Buy an apartment, and then like in Shastakov

You live in Moscow, work, rest, walk, sleep, eat - and all the time you feel that somewhere behind the Urals are hiding relatives. They feel like they live in Moscow. one one. In a 70 meter apartment. And you feel what they feel about that. Time is going. Property is expensive. And they do not endure. A practitioner comes to you. Some kind of triangle that remembers you when you were still weighing two kilos, and your parents, going to drink, threw you to the cat. Grandma brings home-woven half and a lot of archaic food. The home creme. Which breaks you into such a hustle that at work you take a vacation not to Turkey, as you wanted, but to sortry. When you go out, they are everywhere. The relatives. They even grow in boxes on the balcony. Three nephews, two bulls, shurin, swath, devre, teast, zyt, los, drink and rise! Aunt Olya with a monkey. Uncle Misha with a bald head and a curly ass. He walks around the apartment in your trousers and feeds everyone with the smell of his mouth. The unclear grandfather in the corner, never saw him, never moved, whether he is asleep, whether someone devout carries the powers with him.
And then you yourself become in the center of the apartment, drawing around yourself a small circle, raising your hand up with the passport opened on the page of the license, and saying, "In the Name of the Lord and the Law! Naughty! Get out of here!"
And all naked.