"Mikhail Evstafiev. Two Steps From Heaven " - читать интересную книгу автораinto a clinch somewhere in the bushes, then take her home, and another one
would be waving out the window at you, like, hell, come and hop into my cot, soldier-boy! Just think, fuck it, what a life we had!" "Who d'you think you're shitting, Prokhor?" jeered Titov. "One and a half years I've known you, and all you've done is bullshit on about that hostel, and I bet before that you hadn't so much as squeezed a tit!" "Bullshit yourself, I didn't!" roared Prokhorov, though he clearly realized that any moment now he'd be pinned down for outright lying. "With a willy like yours, even if you got to climb up on a woman she wouldn't feel a thing! It'd be like a pencil in a glass!" said Titov, quashing his friend even further. "How would you know?" challenged Prokhorov sourly. "Well, it's no great military secret, is it? We've been in the bath-house together, haven't we?" "Chiri, you mother-fucker!" Shouted lance-corporal Prokhorov, glaring at a soldier sitting nearby. "How long are we going to wait for that tea, eh? It's ready? Well, bring it here, bugger it, before I have to get up! I'll count to three ... fucking one ... fucking two ..." Thin, fair-haired Chirikov grabbed up the hot mugs with his bare hands, and just made it on the count of three. "And where's the jam, worm?" Demanded Prokhorov, pinning the hapless soldier with a merciless glare. " ? " "I'll count to one and a half! Starting now! One..." "Come off it," interrupted Panasyuk. "Dismissed, Chiri!" After the He's just come off duty. Give him a break. Otherwise, he'll goof off on duty, fall asleep, and that will be that." "Fuck the lot of you!" Retorted Prokhorov, offended, and stumped off with his mug, muttering as he went: "Fine friends, bugger them! If I hadn't swiped that fucking goat, you'd all be sitting around sucking your balls!" "Hold it!" Shouted Panansyuk. "Let him go," interposed Titov, waving dismissively. "Five minutes, and he'll be back to normal." They sat around, slurping thick black tea, which had been overboiled on an improvised grill made out of a zinc cartridge box. The subject under discussion was how to make a cake out of biscuits and condensed milk. It was imperative to make their own demob cake. Tradition. Sweet dreams of demobilisation reflected on the faces of Panasyuk and Titov, while Prokhorov, miffed by his friends' digs, wandered around the post, sipping his tea, burning his mouth on the hot aluminum mug, and shouting at the younger soldiers. Sharagin, relaxing with an after-dinner cigarette, heard a single shot. "Find out who that was, and report back," he ordered private Myshkovsky, who had jumped at the shot, and again at the harsh tone of his commanding officer's voice. ... you'd swear someone dropped him flat on his face on some asphalt in childhood ... he's put up with the grand-dads, month after month ... never mind, Myshkovsky, we'll make a paratrooper out of you yet ... |
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