1

I have always associated network marketing with deceit, scammers, luring passers-by to subways. They stand with folders, smart, business, young, successful. Their eyes are burning bright hellish flames, whose name is money.

“I know how to make a lot of money! - they meet me with a scornful significant look. - And you know nothing, nothing! You are an ant! Nothingness! Where are you going? You are a cog in the system, you are not worth anything. Nothing! You are a squirrel in a wheel, you run around here every day. Here and there, here and there! What for? Stop it! Hey, mancourt! Zombie! Wait! Hey! I am speaking with you! Rat! A rat running in a circle! ”

“Fuck you in the ass with your money! You yourself are zombies! Sectarians are bad! ”- I walk around the converted one in an arc, pretending to be afraid of getting infected. He is a leper, a downhill man. Mom always said: stay away from these, son, otherwise you will perish! And I hold on. Hold on, mom, with all my might. In order not to embed the next bastard in the jaw. These scum find me on the bus, at the bus stop, in the subway car, cinema, damn it! Suit business cards, cheap advertisements. Dale Cornegie wrinkles my hand, his snow-white anaconda's smile drives me crazy, fascinates me to insanity. I take out my wallet, twirl it in front of the git's nose:

- Here he is! Here it is, bitch! This is what you wanted, huh? Nichrome you do not get me, scum! Nichrome! You can enelpage as much as you want! Adjust, mirror, gesticulate, masturbate. You - enelpo, monkey, a doll in the hands of an experienced puppeteer. Where is your puppeteer? Where, huh? In America, sitting?

2

So I thought, until I started looking for a new job. I immediately dismissed network marketing. There were interesting proposals - the generation of violent fantasies networkers. What they just did not invent, to veil the basis of the foundations of a divorce on a circular basis. The pyramid was hidden from me on the Internet, the toilet, on the ballet, under the bath mat, and I, like a professional bloodhound, found it time after time, more and more convinced that it was not so easy to find a normal job in my profession.

I bought a call from my brother. Still, the level of confidence in relatives rolls over by an order of magnitude compared to strangers.

- Then a man called, said he wanted to invite you for an interview, - his brother's voice sounded excited. As if they offered him a job, not me. I, too, was delighted, excited in earnest. Just think about it! Someone found my resume in a heap of the same “take me anywhere, I can do everything, I can do everything”. This someone, judging by the recall of his brother, is personable, businesslike, was not too lazy to call me at home, leave his number. In general, everything is serious, boys! I will have a new high-paying job! Soon I will be in chocolate! In the business!

I picked up, holding back the enthusiasm I called back, having received ornate answers to plain questions, I was not embarrassed. Assistant director? No problem! Details during the interview? No problem!

And straightened out for an interview (the word is a beautiful interview) fully armed: in new jeans and a sweater, with a freshly printed resume. Minor experience, you can even say no, but what skills! What skills! Already on two pages. He is disciplined, easy to teach, purposeful, proactive and still running, playing the accordion. In both! On ba-me-not!

The first bell rang when the address was a normal apartment. However, with whom does not happen.The company is new, the office is temporary, they are recruiting staff. It all fits together!

Winter, snowdrifts, I walk in yards around the central district of Minsk, looking for a house on a paper map in the dark (there were no GPS phones yet). Nichrome is not visible, even prick out the eye, where is the house. I ask numbers from passers-by. They throw up their hands, live here and do not know. An aunt with a stroller came out for a walk, knows only the porch numbers and the first letter of the last name. By the method of exclusion, I find the third building. I cross the grille - well, right, my back in the soap, my feet in the snow. Crossed for an interview for the position of assistant director. Rabotnichek.

In a shaky voice I inform the intercom about intentions, with a sinking heart I hear the cherished: “Come in! The door is open! ”This is a recorded voice from the intercom, but still nice.

I climb the stairs to the third floor. The door, upholstered in slightly battered dermantin, is ajar. In the hallway I was met by Pavel Valerievich himself - a representative man of about sixty. In a suit, socks, with a tie. With a small tummy, short gray hairs on the head. The bald front front offers a view of the massive skull. Brains in his chamber. The voice is deep, chest. Look domineering, confident. Cheeks juicy, loose. A fawning young man of about thirty comes out of the kitchen. Dumb, stooping, dark-haired. Also in a suit, white shirt, but without a tie. The suit hangs on it with sacking, like on a parrot. In general, the working environment. One already recruited, it was my turn!

We pass into the hall. Here, everything is well planned for a convenient interview. Nothing extra. Home worn furniture closed up for office. Two chairs, a sofa, a coffee table.

Pavel Valerievich sits in a chair. Crossed ankles, studying summary. I study his thin black socks. The director looks like a commander, a retired police colonel. Or even the general. But no: it smacks of special services. KGB, security. For sure! Intelligence service. He is Muller from "17 Moments of Spring"! The same cunning, roguish look, the same weighed intricate phrases. Manners are the same as intonation. So I want to hear from him: "And you, Chernenko, ask to stay."

Muller pretends that he does not care about the summary. Finally she sets aside a leaf with achievements to the side, crosses her hands into a dragonfly on her stomach, purses her lips critically and splashes out:

- Well, and how much the Master pays you?

So much contempt in his voice, I have never heard such a thing in my whole life. I move mentally to the floor, I wake up from impudence on the verge of a foul. The brain melts from the complexity of the problem: the question with a tattle-up - you will begin to answer, you acknowledge that there is a Master, you will begin to bully - they will immediately filter out. Muttering something unintelligible in response:

- It does not matter.

Müller gnaws at the concept of the slaveholding system with a grip of a bull terrier - I after all agreed - gradually opens my eyes. I am a slave, I cringe for a penny, I stick at my uncle, who throws a nibbled bone once a month.

Suddenly, a protective mechanism turns on in my head. Muller tries to humiliate me, paints a picture of my life instead of me. Is it really knocking down the price in this way? What you need to be stupid hypnotist to use such dirty methods. I turn on the simpleton, decide to find out what they are doing here, flirt with Müller to the escaped slave, who is looking for a new Master.

Muller is not so simple. For a long time I rubbed wasabi into my brain about a unique product. Further training. A lot of training: seminars, webinars, workshops, colloquiums. Internships, support, fabulous fees. Much money. Very, very much money. Everything you sell is all yours. But there is a nuance: the product must first be bought. For yours?

The question remains without attention, we again go into the wilds of slavery. You are a slave, until you get rid of slave thinking, stay on the chain.

I already understood what products, seminars and fees in question. I am upset, very. I want to give this bastard in the face right here. For spending my time, for luring, humiliating, trampling a dream, for entrapment of my brain. My poor, poor brain was treated with wasabi.Now it's stuffing, noodles. The brains melt, they are short-circuited. After such a pickle in a normal person, the hysterics will begin, depression. A normal person after such treatment will need the help of a psychologist, a psychotherapist-endocrinologist. But I have an iron psyche, frost-resistant, frost-resistant, reinforced concrete, impenetrable.

Slowly getting off the hook:

“I need to think,” I break down like a virgin, I feel awkward, refusing the true gentleman ...