Читать книгу Homo Ludus - Владимир Андерсон - Страница 5

Outside the window the wind blew again, the trees swayed, danced and began to hug each other like old friends.

Now it was necessary to go to the nearest store, to buy alcohol for the realization of another interesting idea – Vladimir Arkadyevich had a daughter with two incomparable but not uncommon features of physiology: addiction to alcohol and diseased kidneys at the same time. She had certainly taken a liking to him two months ago, and she had made it clear more than once that she wanted more than just to admire him from afar.

By the time Gustav got into the car, it had already begun to rain outside the window, not heavily, but obviously it was beginning to last. The Irishman loved this kind of weather – it suited his meditations perfectly, and it suited even better the moods of people who were upset and distressed by it, assuring themselves that "the sky was now crying with them". A surprisingly childlike view of nature, often present in historical descriptions: battles, coronations of kings, inaugurations of presidents are described by different people with directly opposite weather, as if we are talking about different events, time and place. The tireless desire to confirm one's opinion, to predispose oneself, to create the necessary background, and it is so easy when there is such a powerful but mute force, so vividly expressing one's opinion, an endless source of confirmation of any ideas and thoughts. And, apparently, many people considered it a sin not to use it for their own purposes.

Once upon a time in Russia "blind rains", i.e. rains coming in the light of the

Sun, were called "Tsarevna Crying" because the glistening drops resembled tears. There was at least some basis for such a designation. But it seemed hypocritical to make political propaganda out of nature.

"These are the sort of things that vividly reflect the lowliness of man. – Gustav thought as he started the car. – They deserve to die and nothing more.

It took about 7-8 minutes to get there, around a few turns there was a separate building, still from the times of the USSR, where the service, prices and the general atmosphere were not suitable to sell alcohol, including of illegal origin, and including during the forbidden time.

There was some sort of parking lot in front of the building. And now there was a gray Lada of the ninth model, all the doors of which were open wide. Two men were sitting inside, with their feet out on the street. They could see from their eyes that they had drunk a lot, and that there was probably just as much to drink. "Hear this, bro! – shouted one of them to Gustav. – That's a cool car. Give us a ride, say on.... Beer." Even from ten meters away, the amber from the stoned and poured over the collar was quite vile and acrid, as if it had been layered on the skin for a long time.

Bullheaded, semi-hooligans. Hardly able to tell the difference between Einstein and Eisenstein. They haven't read a single book since high school, not just Remarque or Steinbeck, but any book at all. No ethics, no aesthetics. But a pronounced desire to imbibe alcohol and demand it from others, as if they owed it to them. After all, someone should occupy this niche, and if you don't want to do it yourself, then pay the one who takes this place for you. And pay so that he has enough to occupy it further. Or else he will drag you in, either at the same time, or instead of himself....

Uninteresting and useless prey.

"Sure, I'll give you a lift," the Irishman said and changed direction in their direction. Their faces were visibly pleased – apparently those who had passed them before had either ignored or denied them for various reasons.

The one in the back seat called out. He was more sober than the one in the passenger seat next to the driver's seat. Now it smelled even worse.

"Why the beer? – Gustav asked, half a meter away from them. – Vodka? Horse meat, better?"

"Bitch, yeah… I'd like some horse meat," the man in the front thought, though he'd had just enough.

Gustav reached into his wallet and pulled out a five-thousand-dollar bill and handed it to the man sitting in the back seat. The orange color of the money struck both of them in the eyes.

"Fucking hell, bro." – he whispered, looking at the money in his hands. "And for me… Give me one too," the other started, but the Irishman was already holding out a second bill of the same kind to him.

–

Well, just so you're not offended.

–

From the heart, bro…

The first one woke up a little: "Hey, what's your name, bro, come with us. We'll crush some horse meat…

–

Gustave. Gustav Glisson.

–

Uh-oh. A foreign pahan, then.

–

Sort of… Have you seen any cops around?

–

They're asleep, bitches. Vasyana's out for a fucking walk. Where are they going?

–

So you're Vasyan?

–

He's the fuckin' guy. And that's Gray over there driving.

Gustav pulled a folding knife from his inside jacket pocket and stuck it under the first man's jaw, closed the door and stabbed the second man in the neck. Blood splattered all the seats, doors, upholstery. Vasyana even tried to cover the wound with the palm of his hand, a money bill, but it was useless: their brains were not working by this point. Their brains did not realize that death had stopped sneaking up on them, but had just come at once.

Gustav put the knife in Gray's palm, squeezed his hand, and headed for the store entrance.

It is a great honor, of course, for such drunks to die by his hand, but once they prevented him.

A couple of months ago, with their questions and innuendo, they had scared off one of his possible victims in this very same parking lot. The short, frail girl had obviously noticed Gustav, but she had gotten into her car immediately when she saw the two men. There was no point in chasing after her, she was not so beautiful and interesting from the looks of it. But the residue remained, and it was certainly not worth waiting for it to happen again.

Of course, there was no one in the store except the salesman. In fact, the salesman was not quite present, either – a short, full-figured woman of about 55 was watching TV, watching some program about geography, without paying attention to anything.

Actually, the last time he'd come into this place and asked what he could get from cheap but quality products, he'd gotten the final answer: "Buy and don't fuck around!", which came out like an advertising slogan. Now it fit as well as it could.

The Irishman looked at the shelves with alcohol: "I'd like some cognac… There's

Stone land No. 5. 0.7 liter."

He had long known this brand with the inscription "We will change your attitude to Armenian cognac" placed in a frame. This phrase justified itself completely: the original product itself was of low quality, and it was often counterfeited, so that at the first sip there was nausea and a desire to spit it all back out, and under the tongue there was a very unpleasant aftertaste with a completely inappropriate for this type of alcohol tinge of cheap chocolate. Compared to Ararat, which is of high quality made in Armenia, this cognac spoiled the whole attitude and, indeed, changed it, but only for the worse.