When I was 7-9 years old, an elderly uncle regularly walked along my house with some mental disorder. From a distance, this could be taken for Tourette syndrome.



He was looking around and shouting some strange phrases mixed with the mat, cladding the bag at the entrances. Moreover, it was something absolutely disconnected from the context, related to the missile complexes, the history of book printing, spicy with the ugar mother.



The funny thing was that the maternal interdomains were always clearly addressed to the grandmothers, and the rest of the story to the invisible listeners behind his back.

Stories were new every time, and the heroes were placed on the same staff members of the plot committee.



One day, my friend and I decided to go after him.

To our wild surprise, the uncle calmed down immediately after our house was finished and he was no longer distinguished from ordinary people. We followed him for about 10 minutes before realizing that we were probably facing the most astute grandfather in the world who just hated the grandmother at our house.



He was a hero the city deserved, but he was not prepared for.