I was once in a student building. One of our brigades made the floor in a pork farm. There was also a brigade of shabashnikov men. Our guys were constantly complaining about them: they would smoke their newly laid tile with their cart, they would crush the space with their metal structures, then something else. Subtle men, shorter, hostile and disgusting in all their manifestations. I was sent to this brigade for a few days to help. Part of the help was a mixture of the solution, and our guys had a completely wonderful, perfect shape and the rest of the spade for this. I felt the pleasure of mixing the solution with this spade. With disgusting shabbatics, I did not cross that day, only listened to other complaints about them.



I go to my boys on the second day. I don’t have my favourite shirt!

Cho for a fist? I ask you.

“And her abominations (there were those shabashnikovs) were taken away,” they answered me.

This drop filled the cup. I went to the other end of the pig farm, to the nest of those disgusting ones. I fit. I see one of them standing at the corner and mowing his solution with MY beloved, strange spade. I walk to him, quietly take the blade for the pen and pull on myself. The man does not release the spade, although the hint, apparently, should have understood. I shake the blade stronger. Between us is a roof with a solution, and the man, in order not to fall, releases the spade. It all happens without a sound. I, quite satisfied, come back with the blade and start working. My friends look at me strangely. I am interested in their reaction. It turns out, this spade is not theirs, it belongs to the shameless, and our guys were given it only for a while. Time has expired, and the lap has calmly returned to its legitimate owners. I almost killed my boys at that moment. I was wildly ashamed of my behavior. Especially a little later it became clear that the harmful inclinations of those men and their hostility in general were greatly exaggerated by my colleagues.