...I came to Karma with Ibolit. Yes, no names, no names in us, bloggers, only clicks are bad. Just like the Siu Indians. Ibolite, in particular, is due to Ibolite, which has been treating animals for several decades. When he sat next to the refrigerator and began to exchange his life experience for my pasta, I wanted to wipe my eyes - not Darrell's own person in my kitchen turns a second plate. In particular, he told about the poppy, the dream of his life. Very big and evil, like love for a goat.
He has been dreaming of a puppy for many years. And one day he was invited to his country villa by some oligarch, a servant of the people, to treat a sick skunk. There was a cage in the vast golden spaces of the villa. And in her, on her bedroom, she was drunk, a swallow, a green dream. Having noticed Abolit’s passionate gaze towards the poppy, the oligarch generously shrugged his hand:
Do you like? Take it.
At home, it was discovered that the poppy who grew up in the atmosphere of luxury had the nature of the wardalaq and the inclination of the cannibal. Maybe the former owner knows him. He was constantly trying to get stuck in Ibolit’s hand. And quite soon he succeeded. The blood immediately flowed through the river. The painting resembled the culmination of the gladiator battle. The butterfly, without pressing the clove, watched the enemy carefully. Ibolit, who in his century saw more beasts than I saw books, did not take his hand away. As he coldly explained, washing the pasta:
Then the pope would think he won and I lost.
And only when the aggressor began to swallow blood, he spit out his hand, and with apparent resentment.
After this battle of characters, the descendant of the pterodactiles recognized Aybolit as the master. But only him. All guests were told to stay away from the bird.
But one day a fun semi-Georgian company collapsed with a visit. They drank a lot, sang a lot and had a great time. Ibolithus, who did not lose his vigil, warned:
Do not put your hands on a poppy.
Guests looked at the brutal bird with interest, especially one lady. She whispered and from time to time cuddly stated to the poppy:
In Georgia, we would have made you savi! The Saints!
The spider was hardly silent, although under normal circumstances he was quite conversational. As it turned out, he waited.
At some point, the lady did not resist and broke the ban.
There was a ruthless slaughter.
There was a lot of blood.
A few months later, the same company came together again. The fun Georgian to the poppy no longer sat down. On the contrary, he was clearly resurrected. He insisted Hoh. He turned his head to the side and looked at the guest with one eye. Everything jumped out with an increasing amplitude. I turned to the bottom and looked. He returned to the original position and moved a stepping step down the roof. He approached the woman as closely as he could and told her:
The Saints?

by Greenbat