In one village, in the 90s, after the collapse of everything possible, the local men gave the land to the property, but the buryans still grew.
The men were non-drinkers and working. They began to weep, sow, harvest, in general, their life began to improve.
Here appears one type from Moscow, slick, slippery, cunning. He starts rolling the papers. The district chief was snuffed.
He wants to take the land from the men, organize it for himself, and take the villagers to work for money.
Not even going to talk to men, say, they do not decide anything here, what they will say, then they will do. The office began to build a brick, the walls of the first floor have already been raised.
The villagers, of course, do not want to beat on the uncle for the cuts. What to do? We decided to scare, type, you better don't touch us, we're grizzly for our land to whom you want to spoil. It’s better here, I won’t warn you anymore. Will you take him that? He replied to them something like, “You are collective farmers, like cows, but in appearance dangerous.” He stumbled and left. And to scare the men other than words was really nothing, no one even had guns. And here, at least, with a guarantee, a dozen Kalashnikovs are needed.
The men thought, thought and went to the field. For three bags of potatoes, in those not very full times, they were given to collect two canes of bullets and a bag of gillets.
The bullets, on the walls of the office being built, were accumulated with a hammer. And the bullets themselves were poured along, and in fifteen meters, the guilds were scattered.
He came to his office, came out of the car. And the walls are carved into dredges, rounded guilds and a skull with bones are painted.
He joked in full, without any discount. Because it broke out of the village direction - through a breeze young man. The bumper and the mirrors left there, but he did not appear in the village anymore.