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THE WORLD OF THE GALACTIC CONSUL

Evgeny FILENKO

GIVE YOU THIS WORLD

Fantastic stories

pain threshold

In the mirror

Every evening I return to my room, without undressing, I stand in front of the mirror and quietly hate myself.

By the way, it's not always quiet. It happens that the bag flies in one direction, the shoes in the other. I had to replace an ordinary lamp with a ball of unbreakable plastic. On the interior design of the room, if such was intended, it had almost no effect. The mirror also got hit, but it was unbreakable from the very beginning. After I hurt myself with fire tongs that bounced off him (why the hell are there fire tongs in the house if there is no real fireplace ?!), and someone else, it seems - Anselm, explained to me that breaking a mirror is a bad omen, I left him at ease. It's not the mirror's fault that I'm ugly. It simply, with inhuman indifference, informs me of this indisputable fact.

I also hate the mirror, but it seems that this rubbish is stronger than me.

Dr. Jorstin, my psychoanalyst, keeps saying: “You need to accept yourself as you are, love yourself ... love yourself, and the whole world will love you ... give it at least a small chance ...”

But how can you love what is reflected in the mirror?!

Anselm, with his characteristic perspicacity, remarks:

If you really do not like your appearance, you can simply get rid of the mirror. To hell with him,” he continues, lounging on the couch in full breadth and longitude with cool curiosity, watching my silent duel with his own reflection. - In the end, you are smart, I know a hundred people who are sorely lacking in this quality of yours. Of this hundred, a good half would gladly exchange their advantages with you.

So you also understand that external attractiveness is their advantage, - I state obtusely.

Don't be mean, Tonta, and no one will know the difference between them and you.

They and I… me and them. There will always be a gap between us.

Stop it, Anselm grumbles. - You can always change your appearance. Dye your hair, shorten your nose, build up what you think is missing for complete harmony. Do you have any idea at all, - he asks, inspiring, - what is it, complete harmony?

I I hang for a couple of minutes in thought. And while stereotyped beauties with ideal female forms(every second one sticks out her middle finger with indescribable gloating), Anselm announces with great sarcasm:

But then it will no longer be you, but some kind of positively unfamiliar girl neither to me nor to yourself, to anyone at all, who has never existed in nature before. As if just born into the world, and immediately in an adult state. Which in itself is quite amusing and leads to various thoughts, but will it not lead to the loss of the personality to which we all, including you, are used to? What if your new shell, the most exciting articles and the most winning appearance, does not begin to dictate its rules to the consciousness imprisoned inside this beautiful and comfortable prison, redraw it for itself and get rid of the superfluous? And what exactly she considers superfluous, we all, including you, can only guess.

Let's experiment, - I mutter grumpily, but no one listens to me.

No, personally, - Anselm rants, dangling in the air with a powerful hairy leg in a worn slipper and looking at me cheerfully and shamelessly, - I’m quite pleased with your company in its current form, I’m not ready to wean and I don’t advise you. Just don't be mean and it will make life easier for everyone.

Everyone, everyone? Even me?

You will not believe!

I I look at him - six and a half feet of first-class tanned meat, covered in visible areas covered with light mulberry wool and neon tattoos, cast muscles, a chased profile, a powerful jaw in evening stubble ... what other vulgar pseudo-literary characteristic of a universal male can be applied here .., and that's meanness: all of the above will fall into the line, everything is available, you can come up and touch it in order to make sure of reality. I stare at him, and I want to kill him, even with irony. I hate his perfection in stark contrast to my wretchedness. Next to him, I look even more disgusting and insignificant than when I am alone in front of a damned mirror. As if it wasn’t enough for the heavens that they had brought me into the world a skinny, faded fear-woman, and in order to punish me more painfully, they sent this six-and-a-half-foot attack on my head - self-satisfied, impeccable in everything, not excluding intelligence, what with their hand is particularly offensive. Argumentation like "nondescript, but smart" does not roll next to him. Well, yes, he is not at all stupider than me, and in modern sections of big mathematics he is even more knowledgeable.

But, unlike me, he is also good-looking.

We're not even a comic operetta couple. We are the beauty and the beast.

My secret thoughts must be reflected on my face, adding to its ugliness, because Anselm raises himself on his elbow and drops in annoyance:

Do me a favor, Tonta, stop it. - Then he makes an eloquent pause and asks a question from which I finally begin to shake: - So we will make love or? ..

Or, - I say, without opening my lips, filling my answer with all the poison that was found in my poisonous glands.

Without the slightest hesitation, he clarifies:

What about sex?

I don't dignify it with an answer.

Then maybe we'll just…” and he calls a spade a spade.

Go away! - I spit out with hellish flames.

Anselm unquestioningly picks up the limbs and extricates himself from the embrace of the sofa.

It's a joke, I say coolly. - You know, my cynicism is in no way inferior to yours.

Yes, whatever you like, - he snorts, not in the least offended, and spreads out again. It bounces off my seizures like a tennis ball off a wall. If he wasn't so good, we could be called the perfect couple. - As soon as the intimate sphere disappears, we can frolic in co-spatial issues for the number seven thousand one hundred and five, your favorite. You seem to have moved on completely, don't you? Or just chatting... although you are not in the mood to chat today, as I see it.

Insightful, I told you ... And why did I get mad at him? As soon as this first sound thought of the evening comes into my head, he sits down on the sofa and addresses me the same question:

Antonia Stokke-Lindfors, and why, one wonders, are you mad at me?

I even lost all my anger. I I stand in front of him, batting my eyes like the most stupid doll (large gray glass eyes and short, as if singed, whitish eyelashes, in a word - there is nowhere more ugly).

Oleg Palezhin

Pain threshold. Second Chechen War

This story is dedicated to ordinary guys in the cities and villages of Russia. It is written about the army of the late 90s, about the war, about hatred and anger, about unjustified cruelty. In the center of events is a unit of motorized rifle troops, which performs combat missions on the territory of the rebellious republic.

pain threshold

Second Chechen War

Oleg Palezhin

© Oleg Palezhin, 2018

ISBN 978-5-4490-8002-8

Created with the intelligent publishing system Ridero

Second Chechen War

Ekaterinburg

Palezhin O. A.

P14 Pain threshold: a documentary and artistic story / O. A. Palezhin. - Yekaterinburg: "Storm", 2017. - 288 p.

This story is dedicated to ordinary guys in the cities and villages of Russia. It is written about the army of the late 90s, about the war, about hatred and anger, about unjustified cruelty. In the center of events is a unit of motorized rifle troops, which performs combat missions on the territory of the rebellious republic.

© Palezhin O. A., 2017

Even when I started writing this text, I did not believe that I would be able to finish the job. Why are manuscripts of this sort created? From my point of view, primarily for civilians. Both wars in the Caucasus during the dashing nineties somehow touched every third family in Russia. Who is to blame? Undoubtedly, the state, its pernicious policy and inflated ambitions of officials of all stripes and cabinets. Money, oil, elementary geopolitics and much more, which the simple Russian soldier. The analysis has already been carried out, the results have been summed up, but has a conclusion been drawn? For the military, this lesson is written in blood, and if we have learned it, then we simply have to fight differently. For politicians, this is a point-blank question - do you fit your position? If yes, then your weapon is dialogue, thanks to which both sides must avoid bloodshed. In such a vast country, the task of the president is to guarantee peace and order to every citizen, and not to a separate group of the privileged. For the Minister of Defense, this is a clear plan of action and high level training soldiers, and not the stars and buttons of pure gold on the dress uniform. If neither one nor the other works correctly in the country, then there is simply nowhere to understand what idea a person sheds blood for. It turns out that they fought for each other - that's all that comes to mind.

Another reason for writing the text is a stupid, like a crowbar, layman and his words like "he who fought will not tell the truth." With you, that is, a person who has nothing to do with the performance of military duty, of course, no one will ever be frank. It is for people like you that this manuscript was written. To briefly descend from the ceiling of a mortgage apartment and at least mentally try on a tarpaulin boot, body armor and a helmet. Everything we write about the war is dear to us in its own way. Here, on paper pages, our friends come to life again, laugh, dream and talk with you. You even have time to get used to them again, but then it all goes away, like a severe hangover, and it becomes easier. You spill the war out of you because you don't want to live it anymore. Equally, you become indifferent to certain political processes, advertising slogans of various parties and calls for civic duty in elections. All this dregs after the war does not matter to you. You have already fulfilled your duty, still there, in the trench, under fire from your own and others. The war, for which the state is ashamed, will surely be forgotten. The book, with its real characters, will live on as long as it is read.

CHAPTER FIRST

August - September 1999

The weather was overcast, with a light rain. The air temperature dropped only a couple of degrees and froze at plus twenty-seven. The sky was covered with leaden clouds, slowly floating over the barracks of a motorized rifle regiment. On sunny days in this city, the asphalt will someday melt, and the soldiers' feet will get stuck in it up to their knees. The windows in the barracks were slightly opened, ventilating the premises from the smell of sweat and bleach. When it started to rain, the soldiers breathed a sigh of relief. It is high time to cool the hot heads of demobilizations and fathers-commanders. Jumps, being in the location of the company, silently looked out the window. Through the transparent drops on the glass, figures of soldiers were visible. They swept the regimental parade ground, sweeping puddles more than falling poplar leaves. But no matter what the soldier toils about, if only the service does not seem like honey - this is the main and deepest thought of the army. Behind the concrete fence of the checkpoint, buses and trolleybuses passed, pretty girls and young men free from military duty passed by. Part was located in the center of the city, because of which the military personnel had difficulty getting used to the service, dreaming of a home. In the evening, when lights were lit in the windows of the apartments, the soul became especially lousy. Sanya recalled the beginning of the service and sighed with relief. There was still six months left.

"Cherpaki" day and night overcame concrete fence, leaving on his own. A soldier who has served a year is considered the most evil in the army. Served for a year - and a whole year left. The fighters disappeared on the territory of the market, located next to the flight school. The flight school is within easy reach, and the infantry has laid a safe route through the yards and playgrounds, of which there are plenty in the city. In order for the sortie to succeed, you need to have civilian clothes with you. In this weather, it's just shorts and sneakers. To get caught by a patrol means to let down the company officer on duty. There, among the malls, the fighter changed into a new thing and hid his uniform in a regular bag. The scheme was worked out by more than one call and practically failed to today. Even the minister of defense could not predict and foresee anything in the army, and even more so a conscript soldier. Therefore, when rumors about the beginning of hostilities in the Caucasus spread around the regiment, the guys simply laughed it off, referring to the quick settlement of the conflict. We are Russia. Someone from the paratroopers and special forces will figure it out without us, because they are cool, at least cooler than motorized riflemen. At the general formation, it later turned out that about a dozen fighters did not spend the night in the barracks. Titov, without taking his hands out of his pockets, walked importantly along the "take-off", shouting at the young people. A large green T-shirt with drawn-out armpits looked ridiculous on the thin body of a soldier. The park and economic day in the unit is carried out on Saturday, without spoiling the personnel for two days off. Seryoga sniffed with a snotty nose, kicking a piece laundry soap. He kicked it out of the hands of the soldiers washing the floors. They cursed their grandfather, but continued to beat the "take-off", crawling on their knees from corner to corner.

- The boys came back from AWOL, no? - asked a fighter from the outfit of Titov.

“So you ask the duty officer this question,” the sergeant answered, deliberately hitting a bucket of water.

- It's just that the company commander will return soon, - the soldier continued to mumble, - what should he say if he misses?

- And you, with all your outfit, stand up and be silent, - Seryoga laughed at the whole barracks.

Skachkov watched the officers go from the checkpoint to the headquarters. Before the lunch break, the regimental commander had already left twice and returned again.

“Either the exercises, or an important person will come to visit,” thought Sanya. It's too early to replenish. In the park kicked out of the garages combat vehicles infantry, making inspections and checking the performance of engines. Orders were reduced in parts, leave and vacations were canceled. The personnel employed at the training ground were returned to the location. Ensigns took up accounting of the property of their units. Thus ended another summer. The old-timers did not like this, and they tortured the outfit at headquarters with questions, to which the outfit brazenly replied:

"It's a military secret."

- Duty officer, on the way out! shouted the orderly.

The duty officer jumped out of the cloakroom, rattling heavy tarpaulin boots, adjusting the badge on his chest. The commander returned to the company from the headquarters. On the face of the captain wandered not that thoughtfulness, not that bewilderment. After listening to the report, he opened the doors of the office and ordered not to disturb.

- And if the battalion commander comes? - the officer on duty said in surprise.

- Then call! - said the commander and slammed the door behind him.

- Some bullshit, maybe something happened? Titov asked.

“How should I know,” the duty officer answered languidly and retired to the supply room.

Titov was not satisfied with this answer. He took a glass from a tank of boiled water and leaned it against the doors of the office. The orderly, standing on the "bedside table", looked at Sergei dumbfounded and even frightened. But the grandfather did not pay any attention to the fighter, listening to what was happening outside the door. Judging by the tone of the commander, he was talking to his wife, answering gently, carefully, choosing every word.

- What kind of war, Valya? I'm telling you - along the border. That's all for now, we'll talk at home. I have to go,” the captain tried to end the conversation.

Titov jumped away from the door when the phone hit the base, stood next to the orderly and scooped up water into a glass.

“Line up the fighters,” the commander ordered the orderly, “call all the officers into the company. After lunch building on the parade ground.

- Rota, form up! Dress code number four! the orderly shouted, watching the soldiers take off their sandals and pull on tarpaulin boots.

The sergeants lined up their squads, counted the personnel and reported to the company commander. He glanced at his watch and sent the fighters to the dining room. After a lunch break, the regiment's units were taken to the parade ground. Fine and nasty rain did not stop drizzling, falling behind the collar and flowing down the brook along the spine. Titov looked at his fighters with displeasure. The uniforms of the newly arrived soldiers were noticeably faded and whitened after washing. The sergeant warned that it was necessary to wash with hands, not with brushes, but the youth did not listen to him. And now the camouflage on the fighters looked like they had been wearing it for a year or two. Even wet, it was much lighter than on the soldiers of other squads. This pissed off the sergeant. Not the fact that the fighters overdid it during the wash, but the fact that useful advice the old-timer was passed over deaf ears.

- In connection with the difficult situation in Stavropol and Dagestan, our valiant guards regiment will go to guard the border with Chechnya, - the political officer of the regiment spoke in a loud and clear voice.

The words sounded resoundingly, in the manner of the guards fervently, which is why many in the ranks presented the precariousness of the reliability of political information. Crossing his arms behind his back and looking around the battalions, he continued:

- Officers and soldiers who do not want to serve outside the unit, take a step out of line.

After a short pause, several fighters and a young lieutenant stepped forward. They walked out as if they were to blame: head down and squinting against the raindrops on their eyelashes. The political officer shook his head in displeasure and copied their names into his tablet. Titov was delighted with the circumstances. He was tired of the barracks, charter and guards. The heart demanded romance and freedom of action. The ranks at this moment were animatedly whispering to each other, ignoring the remarks of the officers.

“Stopudovo war,” buzzed in every ranks, “the Chechens seem to have attacked Dagestan.

- Don't be afraid, boys, we will guard the border.

- Where are we with such a crowd to the border? Have we disbanded the border troops?

“Conversations,” the sergeants hissed angrily, turning to the soldiers. - Do you want to dress up? Stand and listen silently. Maybe we won’t go anywhere, according to rumors, only the first battalion is sent.

- Our division includes, - the same booming voice was heard, - a separate reconnaissance battalion, a tank regiment, an airborne brigade and an artillery division. Can you imagine what kind of power it is, fighters? The motherland hopes that in your mighty ranks there will no longer be sick, lame and slanting. Especially on the day of shipping. The medical battalion and repairmen are leaving with us. Everyone who stays in the city will continue to serve, but not as responsibly and risky as we are! Think, warriors, what awaits you here? Endless outfits? Aren't you tired of peeling potatoes and scrubbing floors? And ahead of the Caucasus! Make your choice wisely.

Alexander Dakhnenko. Pain threshold. (Poems.)

... A mirror light will flash into your eyes,

And in horror, closing his eyes,

I will retreat to that region of the night

From where there is no return ...

Alexander Blok

"From the quicksands of the everyday rumble of a continuous ..."

From the quicksands of everyday continuous rumble,
From the swamp of daily bustle, where you can't remember the face.
The melancholy doom of the miracle of the night comes through,
The inevitability of tragic fates after the end.

What was like joy - crumbled into dust and decay,
What used to nourish - now, like spiritual rust ...
You no longer keep track of losses, "wins", exchanges -
Loneliness consumes everything, even the soul.

Getting out of dead spaces through pain, through torment,
You find peace on the edge of unearthly silence
Where infernal banal sounds do not dare to sound...
Where are you alive - a nameless exile of a lost country.

“Well, what if you still come…”

Well, what if you still come
In the most impossible light dream...
So, as if you are delirious with me
Together, in lonely silence.
Lightening the burden of this life
Not for long, until dawn only,
You step as if from a portrait,
At night you will come to the heights of the roofs.
Here now I need so little...
(Memory clearly hears the word "no" ...)
I'm glad that I'm dreaming of you, touchy,
Through the fog and haze of distant years.

“I remember how to do good…”

I remember how to do good
Within the demonic system.
Here I will unlearn how to speak
On uncomfortable topics.
And nothing that good across
Your throat will get up ...
It's just a visual lesson
The way the soul will not.
Will you walk, smile, play,
Years and years without counting.
Well, in the name of things to die,
Damn job done.

“This is obedience. This time…”

"I'm an extra jack from a random deck..."

I'm an extra jack from a random deck
Your game is so strange to me.
And again a sip of doomed freedom -
Nighttime moments without sleep.
And in this simple ugly layout
I'm an extra, but sad player.
Tell me, are you left out?
Why your annoying reproach?
From the bottom of my heart (banality, but still),
Always talking to you...
I loved hopelessly, to breakdowns, to trembling,
Why did you open all of this...
You didn't seem to need it.
I'm sorry, I couldn't...
And masks and poses I'm indifferent to them
Reacted, and was too strict.
Well, we went to our little rooms,
Marked by different fates.
Now I know my feeling is a toy
And so you understood.

“We lack sensitivity sometimes…”

We lack sensitivity sometimes
And honesty, and the subtleties of the soul ...
But sincerity you made a game.
Fake: useless, angry and nervous.
Although oblivion pulls without a trace,
Even though you forgot me a long time ago
I will hear your voice, as always ...
And I remember what was not and was ...