Zoom out Alexander Simdyanov Vladimir Bovykin Pepelats The victim trolley... ...and his bumper

Z1In the summer of 1990 Syndrome spent time mostly in Moscow between the various festivals and a rather tumultuous revelry. The group constantly changed its deployment within the precincts of the capital, so I was back to Moscow again by Pepelats. However, soon I finished resolutely to indulge in copious libations. This happened after I accidentally tore off the front bumper of the trolleybus at a speed of 120 km/hour driving around in a drunken state by Pepelats with my faithful friend Bovykin. In the early morning I caught up with the unfortunate trolleybus at the Sadovoe Ring and tore off its bumper with the whole right side of the mighty Pepelats. But, of course, during this very complex process both right wheels exploded and after the collision Pepelats started to skid not weakly, but I nevertheless did not lose control and the car was not overturned. Zoom Except the psychological trauma caused to the trolleybus driver, there were no victims in this incident, and the most stupid thing I could do in this situation was to wait for investigating my flight by the staff of Road Patrol in order to impress them with my odoriferous fume. So without hesitation I reached up on torn tires to the nearest exit from the ring and then disappeared into the subway, having left the zonked Bovykin in the car to think about such life events as "a bolt from the blue" or "end crept unnoticed". But in parting I still managed to say to my good friend: "Vovochka, when you go away – shut the car, please". By the way, perhaps Little Johnny wouldn't have minded to keep me company too, but at that moment the doors on the right side could have been opened only with a winch. Tragically, I had no time to wait for his exit out of the shock when he finally figured to get out through the driver's door, because from the Sadovoe Ring some people had already fled to see me in the form of clothes, which I had never liked since childhood. At the same time they shouted to me very loudly and insistently - "Stand!" But I did not want to execute exactly this very their request, because it didn't mean nothing good for me, and elegantly having jumped over the turnstile, I disappeared into the bowels of the underground ... Having surrounded Bovykin, who sat in Pepelats as a goby in tomato rolled up in a tin, the Road Patrol officers were in no hurry to retrieve him out of the car, but he did not insist on this too much. So they walked pensively around the car which had had a baptism of fire, with Magadan numbers, and after the phrase - "Okay, let's go to hell. Anyway, it's not our district", the got into their jalopy with flashing lights and drove away. Shortly after their departure, Bovykin came out of a shock therapy session, which I organized for him so easily and naturally, and climbed out of the car himself. Fulfilling my friendly parting words, he closed responsibly the two remaining doors and went by the undergroung to sleep at the rookery of Vostochny Syndrome. Perhaps he dreamed of disturbing dreams, but I slept without dreams in the morning, and having awoken I took away the key from Vova and after minor repairs of Pepelats by means of scrap and sledgehammer I drove it to the place of our living ...

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