bezdna.su — the best quotes and jokes from the abyss!
After reading the post about the bomber who saved a child from the garbage tank, I immediately remembered the story about the bomber from my life, which I want to share with you on my fear and risk.
Friday evening and traffic jams. End of August. Tired of the endless repetition of songs, I even turned off the radio, I sat in silence and dreamed of ending my journey home soon. It was difficult to take me to the center of the city and there was nothing to expect. So you realized that the speed of the car was about 5m per minute.
I look on the sides – hundreds of cars and about 20 people at the stop on the left of me 5 meters away. I look at nothing to do in their faces and I understand that they all look at the same point: in the pocket before the stop, where the route should stop, there is a real bombage. In the consciousness. He opens his mouth, screaming loudly about something. There is no leg below the knee. His face is broken in blood. Nearby are two bushes, in vain trying to reach, but not.
In May, he broke his leg and hopped on a cradle for 2 months. To be honest, I had no worse feelings.
It is to the fact that the inflated feelings dragged the lever to the parking lot, I got out of the car and headed toward it. Walk 3 meters, exactly through a series of meetings. He goes into military uniform, and, despite his far from rich dimensions, looked in the eyes of a bombardment of some sort of punisher. My appearance is Caucasian, I wear a beard. And all this mixture of mountain view, black beard and military uniform made the bomber shout out of fear: Don’t beat! Do not fight!! He sat down, hugged his buttocks and raised him, holding one hand for the cradle. He continues to scream with a loud voice, but no longer so confident. And it smells like it, I will tell you, a real bombardment. The smell of urine with barberry, enhanced by 30 degrees of heat. I squeeze the chest under one of his palms, stretch for the second, finally put on my feet and lead on the sidewalk. I looked at his face, the blood flowed from his broken eyebrows. He wiped out what he could, threw the little things out of his pocket and went back. I hear a “thank you” behind my back. All the time, people at the stop were watching quietly. My car stopped the movement, but no one signaled.
I washed home, washed the bowl, that’s all, I don’t smell. And a good deed (as I think it is good) warms the soul. There are no complaints to the viewers on the street, hardly anyone wanted to drive with a bombardment, then ride in a hot road and smell. It was just sad that healthy beetles could not feed themselves, and this disabled person was doomed.
Friday evening and traffic jams. End of August. Tired of the endless repetition of songs, I even turned off the radio, I sat in silence and dreamed of ending my journey home soon. It was difficult to take me to the center of the city and there was nothing to expect. So you realized that the speed of the car was about 5m per minute.
I look on the sides – hundreds of cars and about 20 people at the stop on the left of me 5 meters away. I look at nothing to do in their faces and I understand that they all look at the same point: in the pocket before the stop, where the route should stop, there is a real bombage. In the consciousness. He opens his mouth, screaming loudly about something. There is no leg below the knee. His face is broken in blood. Nearby are two bushes, in vain trying to reach, but not.
In May, he broke his leg and hopped on a cradle for 2 months. To be honest, I had no worse feelings.
It is to the fact that the inflated feelings dragged the lever to the parking lot, I got out of the car and headed toward it. Walk 3 meters, exactly through a series of meetings. He goes into military uniform, and, despite his far from rich dimensions, looked in the eyes of a bombardment of some sort of punisher. My appearance is Caucasian, I wear a beard. And all this mixture of mountain view, black beard and military uniform made the bomber shout out of fear: Don’t beat! Do not fight!! He sat down, hugged his buttocks and raised him, holding one hand for the cradle. He continues to scream with a loud voice, but no longer so confident. And it smells like it, I will tell you, a real bombardment. The smell of urine with barberry, enhanced by 30 degrees of heat. I squeeze the chest under one of his palms, stretch for the second, finally put on my feet and lead on the sidewalk. I looked at his face, the blood flowed from his broken eyebrows. He wiped out what he could, threw the little things out of his pocket and went back. I hear a “thank you” behind my back. All the time, people at the stop were watching quietly. My car stopped the movement, but no one signaled.
I washed home, washed the bowl, that’s all, I don’t smell. And a good deed (as I think it is good) warms the soul. There are no complaints to the viewers on the street, hardly anyone wanted to drive with a bombardment, then ride in a hot road and smell. It was just sad that healthy beetles could not feed themselves, and this disabled person was doomed.