“Dick knows her ...” said Fatty. He was a former gangster and called Strelka “Marukha”. - Maybe spree ...

- We can, and so - said Bespaly. In a past life, he was a turner. Or the miller. What is the difference now? He was the oldest and called Arrow "daughter."

“Left us, bitch,” said Pushkin. Once he was a poet and still loved to express himself beautifully. Arrow, he called the "arrow."

Three nonhumans were sitting on the railway embankment, near the rails, on which for a long time nothing and nowhere went. It was a very peaceful place. They got used to it and passed the short Moscow summer here. Arrow was the fourth, and in the evenings, having drunk what was, they spoke to Arrow or fucked her in turn. Thick - rude, Fleshless - kindly. And Pushkin did not succeed at all through time. Weak organism, one word - the poet.

- Or cops tied. - said Fat.

- Yes, do not touch her, you know, - said Bespalyy.

- Have to search. - said Pushkin.

- Chevo? - surprised Tolstoy.

- It is necessary to look, - repeated Pushkin and frowned.

- Yeah. - said Fat. A yellow canine fang loomed under the skin of his cheeks - Fat smiled. - Wanted to announce. All-Union.

- In search, not in search, but it is necessary to search, - Pushkin repeated evil.

- Where? - reasonably said Bespaly.

Pushkin knew one place, but said nothing. Tolstoy, too, little thought moved, he picked up her nails, like a louse, and crushed silently. She blinked and stayed alive. Fuckless looked at the rails and for some reason said:

- Autumn is coming soon.

“Yeah,” growled Fat. Both thought about the entrances, each in mind were options.

“I remember a wonderful moment,” said Pushkin.

- Chevo?

- We must look, I say.

- Well go, fuck, look. And they will tie you up.

“Maybe she’s lying around deadly,” Pushkin did not let up. - Let's dig in at least.

- Yes, you go, - said Bespaly. He was the oldest and the word “dead” was not loved the most.

“This is such a ground, you'll be digging for a week,” said Tolstoy with knowledge.

Bespaly got a half a triple bottle. They took a sip, grunted, lit up their bull-calves. The conversation did not go well. There was no arrow.

From the direction of the station came the voice of an announcer who echoed and echoed, which was saying something about the train to Kiev. Other urban crickets were heard from the square - horn, swearing, gnashing of brakes. Somewhere there was an Arrow, it prevented them from relaxing.

- I went. - Pushkin smoked to the filter, choked and got up.

“They'll knit it,” said Fatty melancholy.

“Let them knit,” said the former Komsomol member. - At the same time the cops find out about her.

“And I'll go,” said Bespaly. - I know one place.

- Go. I'll wait here, ”said Fatty, laying down. - Triple leave, freeze.

“Right now,” said Bespaly, deviously.

Two figures, reeling, went to the station, where everyone in the subway had a man. Fat, who each time had to swear at the entrance, remained lying on the embankment. Five minutes later, he was asleep, taking advantage of the opportunity, in the protective field of his own stench.

Pushkin went to the street in the center, where he once wandered with the Strelka. She herself brought him to this place, then took out the cherished, unprecedented half a liter of real vodka and shared it with him. They hid away in the shadow of sin and sat there quietly, like mice, trying not to gurgle during rare sips. The arrow kept looking at the windows opposite, especially when the vodka began to warm. The windows were curtained, and Pushkin could not understand what she had found in such windows. He was well off then, he waited for complete darkness and climbed toward Strelka, feeling that this time everything will turn out. But she whispered him to the dick and for a long time sat like an owl, looking into these silly windows. He did not notice how he had fallen asleep, but had already awakened alone, in the early cold morning.

Today, the Strelki was not there. And the windows were right there, where to go. Windows - the eternal thing, while the house stands, they glow.This time they were not curtained, and Pushkin could have admired some guy who fed the girl about twelve years old with supper. Pushkin licked his food and went back. He did not know where else to find Arrow. He did not want to go to the police for understandable reasons.

Bespaly, meanwhile, made his way to Vagankovo. Once he met his daughter there when he was visiting his dead. She did not notice him, walked past quietly and sat down at a small stove. I sat, cried and left. He followed, at the "905th year" caught up with her and offered a triple throat. She agreed, took a sip, and the rest of the evening they roamed the city until they found a place to sleep.

Bespalyy remembered where Daughter was sitting down, and now he went straight to the grave. There was something written on the stove, but Bespaly forgot the letters. He sat foolishly for half an hour, talking to an unknown dead man, and set off home. My daughter did not come. Bespaly decided not to tempt fate in the subway and went to Kiev on foot.

It was getting dark. “The train to Lviv departs from the second route ...” - heard Bespaly. In the language of nonhumans, this meant: “It is getting dark. It's time to sleep ... ”He quickened his steps and five minutes later he saw a familiar mound.

Fat, Pushkin and Daughter sat by the fire, folded from the wreckage of boxes. My daughter sobbed, touching the fresh fingal under the eye, Pushkin smoked melancholically, and Fatty smiled smugly. It was obvious that the fingal was his job.

“Here,” Arrow sobbed. - Mota for the district, I wanted to give you mushrooms, but he ...

Thick overgrown:

- You want more? Be quiet, bitch.

- Mushrooms then left? - asked Bespaly, squinting at the fire.

“Stayed,” said Strelka. - Sit down, and we have a beer.

- Wow! - said Bespalyy, realizing that without his triple and beer - not beer. Sat down, got comfortable and stared at the fire.

Drunk Arrow sluggishly over mushrooms. Fat smugly smiled. And autumn, alas, really was not far off.

- You appeared before me ... - Pushkin said sleepily.

“The train to Cherkasy departs from the fourth route,” the announcer said sleepily. © Mr. Kiss, One Hundred Splinters of One Sense, 1998–1999