The 90s. After the army, in search of my solstice under the sun, I went to France to try myself in the Foreign Legion. There were not so many people from the USSR, but there was always someone with whom you could translate a few words on the great and powerful. After training, I and two other guys were given instructions at a company located in another city. But something was confused in the office and we had to wait for the evening waiting for the morning train at the local station.

All three turned out to be Russian-speaking: Misha-Belarus was a two-meter giant with a figure under the name, red Chechen Marat, well, and actually I. We were not given a suck, but we wanted to eat and drink even more. The railway stations in Europe are poor – neither cafes nor shops, only a couple of virtually empty shopping machines. The security guard found out where the night brewery is, where they went, capturing the last couple of bottles of beer from the station machine. Find the address quickly. Misha pulled an open bottle of beer into the chest of an Arab coming out of the door with incomprehensible French inscriptions, and asked, "paria, allo, bar here?" The Arab was confused and rushed back to the door, from where he returned in 10 seconds with a crowd of crazy compatriots.

The bar, the bar spotted the bearded natives, surrounding us with a crowd. It doesn’t seem to be a bar, Marat said, and at the same moment he was hit in the head by a hand stretched out from the second row of Arabs. We were hit from all sides and if possible, we would probably get away, but the narrow French streets are very contrasting with the width of the Russian soul, you will not be able to move on a tank here. had to beat.

We were able to beat. "To die from the hand of the Arab copters is boring" on the move, O. Bender Mish translated and as if the cartoon giant Balu distributed opleuches to the Arabs. The Arabs flowed through the river and divided around Misha, lying on the left and on the right. When I saw in front of my face the fall of the perfect monkey's cries, shaken by anger, I forcefully directed a fist at her. The mouth crumbled and disappeared. The Arabs whispered and continued to come out of the door of the institution. The forces were not equal. But here, with the scream "The Russians do not surrender", the Chechen successfully put a pipe, removed from the wall, in the most dense of the black brotherhood. The crowd was sharply halved. Someone locked behind the door, and the rest walked through the street.

It was a wonderful hunt. The street became more and more like the bed of bearded cats. But all the good ends once notified us on both sides of the street sirens of police cars. Carefully walking and, possibly, crossing the Arabs crawling on the shovel, we approached the patrol car. The gendarmes relaxed. With the smiles of the Zen, they watched the battlefield, where the compatriots who were forced to weep and cry in blood and spots.

After brief explanations, we were released, leading us to the other side of the building where the bar was actually located. At the farewell, the gendarme laughed and said, "And there, you no longer go - there the Arabs have a 24-hour library."