I read an interesting story about the case on the border with the Rosomach. And here, with your permission, I make my own. I served on the Kolsk Peninsula, in the city of Olenegorsk. Specifically, under Olenegorsk, at the “point”. Ordinary military unit, cascade, DOS, technical building, bathroom, cottage. In addition, there was a greenhouse and a pork farm, which stood just off the CPC.
Boredom at the "point" is deadly and here we used to arrange something like a picnic in the summer, for which we did the following - for some time, those who stood at the CPC to the duty in part that at night in the forest nearby there is some movement, accompanied by a terrible and frightening warfare belonging, most likely, to the Rosomach.
Due to the fact that the army was then still Soviet and international, this army was depicted all in its own way and the Rosomach, depending on the nationality of the storyteller, was folded with Volga, then with Estonian, then with Georgian accent.
Having prepared, thus, the necessary soil, the next day-to-day by the CPP, in the previously agreed time, he forged a hole in the lathe-translated fence of the pork and sprinkled in it a suitable crumb, dragging it into the forest, since the pig himself, as a rule, refused to go to the forest voluntarily. In addition, due to the fact that the pig farm was far from the kitchen, then, often not reaching him, the daytime, who fed pigs, left them without lunch, quietly rolling out the waste tank somewhere along the road. As a result, our pigs were very sporty and hot and could easily move through the fence back into the pig farm.

After the captain drove the chicken into the woods, he called the police officer, reporting on another pig escape. And in this situation, given the possibility of attacking the crumbs of the nearby rosomaches, the whole free personnel of the unit was immediately sent to search for the escaped property.
Further, the scheme was worked out: everyone ran in different directions, gathering in a predetermined place on the lake, where everything was already ready for a picnic: a bank of bragi from local berries, salmon, potatoes, as well as a bowl and spices. Usually with potatoes were fried mushrooms, which were so many that they took a single hat, and ate everything that was sent to us from the house.
In part, after resting with such a machete, we returned at midnight, reporting the heavy and unsuccessful searches for the stray crust, which, however, by that time, himself was already normally returning from the forest and everyone was finally satisfied.

Such a chip we had time to check a couple of times in the short summer of Kolye, and wanted to repeat again, as suddenly to us at the "point", immediately after the school, appointed a new repulsive and harmful flyer. In our fairy tales about the Rosomach he did not believe and demanded strong evidence of her presence. Being by nature an intrusive man, he even read somewhere that the rosomaha, in fact, does not voiced, but allegedly cries there in a special way.
Further summer rest was under threat and we, after consultation, decided to build in the forest, near the CPC, something like her bed and present it to the lieutenant. Our cockerel, Kazakh Kurmangaliyev, who knew how to hunt, advised to scratch, as if with nails, some foam, throw a piece of wool and definitely animal feces. Animals, say, so their house and throw.
So they decided. From the winter sheep's body, wool was scratched, the suitable foam was rested with a knife at the headquarters, and the question of the animal shit was entrusted to Kurmangaliyev himself, in a cottage with whom our only dog, Mishka, lived at the "point".
Kurmangaliev approached the task with all seriousness and, after selecting the best, in his opinion, Mishkin's cockroaches in a couple of days, skillfully carved out a few balls from them, which, in his opinion, hurt such a beast as a rosemaker.
The resulting product he decided to dry for reliability on the roof of the cottage, where he hid it right behind the pipe.

The guy he was conscientious, so all that day periodically went to the roof to check his creativity. Unfortunately, he failed to make it unnoticed. Having seen how from time to time Kurmangaliyev snorted to the roof, he, as in trouble, was burned by the same ubiquitous flyer and, having decided, obviously, to earn points before the commander of the unit, in the morning he built us all at the cockpit. In addition to the commander of the unit who was present at the construction, there was also our deputy police officer, to whom the lieutenant probably also had time to knock.

Having called Kurmangaliyev out of service, the pilot showed him a bowl with a dried pseudogovny rosomaha and asked in an icy tone:
Comrade of Soldiers, do you know what it is?
Kurmangaliyev bleaked and answered the first thing he could think of.
No, Comrade Lieutenant
The lieutenant smiled understandably, looked at the deputy police officer, then looked at our system and unexpectedly declared to everyone:
What do you think, Comrade Soldier, I don’t know what this is? Do you think I don’t know about drugs?
Apparently, the lieutenant decided that the package contained a weave, which, despite checking the packages, was sometimes tried to send to soldiers from our then-Asian republics.

And here, having decided to present everything happening as apparently as spectacularly as possible, the lieutenant, looking closely in the eyes of the frightened Kurmangaliyev, did not hurry to get out of the medium-sized ball, also slowly put it into his mouth and began to chew.
We were all frozen by what we saw. Especially the poor Kurmangaliyev, who was completely bleached from fear and almost fainted.
The picantity of the situation was given by Mishka, who came from the cottage, who waving his tail, passed along the line, and suspiciously smelled, stopped near the lieutenant chewing his excrete.
Approximately a minute later, the old servants began to whisper of this silent scene, followed by them and all the others, and soon the entire staff of our part issued a desperately stifled whisper, relentlessly passing into a wilderness.
Letocha, to whom, finally, what was happening, was thick and rough red, spit the remnants of the "drug" on the ground and, giving honor to the commander with the deputy, asked for permission to leave.

This is how we had an unthinking story. Approximately a week after this incident, life at our “point” again calmly went round, as the unfortunate fucking lieutenant command was transferred from sin somewhere under Kandalaksh, as if he hadn’t existed.
by robertyumen