The turning point in the life of our country is a year either 1990, or 1991, I don’t remember exactly. This is what? So that you feel that no one then knew what would happen. Either they will return red, and they will start burning with a hot iron according to the lists, or the bright era of unbridled democracy and abundance will come. The fans were equally. The insidious West has already been let out by anyone who is not falling, but at the same time they looked as if they were aiming for a bullet.

It was in Brussels. The delegation is small: the chief is a big boss, he cannot do without him; two direct developers - Popov and Ryabov, a district committee member from the Komsomol, symbolizing youth, a KGB agent disguised as a personal assistant to the chief, and the translator Tsfasman.

The business part of the program was completed and the host party gave a farewell party. A separate zalchik in a tavern, a lot of beer in mugs, is not enough for our standards snacks. Ours, in the absence of a sufficient number of Belgian francs, responded to Stolichnaya, which had two allowed bottles per nose.

Fun is in full swing. A long table, twilight, decoration of the hall in a deliberately rough rustic style. Guests in the minority. Hosts of both sexes - about twenty people. Young, energetic, smiling guys - rarely, who are over thirty. Dressed, who in that much. Ours, as on selection, in identical black suits of the Bolshevichka factory are not either gangsters from the provinces away, not the ensemble at the conductor's funeral. Gradually, the knots on the necks were weakened, buttons on their jackets were unbuttoned, Ryabov completely hung his back and frolicked in one shirt, rolling up his sleeves.

Tsfasman, the pest, worked reluctantly, occasionally looking up from fish salad. Therefore, in the course was the universal language of the deaf-and-dumb and the beginnings of school programs in foreign languages. The KGB curator had a phrase book with a faded “for official use” stamp, from which he occasionally looked thoughtfully. Popov tried in vain to solicit this little book from him, but he always received a refusal: “Not Allowed.” Having contrived to look over the shoulder of the serviceman, he read the first sentence: “Are there Germans in the village?” And lagged behind him forever.

Soon, feeling superfluous in the company of young people, the chief departed for the hotel. To celebrate, Popov and Ryabov, to the applause of those present and the reproachful gaze of the KGBeshnik, pounded two hundred grams of vodka. That's where it started.

In the Vikings, I don’t know why, but most of the owners attributed themselves to this particular ethnic group, the spirit of competition immediately awoke. For starters, one of them drank a mug of beer, holding only his teeth. From our repeat this number no one dared. Then we went. They sang a horrible ancient battle song in chorus - neither melodies, nor rhythm, nor warehouse, nor frets. We responded with Katyusha and Moscow Region evenings. The loudest tried nasal Tsfasman. They brought another beer. Arm-wrestling competitions began. Then, seldom did anyone know the name, but the struggle on the hands was not unusual. Popov, who was engaged in weightlifting at the institute, was taking the rap for himself and that guy, I mean Tsfasman. The Komsomol leader dropped out of the competition for a good reason - he recited Shakespeare's sonnets with unrestrained laughter to the Belgian in Marshak's translation. The kebist, barely overcoming a puny bespectacled person, immediately went to the toilet.

Ryabov got a hefty red-haired brat - one hundred percent type from Hollywood. They huffed for about ten minutes - the Viking was clearly stronger, but Ryabov kept on moral and volitional. From their side, something similar to “shay-bu, shay-bu” was heard, inspiring Red Sonya to the feat. Only two people supported Ryabov: Popov gritting his teeth, and Tsfasman cunningly shouting “Guz’s not working!"

Began doomsday.Everybody screamed. The red-haired giant who turned burgundy pounded his chest with his fists, justifying himself in front of his colleagues. The Belgian girls rushed to kiss Ryabov, while shouting to their Hercules something mocking. The KGB officer returning from the outhouse, instantly orienting himself in the situation, promised Rjabov in his ear to celebrate his achievement at the lecture, and winked meaningfully. Ryabov straightened his shoulders, feeling rewarded with a diploma "For hard work" or, as it was intimately called, - "For the dull-heart." Three gloomy Belgians secretly counted Tsfasman rainbow banknotes. The adept of the steadfastness of the Russian spirit managed to organize a tote. But I was in no hurry to share the currency with the winner.

When they calmed down, sat down and stretched to the circles, there was a fierce roar of the fallen strongman. Jumping to his feet, he quickly and excitedly spoke, becoming more and more hot. There were replicas from the side, a slight dispute arose in the host camp. The girls giggled, covering their faces, and slyly glancing at the guests through wide-spread fingers. And the guests were waiting for how the speaker’s speech would end, giving a bad feeling about foreboding. Again competition? High jump? Fist fight? Spitting on the distance?

The giant finished a fiery speech and, to the applause of the public, climbed onto the table. We watched in silence - it was a new, unknown game. Under the weight of the old age table creaked oak, the head of a Viking almost got the ceiling. He was well, tramp. And here, this handsome starts unbuttoning jeans. I do not even want to say what thoughts flashed through the heads of the envoys of the country of the Soviets. The thug lowers his pants with his underpants down to his knees and, holding the reproductive organ in his fist, puts his eggs on the public display, shouting something triumphantly. On all sides, screaming, hooting, hoofing, approving shouts, laughter ... The female half, without embarrassment, meticulously evaluates the exhibits, animatedly sharing their impressions.

Our petrified in poses, in which they found an unexpected strip, eyes mowing at the KGBeshnika. Even Tsfasman held the fork around his mouth, not daring to send the next batch of salad. The KGBeshnik, through clenched teeth, practically in a venomourious way, passed along the chain: "Calmly, comrades, this is a provocation." And he reached into his jacket pocket. The comrades decided that the Chekist was there, at least Mauser, and they started to look around, wondering what could be useful in hand-to-hand combat. A Komsomol member, leaving a foreigner, took a seat in the rear guard, imagining himself an ambush regiment. But the commander just fished out a handkerchief with embroidery “do not forget the family, Boris,” and began to fan them languidly. Somewhat disappointed, ours relaxed.

The big man didn't calm down. Smiling wryly, he did not take his gaze from the “Communists”, and something defiantly filtered through his teeth. At the same time, the scoundrel, shamelessly sifted through his fingers in the hairy leathery pouch of impressive personal belongings, and in every other way drew the attention of the public to this place. Finally, putting the body in such a way that the weighty muddies, swaying heavily, loudly slapped their thighs, shut up. But at the same time he demanded he pointed his finger down, and then he instructed him on the quieter guests.

“Tsfasman,” quietly called the mobilized KGB fighter at the corner of his mouth. - What does this freak want of us?

Tsfasman almost choked, quickly swallowed the food from the fork, and deeply flushed, hissed venomously:

- It is known that it requires to show in response, they say, compare ...

“Is he crazy?”

- And fuck them will make out! - sneaked a translator.

KGBeshnik helplessly looked at the unit entrusted to him.

- What are the opinions, comrades? Here it is - the corruption of capitalism in all its glory, neither shame nor conscience.

- And not to send them ...? - expressed the general attitude of Ryabov.

Ours looked at the Belgians, patiently waiting for the results of the party meeting. They looked at the reason that loomed before their eyes. The most disgusting was that the bastard was completely relaxed. Smiling, and not making the slightest attempt to cover up the shame.Colleagues have already lost keen interest in him and quietly discussed the chances of Russians. Only the maiden whom the leader of the youth recited ...