I was 9 years old, the year was 1995, I lived the ordinary life of a provincial city's shuffler: I walked through garages, long-range buildings and exploded an aluminum with magnesium and was childless and joyful. In my house lived a crouch - a man with criminal ties, who was chasing in Togliatti for the 9th and the 99th, ie. With a company of friends, I brought 6-8 cars at a time, quickly pushed them and again on the road. He was a very athletic guy: a boxer, he swung, the only one from the whole house who raped the turniks. His friends had the same. His name was Uncle Andrew. He was in power for 30 years.



And right now, I am sitting on an ordinary bench, forging a stick with a knife, uncle Andrew comes up with a blue urka painted, similar to the Azer, not to the Armenian: spikes on his arms, iron teeth, the body of a young man. I am driven out of the bench, I go to the turniches, I sit on two tubes (where the press swings and the back), I look at their dialogue: first the urka sat, then they sat together, then the urka stood up, from the neighboring house began to drive a heels (412) bad blue color. And here, when the heels were equal to Urka and Andrew, Urka got something out of the back pocket, a couple of times literally hit Andrei in the chest and jumped to the front open place in the heels, whistling tires (well well - a screw). Andrei stands up and goes to his entrance, has not reached exactly 5 steps... He died. I called the neighbor’s grandmother to call an ambulance and menths, waited for them, and as a young pioneer proudly said: the witness is me. Fortunately, after a couple of months, the nightmare stopped, I was shown the face of a dead urki, and my pursuit of threats ceased (although they came to our house too). My mother breathed calmly and restored my freedom of movement, and I was still the same careless and stupid child.