Читать книгу Where I am from. Why I am here. Where I am going 2.0. Memoirs of an alien - Valentine Ruzanov - Страница 8

When I reached the fork, I did not want to go a roundabout way at all, and I suggested. – It’s cold. Can we sleep together? – On the bare burnt grass? We don’t even have a blanket. – Will the haystack suit you? There is one on the hillock. – Okay, but only one night. There is a border somewhere nearby. Climbing the hillock, we settled in a haystack. I did not want to sleep and I moved closer to the girl. Almost close. – It is too early. I’m not cold yet, “she pushed me aside with her hand. – What is your favorite band? – “Acey.” – What are you? Mine too! – the phrase was pronounced in the language of the principality and the girl asked in surprise. – Do you know this language? – I understand something. – Then it will be easier for us. – US? You said only once. – I’m not cold with you. – Good. I’m going to sleep. I had a nightmare in my dream. I fought with some big guy, but he turned out to be a weakling and quickly gave up. Then, after a short pause, the ring judge, drawing out his words unnaturally, announced: – Ladies and gentlemen. And now it’s an unusual match. In the ring there is an incomparable Violet! – the commentator warmed up the crowd making long pauses, – And charming Chamomile! Scheme A. A. B. A. Winner takes it all!

Two stunning beauties took the stage. They smiled. They threw off the bottom and started pounding me. Their scheme was worked out – Chamomile, making a grip from behind, tried to reach my ear with his teeth, and Violet, standing in front, kept adjusting her glasses and finally, having calculated the trajectory, flopped to her knees and bit me painfully. After the second round, I flopped down on a chair exhausted and almost numb with surprise – my dear mother with a mop jumped out into the ring and began to belittle me sobbing: – Son, I forgot what the aab scheme is. Forgive God! – In parts A, the established schemes are used. Part B consists of some imrovisations. The gong sounded. “Girls from real jazz” beat me in the stomach with their head, dragged me by the hair and finally began to pour a violet-chamomile blend from Chanel on the haggard and defeated. – Mom, dear, – I shouted – let them throw the white towel! “They can’t,” Mommy answered, “they forgot to wash it. – Well, at least you rubbed the dust? – already in delirium I asked. – There is no dust here. There is hay, – answered the calm voice of a girl in a leather jacket. – Hay. Straw. Hay. Straw, – I rushed to the left, then to the right, reflecting the imaginary blows of my rivals. “Cuddle up to me,” the girl whispered, “and listen.