Sing, Vasya, sing!" So the soldier started again on high notes. And I saw how cleared up the Uzbeks' faces, they even laughed at one point.

Well, also quite understandable, the singer on the fly adopted his number to the situation:

"Vai, Sergeant, vai, I have fucked your Mom!."

But Khmel didn't get it at all, "That's it! Well done! More!"

And he got what he was asking for:

emphasis>"Vai, Sergeant, vai, I have fucked