My father told me at dinner:
He stops me and I think:
Inspector Losew, your papers.
My father is submitting documents. Haishnik looks at those bills (and the glass is frozen, nothing is visible) and asks:
Is the techno okay?
It is until April.
How are you doing?
and bad.
Haishnik looks at my father with astonished and questioning eyes. The father continues:
120 rubles per kilogram. Gasoline 24 rubles.
Haishnik, not listening, gives the documents and says goodbye, and his father follows him:
Greek is the most offensive. I love her, and she, the fucker, weighs 120 rubles.