The Rascally Romance (in a single helluva-long letter about a flicking-short life) - Сергей Николаевич Огольцов
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However, he bought a scooter and made an eye candy of it – the windshield, rear-view mirrors, as well as all kinds of pendants dangling all around. The saddle was covered with fleece, long and white. And (what was characteristic) he never rode his scooter without a helmet on his head. A regular biker helmet, and also white to match the fleece under his ass…
And now let's reflect on a natural situation – I go to bomb his grass and he suddenly pops out: how could I possibly guess what was still lingering under that white helmet of his? So I brought Slavic too since there was enough of living space…
When it got dark the 2 of us went out.
"Once we went to do our job, me and Rabinovich…"The moment we were leaving, Eera got very nervous and asked to lock her up in the summer room.
"What's the problem? Lock the door from inside."
"No! You do it."
Well, I locked the door from outside and gave the key back thru the window because I did not know when we were going to return.
(…there's still a lot of things that I will never understand…)
When we returned, Eera checked the loot.
No! She did not even smoke cigarettes but could determine weed quality by simply sniffing at it. With the accuracy of up to 80 percent… In general, the spoils from Buttuke were from the remaining 20 percent, I wouldn't grow such crap on my plantation…
Later in Nezhyn, Slavic sniffed out one more cannabis growing spot next to the bridge across the Oster, near the Bazaar square. He brought me to the location and showed the lush beauties as if decorated with ostrich feathers of green. However, the property was surrounded by a tall fence.
I also do not like monotony, yet once again we went out in the dark because a habit is the most irresistible force… So, I climbed over the fence and with the ghostly gait of a sneaking redskin approached the one-summer-old trees. The khutta stood aside and was not in the way with the light in only one window. Well, let the man watch his TV program, I don't mind.
No sooner I gently rustled the magnificent beauties than the ground started to quake in a pulsating seismic tremor accompanied by a thunder-like clatter from the khutta direction, and the light from the window was eclipsed by the black silhouette of that galloping Dog of Baskervilles.
It took a split-sec for all that happened then and, actually, without my participation. The instinct, laid in our spinal cord by countless generations of gnawed to death and shredded ancestors, did the trick. I could only watch how the fence jumped to meet me, and my right pedal extremity kicked its top rail.
Somewhere unbelievably far below, by the narrow vein of the Oster river, shimmering in the dark of the Ukrainian night, the already indistinguishable fence shook and vibrated from the ramming push of the wolfhound… I left the upper layers of the stratosphere but, halfway to the moon, it occurred to me that there was not enough air in my lungs for the return to my native planet. That's how I forsook becoming "Apollo 14"…
Slavic was saved only by his desperate spurt from the spot of my landing. Because among the ancestors, that mutually formed our spinal cord, lots of wretches got squashed flat too…
~ ~ ~
The fourth course was not sent to a collective farm with patronage assistance, we had a month of school practice but this time in village schools. Another difference to the school practice at the third course—finalized with the written comment from the respective city school teacher bubbling of what incredibly wonderful teachers we, the students she had been in charge of, were going to become in future—was that each group of trainees had an overseer from the English Department to assess our professional skills by the practice results. An eye for an eye, so to speak, because we also evaluated them in the years of our study…
When we, the first-year students, were split into 4 study groups, Lydia Panova became the curator of mine. She was a spinster and in unrequited love with Deputy Dean of the English Department, Alexander Bliznuke, who, in his turn, was in unrequited love with his young beautiful wife. Taking advantage of his official position, Bliznuke employed his wife as a teacher at the English Department as soon as she graduated the Nezhyn institute, but the ungrateful one soon jilted him and fled to someone else in Kiev.
Lydia Panova, with her hormonal mustache, thick glasses and the equally thick mask of makeup on her face, had no chances to lasso Bliznuke, although the girls of my group were pulling for her. She lived in the five-story block for the institute teachers by the sports grounds in the Count's Park and whenever Bliznuke had an imprudence of walking under her balcony, she started talking to him in English, and the following day she was teaching us more enthusiastically.
The second group's curator was Nona Panchenko (not a relative to the famous boxer), she also was unmarried and wore glasses, but no cosmetic plaster, and looked much younger than Panova. Once at some kind of voluntary Saturday work, Veerich wanted to treat her to a glass of wine. I played the errand-boy and approached her with it, like, would you have a sip of lemonade to quench the labor thirst? She smiled at me with a pleasant smile and refused. Nona smiled pleasantly at everyone but wasn't lassoing anybody.
The curator of the third group wore glasses (again!) was a blonde and a perfect fool (yes, monotony). She mastered English within the limits of the textbook by Galperin for the first-year students and unconsciously loved Sasha
