My life developed in such a way that for many years the homeland militia did not touch my Russian passport with its vigilant gaze, and the rest was a pofig.
I then lived abroad, then I flew there on direct flights, completely forgetting where my Russian passport dusted – I was paid and so on.
But one day I was convinced to return from the United States to Vladivostok through
Moscow, and I took this passport with me. It was a terrible time when residential houses were torn apart in Moscow, and in Sheremetyevo-2 under the guise of taxi drivers, continuous copters were being held up. The bandits harder captured the prospective victims with an experienced eye at the exit of the plane.
I was the perfect victim – I was flying alone with a large collection of pale-green portraits of George Washington in my pocket.
I had no doubt that on my open intellectual face this sum would be printed with the biggest letters.

Having considered the situation, I decided to cut under the proletariat.
Even in Houston, I bought contact lenses that I could not tolerate before, I dressed in everything black and dull, including a rubbed leather cap, and two days before the flight I stopped shaving. Day of transfer to
Atlanta and at night at JFK completed my entrance into the image – instead of an unspinal thoughtful intelligent on the plane’s staircase descended a browned pepper with no traces of even middle education on the face. No taxi driver looked at me – apparently, they admitted to me. I passed through this steep arms crowd like a neutrinos and arrived on a micrico in the
Sheraton 1 without any problems. Problems began when landing on the Vladivostok flight.

The bride from where the police took in such a number took me under white hands into a separate room and asked me to present a passport.
When looking at his title page, the police began to rust, without words, pointing to me with the finger, then to the photo in the passport, then to the mirror. “I had to stick a picture for 25 years,” I thought.

From school photography, I was touchingly looked at by a naive, light-eyed, never kissed glasses-excellent man, from whose eyes all Russian literature shone in contrast with world science. And from the mirror, I was crushed to death, burning under the Texas sun, thickly grown with a black scarf, a completely Chechen face in a black hat. Under the strong lenses in the room the pupils expanded and seemed coal-black, the eyes sparkly shone - I was late for the flight.
They were the eyes of a man who has seen everything in his life, but will never give up his bomb.

Quite soon I became clear that this flight I do not get to Vladik - my city has already slept, the time for inspections and disassembly will come later.
I had nowhere to hurry. The hell makes me joke not in time in a stressful situation. I wandered wide and curved straight into the face of the native militia, revealing a long row of wolf-like white teeth with steel and gold crowns on the periphery, and unexpectedly pronounced with the Caucasian throat accent that had just come from:

“It doesn’t look like, right?”