One day, on August 2, a sad story happened in our city. Three drunkard descendants were attached to a middle-aged Azerbaijani who was walking peacefully on the street. They called him "churka" and gave him cracks and pins.
The landers were wrong. Timur Sultanovich is not a "churka", but a respected man with connections.
Relationships and respect would be enough for these three to get his shoes out tomorrow... but “Uncle Timor,” as everyone calls him in our yard, is a kind man.
“They will punish themselves,” he said to my father.
A few calls, a couple of meetings, a little (relatively) money...
A year later, on August 1, vodka "Desantny" appeared in almost all city stores. At a very low price. Fort at 42 degrees. On the colorful label is a brave guy in a beret, beating a bottle on his head.
...
More than two hundred drunk debils on the day of the airport went to the hospitals of the city. With shocks, cuts and even cerebral injuries of varying severity.
The bottle was made of hardened glass almost half a centimeter thick. I couldn’t break it with a hammer right away.