The real story. This happened ten years ago, as they say, in one large and very proud Northern republic. One of our comrades invited our friendly hunting company to the autumn opening of the hunt in a place unknown to us - one of the numerous hunting bases on lakes near the capital of the glorious republic. After listening to the stories about the flocks of ducks covering the sky, we quickly gathered together and climbed to this hunting base, somewhat settled in a large rubber house with pores on the walls and a large stove in the center among others wishing to feel the local wildlife for strength. To purify our conscience, we ran to the lake, to make sure that the duck is really there, sitting without fear, looking at us with good eyes, not even flying away. They returned to the house, quickly cut snacks, poured them into glasses and began to get acquainted with the local community, however, without fanaticism, because at four in the morning the hunt began.
So, without ten-four, I am already in the room, scratching a cuddly unbarred beard, eating from the morning cold, looking bloodthirsty at a bunch of crackers within a straight shot. Waiting for S. ...And here behind is what is called, the evil scratch. I was vigilant, I looked around my friend, standing about thirty meters from me on the other side of the watermelon, and the duck wrapped up and wrapped with bushes. Through the coastal cushers, the classic grandfather, the godfather, pulled a small chariot the size of children's sandwiches on screaming wheels. Grandfather came closer (without tears you won't look - an old shirt, a rabbit hat with a turned ear - a classic Mazai, only forty years in retirement.) The Grandfather:
I’ve always been hunting here, yeah, I know.
I have the last season, my legs don’t walk, my hands don’t drag, I feel winter isn’t.
I will survive. Let me do the first shot, one of all, soul.
to take.
What are we, animals?
Come on grandfather.
The first suspicion arose after the grandfather pulled out a real fuse from the sword on the cart - a clustered trunk, a caliber - the hand slides, a charge of obviously half a pound of powder and a glass of crush and quickly directed this weapon toward ducks, not suspecting what ass awaits them. And in this same second, the canonade went along the shores of the lake - four hours, the hunting season for swimmers opened.
My grandfather was terrified. My eyes opened like a phyllin stretched on a globe.
The cat in the bay is all gone!! Although I suspect that half of a banal heart attack. But it is not easier for us. And the cunning grandfather suddenly stopped dying, sharply scattered the swamps and used to scratch the ducks out of the water, which a minute ago I already thought of as my own. He threw them into the bag and it was so. The cock.
...Late in the morning, with trophies in the form of two dirty random dwarfs, I returned to the cellar. The people already gathered, were proud of the beaten oak, gradually drank, ate. Take the bikes. I also talked about my grandfather.
The local old men have been roaring over me for a long time - this grandfather before each opening of the season for ten years comes a quarter of an hour before the first shot on the lake, chooses non-home hunters (because the locals have already sent him), and explains to them this story with his swift dying and pre-mortem shot. And it always goes by with him - what a psychologist...
Good health, grandfather, if you are still alive.