Читать книгу: «The Blog», страница 17
"Send me a written order."
So unrefined, indecorous a boor. No manners…
Qyokha never received any order from the Commander-in-Chief and was ignored throughout the war in which he didn’t retreat a meter. However, neither became he a Hero of Nation…
Two battalions were positioned in the open field to defend the approaches to Stepanakert.
There they stayed for one third of the war, not even having shovels to dig trenches. Short of water supply. No food except for packaged pasta.
Drones flew over their heads loaded with cluster bombs for the city, never dropped anything at the idling force.
Lucky SOB's…
While on the other, far-off edge of the war, four days and nights a detail were lying in a dugout, never leaving it, suffocating in the stench, their own and of their comrades-in-arms'.
Those bitchy drones with infrared rays, even at night were they capable of figuring out from the posture of a soldier on his haunches that there was a dugout at hand…
The war, in which the Armenian Army did not take part, leaving the RMK Army (40% of which were conscripts drafted in the Republic of Armenia) and the local reservists to stand against the combined Azerbaijani-Turkish-Israeli-Syrian-Tunisian military efforts and, in the same breath, to report to Yerevan, to execute strategic directives from there…
The war, which, when mentioned in TV and radio news, made faces of Yerevan citizens tighten and darken, and look back at all those bill-board pictures of boys in camouflage fatigues decorating the city thoroughfares above the streams of traffic thronging along.
Pretty boys from the army of Republic of Armenia against the backdrop of viewy, conceptual landscapes.
And the picture of one soldier without views screened completely by the flames thrown up from the firing gun behind his back, his mouth open to save his eardrums. He was as young as them, those war propaganda models, that boy named Albert, however, in the picture he looks a strangely ageless, timeless soldier with his cheeks and uniform coat blown out by the air concussion at the discharge. The citizens did not know that Albert had been long since blown up by a drone together with his howitzer gun, and Yerevan City continued to live as before, for the majority of its population Mountainous Karabakh remained as unknown backcountry as for Moscow citizens was Sapozhok District in the Ryazan Region, except for those whose sons were at their hitch in the RMK Army of Self-Defense…
The progressively informed world community were full of indignation regarding that war, in between two slurps of Pepsi or beer in front of their monitors, after which they clicked over to the details of the marital life of the singer Googgie or onto the mass grave unearthed in the cellar of the otherwise unremarkable ranch in Texas, while the bulk of the remote control holders had not even switched from their X-sites and live baseball matches…
Members of the KVN* team “Moscow Armenians”, in a jolly group, ran cheerfully out onto the Theater of the Soviet Army (TSA, we keep sacred traditions and names) stage in the games of the 1/4 finals of KVN and an assimilated Jew-Azerbaijani on the jury board, flushed up his grade marks for the wit of their jokes…
(*Russian Central Television show-pacifier considered a supreme spring-board for a stand-up comedian career.)
"That’s life, see?" used to repeat my mother-in-law, Emma Arshakovna, while she was still here…
The bloggers who arrived in from Russia (yes, there were some), wearing heavy-duty helmets and bulky body armor, sang from the front-line trenches their praises, full of awe, to the incomparably outstanding human qualities of Armenian Soldier.
A French correspondent on a fleeting visit to the deep rear, not even reaching Karabakh, with his hair strands collected loosely into a debonair knot atop his crown, explained, full of resentment, to his smartphone:
“Une putain de maison de fous”…
A few Armenian volunteers from the CIS countries and overseas Diaspora were sent by the Ministry of Defense of Armenia back to their respective places of residence.
Those of them who, ignoring MD of RA, still made it to Karabakh, were sent home by the local commanders reporting to Yerevan.
The volunteers felt offended and humiliated, however, they stayed alive…
Some outright bad asses, refusing to grasp the requirements of the globally current moment, merged with the local militia of one or another of the villages, managed to temporarily disrupt the plans agreed upon, for a day or two, but then the situation returned to the outlined track…
Who knows, some of the most stubborn might have survived and in 30 years, on their deathbeds, they would say:
"Yes, I’ve been there then!"
We all remember Mel Gibson's famous pep talk before the Scots lined up for the battle with the out-numbering force of the British enslavers in The Brave Heart.
Some topnotch action movie, right?
Sometimes I think, would all the Roman legions be able to resist a battalion of paratroopers armed with modernized Kalashnikov assault rifles for 45 days?.
. . . . .
The village emptied out, the younger folks taken to the front, except for Armen, the father of seven kids.
The village children (except for those of Armen) were transported to Armenia, the homeland of the Yezznaggomer settlers.
Out of 12, life still went on in 3-4 houses.
Briefly, the principal of school appeared, who deserted and arrived in the village to drive his cattle over to Armenia.
The cannonade rolled in from the horizon, day by day more and more audible…
Meanwhile, I moved earth with the wheelbarrow to cover the back wall of the workshop shed with an earthen rampart so that the rains would not flood in thru that wall, a not overly urgent task but you have to do something to fill the days up.
It was a good wheelbarrow, two-wheeled, homemade 6 years ago. The box of rotten tin rigged for the job was, sure enough, younger.
After the day work I got seated at my desktop PC and translated Pynchon's novel.
Well done Thomas, the real thing, decently produced…
(http://sumizdut.narod.ru/volume-2/pynchon/index.html)
Then Melsik came to visit with a bunch of some home-pickled grass.
Not that he avoided eye-contact, he did look into your eyes, but in his stare there was nothing except for some not seeing emptiness.
"In all of the village he respected only you," said he, “so he said.”
Melsik’s Aram’s father.
I had rice and bread for dinner. We drank alcohol of double distillation, yet we could not get drunk.
Thirty years ago, in the first war, Melsik was a phedai, and in this one, he arbitrarily came to the artillery unit of a wide-range gun by which Aram fought. Together with his son he was retreating from Fuzuli to Amaras.
It was a good gun, covering up to 20 km, only you couldn’t see where it hit.
Once upon a time it partook in the Battle for Berlin firing shells at the Reichstag.
In Karabakh, there were only six such guns. Nearby Amaras, the drones finished off the last of them.
Melsik talked calm, evenly, without the slightest emotion.
The gun personnel commander allowed him to stay, since his son was there, and the officer even listened to Melsik's advice, but he died anyway.
Because they see from above where to hit and how.
Of the entire battery personnel, only three troopers survived, one of them Melsik, yet he was not wounded like the other two…
Aram died before his eyes, about a hundred meters off. They were setting the gun up and there banged that blast.
Melsik ran up, began to turn over the corpse of his son, as he had been turning over his comrades-phedais thirty years ago.
Two fragments killed Aram, one through the heart, the second through the temple to the neck. Probably, he didn't have time to feel anything…
The night is nearing. The kitchen windows wide open. Melsik sits haggard-faced, his eyes are empty.
He lists the mistakes in tactics and strategy. That when the civilians were evacuated out of Hadrut City, there remained nothing to fight for, no one to protect.
A column of empty buses came from Armenia and Komandushchi (yes, that same one) shouted thru a megaphone for people to get on.
The Prime Minister sent him as a representative who’d be listened to.
"Just as Turks fled from us in that war, so now we are from them, there are too many Kalash assault rifles dropped on the roadsides."
Melsik took his 33-year-old son and buried him in his native village (he did not know that the village was planned to be handed over), then he came to Yezznaggomer to drive Aram's cattle to Armenia, where his widowed daughter-in-law, Amest, had already gone to with both of her preschool kids.
The next morning he told me that the capitulation had been signed at midnight…
Three days later I took a hot bath in the tin hut (of thermically isolated walls) and left Yezznaggomer at 10.17 am.
The door I did not lock, so that the marauders would not break it in vain. Still, a "euro" door brought over 100 km from Stepanakert, pity the thing.
On the two-wheeled wheelbarrow I cinched a sack with sweaters that my daughters and Satenic once knitted for me, also a backpack with a one-liter container of absinthe and a pair of shoes, a pair of jeans and a pack of cookies.
Atop of everything else was fastened the guitar. All other belongings were left behind, even the Solzhenitsyn's three-volume work with his autograph.
And I had already managed to distribute alcohol away in the village. The things of halidom should be disposed of in awe and deferential devotion. And in time.
So, with a light heart and not too heavy a wheelbarrow, moved I forward without looking back, past the house of Anna and Armen, which was built only a year ago on grants from the Diaspora because of their seven children.
Armen was still dismantling tin corrugated boards and roof beams for taking them over to Armenia to his kids already evacuated there…
Over the pass to west from the Ishkhana-Sar mount, at 3.48 pm next day, already without the wheelbarrow, but still grabbing the sack, the backpack and the guitar, I entered the empty dormant lobby of the Sisian City Hall (Armenia) with a big square clock on the wall. 47 km away from Yezznaggomer.
On the way, Satenic called, scolded me for being inaccessible 4 days already. She said that our village and all of the Lachin District had been surrendered by the capitulation and I shouldn’t sit and wait for Turks there, they would not ask my nationality…
Two days later, at still young night, I arrived in Stepanakert by taxi from Yerevan via Vardenis, before the peacekeepers handed that highway over to Azerbaijan (as arranged) and got astonished by the lack of destruction in the city. In the main street, for example, only one store was smashed and burnt out, not a single government building was damaged in the downtown.
Everything went on as agreed upon. In Shushi, on the heights above the city, the Azerbaijani army, in Stepanakert – peacekeepers' vehicles sporting jolly tricolors.
By the City Hall, to the noisy queues of retirement-aged civilians they fork out refugee rations from the Red Cross—cereals, pasta, confiture, toothbrushes, 2 kg of flour, 2 cans of beef stew per a cardboard box.
Only one fragment of a cluster bomb fell into the backyard of the house, which turned 25 years old.
Yet, that bitchy contraption of a bomb is designed so that its fragments explode too, on and on, into smaller buckshot.
The glass in the bedroom window got shot through as if by a bullet and one sheet of the corrugated slate in the roof got broken, so I had to fix it with a patch on silicone glue…
Ode to Sensitivity Numbness
By and large, they were on the march to defend their Motherland, because each of them was a Soldier and God was with each of them …
Well, specifically, they had a combat mission to climb the hill, gain a foothold there and prevent the forward movement of the advancing enemy forces. So, on they went, upward, in a march column, united by the common mission, one and the same goal.
However, while climbing up, under their individual helmets, there spun personal thoughts or, rather, some fragments of thoughts, by each one his own, about what a handsome goal Barcelona scored in that game, the sock in the right boot should be neaten tighter otherwise the bitch will rub the foot to bleeding, to tell the younger brother to look well after the horse, but that girl from the parallel class at the prom, in her pink blouse, really beautiful and gave a kinda personal smile, like, in a grown-up way, a sort of…
Each about his own, but outwardly only heavy abrupt breaths, almost hoarse wheezing, is heard, yours and of your comrades.
So they marched and did not know that the cup with coffee grounds at the bottom had already been set aside and the fingertips habitually lay on the slippery back of the mouse in the monotonous calmness of the control room, wrapped into the cozy even hum of computer technology…
The drone in the sky left the stand-by position and followed the given course to drop a cluster bomb…
They did not complete their combat mission, they died on the march. All of the platoon. 25 people…
Later the parents will post photos of their boys in soldier uniforms on Facebook*.
‘Help find the missing person’.
Only in vain. Everyone who knew him lay around in riddled camouflage with patches darker than the darkest khaki, jagged holes torn in helmets.
All of the platoon…
Thoughts are gone, the sock does not bother anymore, the bay horse Booyan crunches the faded grass of autumn, Barcelona runs out to train, a beautiful girl, not in a pink blouse, without a smile, enters the subway car, the operator hands over the shift to his partner…
More and more often I am accused of callous heartlessness. I hope this is true: I have strangled out the empathy secreting organ in me, otherwise my heart would have burst long ago.
But still, even so, by the end of a day, it feels squeezed nastily…
Forgive me, boys—let, after all, at least someone will ask… just because at least a single one should… beg you for forgiveness…
DC WDB
(Displaced Civilian in the War of Doomed Boys)
(*Facebook is an allegedly terrorist organization, its activities banned on the territory of the Russian Federation.)
* * *
Bottle #38: ~ Consolation By Means Of Philosophy ~
(A rather cozy though, at certain junctures, pretty screwed up interior of the study of a semi-middle-aged philosopher who has long since dropped out of giving a fuck about all that shit, however, the bookcase still emits the dull gleam of the golden embossing in the volumes’ spines.
The stout table is flanked on both sides by a pair of chairs created by the full of divine afflatus chisel of Chippendale, a cabinetmaker from conscientious London artisans.
On the bare tabletop, a Chinese cheep counterfeit of Anthony van Leeuwenhoek's microscope, which did open our eyes to the surrounding microbial world about us. Two or three Parisian nick-knacks for nonchalant amusements of a loner are casually dropped upon a pile of clippings from forgotten newspapers seen thru the press at the times of storming the fortress of Ochakov and consequent alienation of the Crimea.
From under that mess there hangs an engraving over the edge of the table – a Playboy poster from about the last decade of the 18th century. The caption grabs attention by use of those izhitsa and yat letters from the obsolete, pre-revolutionary spelling, and fills a long, fluffy, sausage-like cloud that hovers over a juicy lady who stands in profile on all fours atop of a trough fretted to chips by constant usage—her hoop-skirt crumpled and tacked up her laborious vertebral column, the corset flung open in the frank negligee of a suburban slut—runs: "And only by tireless handwork wilt thou come and reach the goal of thine striving!”
A tall bottle of dark glass, lacking its cork, stilled in a motionless round-dance along with a pair of glasses, one of which is empty.
The philosopher himself stands with his butt pushed chillily into the unlit fireplace to the right of the tall double-leaf door. In thoughtful silence he strokes the dimple, which looks like a pea print lost in the three-day stubble over his upper lip.
The unpretentiously quilted dressing gown is casually bound up over his hips with a tasseled waistband. The brocade in his attire is pretty worn, the diamonds patterned by the stitches in quilt seams bear occasional marks of encrusted spatters of coffee dried up with the flow of time, and irregular spills of sperm, crusted as well.
The head of the thinker is wrapped tightly in a long strip of cheap Turkish-made waffle towel, also in smears and smudges suggestive of smutty stimulation.
The philosopher's visitor, Count Nulin, who’s recently returned to the smokes of the kurnaya izbas of his Fatherland from the Heidelberg University, is sitting on Chip's chair, since Dale's chair is occupied by a peacefully dormant brown dachshund of a woeful fate, as evidenced by the bald rubbed-out spots in her short hair.
The shaggy mutton chop of the guest naively tries at concealing his absent ear’s stump, cut clear off by the rapier in a student duel.)
Nulin: (Hotly) But what’s after?!.
Charsky: (Leaves his dimple alone.) Why, my dearest, you still haven't touched your glass. And utterly in vain so. Some highly recommended drink, I promise you. As forwarded by our forthcoming classic, "Though the swill reeks it’s not meant for dogs’ dicks…"
(The quote is interrupted by the heart-rending howl of the dachshund all at once burst into life on Dale's chair.)
Mimi, dear, you’re as always at ready with your unasked for censorship.
Nulin: (With his ardor unabated for a sliver of a notch.) Yes, but a continuation?!.
Charsky: (After waiting until Mimi has scratched all of her nude spots in turn and fallen asleep again.) Ah, so that’s what’s put you on the prod… well, it will undoubtedly follow. Fan fiction scribblers are constantly alerted to ride whoever’s coattails, you throw a gnawed bone at the jerks and they will blow it up into a balloon of three-season sequel…
Nulin: (Instructively) Oh, come on, fan fiction practices are by no means and not at all the belles-lettres, sublime examples of which we find in our, albeit not adequately washed yet Fatherland.
Charsky: Oho, my friend, you have not a little been warped into a nostalgic boob by that punky honky-dory Germany! I'll bet my bottom ruble, Sir, you have arrived back an all-round Slavophile. He-he… But as our homespun Westerners will twit you, ‘chirp up and check my titbit on Fri eve slews of lols’…
We all, as condescends to note the literary berserk VB, got spilt out from The Greatcoat by Mykola Gogol, and here I would most modestly attach an aside – the picnic lasted not for long. Sad yet true, with the works of Michal Afanasych the Russian Literature, as such, came to expire their final breath.
The literary throne sees now the endless parade of one-night-stand Pretenders’ arses, hears the self-instructive slurring slurps on how to piss the marital bed over and be pleased as Punch, witnesses the mournful efforts of sophomore seminarians at labors to convey the shades of best-selling garbage on the global podium of mass consumption products, and nothing more for observation in our entire firmament.
Nulin: (Haughtily) Gogol – Bulgakov? From an impotent to a morphine addict? And that's that? Harsh is your verdict, Sir!. Besides, both of them waft off a surely pro-Ukrainian sniff… Why, in the light of growing vigilance and further rancid metamorphosis at the court of Their Imperial… you here run into the risk, deducible by a naked eye, of getting your hide branded for Voltairianism.
Charsky: If afraid of cute young ladies in muslin-wear, the playboy has to grow hair on his balls before attending balls…
And, as regards your innuendos to the recreational preferences of the great ones, then, Sir, such remarks are nothing but a sleeve stitched aloft the cunt, to voice the sage adage of my saddler. The man, a propos, is a pro in the like matters.…
After all, we, by and large, don’t give an eff about the color of the horse pulling the cart of firewood, we’re interested in the cargo. Discussions of the skin-deep properties of a chance intermediary supplier are good only for idle gossips in the lackey room. Let’s not create clay-legged idols nor boys for whipping. The culmination crowning the strain in defecation labors makes us all equal to each other, regardless of confession or race, or shifty whimsicalities in sex orientation, and equals us to any other living thing from any of one-cell transparent protozoans up to our classmates in the class of mammals.
Ben we none but only humus, a fallow field for the growth of the conductor, through whom spirituality beth brought down to our vale.
Where from?
The question is too transcendental.
Who’s the wright?
Over-combinatorial for an answer.
Let us take comfort in at least knowing through whom, not unlike the quivering shimmer of St. Elmo lights in the St. Vitus dance, descendeth spirituality to us.
And keep it marked as ineffaceable as the stars configuration in Ursa Major that wagoners are not creators. They are just drivers who turned up in the right place at the right moment equipped with a draft horse and a sturdy cart suitable for the purpose. But the preferences of the Messrs. Drivers themselves have nothing to do with the goods transported. Otherwise, given the enlightened age of homotoleration running nowadays so very high, the flood of The Swan Lakes would have surpassed the aggregate capacity of the Baikal Lake and the Caspian Sea, and The Nutcrackers’ quantities would suffice for a life-size copy of the Sayano-Shushenskaya hydroelectric power station. Which phenomenon we do not note as of yet…
(Charsky thoughtfully approaches the chair with prostrate Mimi, picks the tip of her tail and hoists, but after a brief glance in the guest’s direction, changes his mind and scratches the bald spot in her hide instead. The bitch, without ever waking up, purrs like a cat on heat, a kinda feline transvestite.)
And, while speaking of music… You must have heard already how at the ball thrown by the Yusupstein-Rurikurgantotskys that our notorious rogue… What’s his name again? The family name of that funny ring in it… like Rzhelenovskiy or something…
Nulin: (Readily) Lieutenant Rzhevsky?
Charsky: Nah, yeah, it’s him I’m talking about… Some perfect varmint… Surprised the visiting Miss of England with her humanitarian bonbonniere… Right on the slippery piano lid, without removing his hussar uniform, spurs and stuff… That’s a real virtuoso for you!
And by the bye, he invites me to pay him a visit in his Kolomenskoye. The estate’s not quite extensive, says he, but in the cellar he still keeps on ice an intact barrel of Amontillado.
His friend-in-spurs, chamberlain's diplomatic courier for special missions, on his way from Venice, delivered.
To go or not to go?
( He takes a Valdai bell from the mantelpiece and tinkles.
His serf Gerasim, tousled and sleepy and, on top of all, deaf-mute servant, appears thru the door.)
Geraska! Right to the stable! Tell Vaska, Master has ordered to rig the carriage up! Yet, not with that Savraska mare!. Let him harness Covid, the brown brute looks bored recently…
(Gerasim exits stuttering eager moos and baas).
Nulin: (Pleadingly) But still and yet, Appolinary Aristarkhovych… what’s on about Kenty? and Maya has not yet born Buddha…
Charsky: Everything will be fine, Edgar Poelimpsestovych, just oftener trust in the mischievous imp of luck and regularly air the scarlet sails of hope beneath the jolly roger hoisted naughtily… Just easy with using of that opium for people, the choice of synthetic drugs has grown enormously since Marx' days…
Ha! Amontillado!
(With an anticipating pleonastic ring)
The sound form of it alone caresses gourmet’s palate, if the gift of hearing is not denied the wretch…
* * *
Bottle #39: ~ Finishing Off The Delivery By The Maverick Galleon ~
I am a writer. Which fact happened not because I was promoted, appointed or trained and certified. Hell, no! What the fuc… I mean… nothing of the kind!
I got pressed into this vessel of bitter wrath even before Serafima Sergeievna inserted the lacquered handle of a nib pen (don’t forget to dip the nib into the ink well for writing!) between the cramp seized fingers of a first-grader gull – mine…
And then – off you go! March to do what's planned by Dick-only-knows who in Dick-only-knows where to be accomplished by applying me, when I still had not been yet near about this here world at all.
Bastard damn well knew beforehand what conscientiously painstaking ass of a peon would I make, eventually…
Writing is an ungetriddable birthmark, inseparable, were you even as blind as N. Ostrovsky.
True, he wrote badly and garbage, but still better than the deaf-blind-mute challenged from their birth or brought to the same standard by the compulsory secondary education.
I am a writer who writes the picture of the world as I see it. The image is final, stable and incorrigible because of the absolute absence of predisposition, in me, for proofreading and—as a result—having no time for the deed, chronically.
This reason is weighty enough to make my views pretty conservative and stubborn, there's no way to convince me of anything not conceived by me firsthand, personally. On the other hand, I am an easily malleable stuff for any fool to shape me into waiving the worldviews rigged up and sermonized by myself.
Yet, if giving it a sober thought, do I need it? Or anybody? What’s the use of those creative impulses tornadoing my PC keyboard? And that's another victim, by the bye, who's not at fault absolutely, the keyboard isn't.
Just so violent sadistic battering of the innocent accessory thing plus monstrous harrowing of my beloved self.
For suchlike excesses, one should be born by blood-thirsty ghoul Saltychikha after her one-night stand with Malyuta Skuratov, the henchman of Ivan the Terrible (where, the hell, has I misplaced my birth certificate?).
(Which SOB was murmuring right now, “So was it written in your birth tablet”, back there, huh? Let me interview that unsolicited genealogy writer, eye-to-eye, for 17 minutes maximum, and the bitch will on his own accord sign the confession that his tablet-scratching was a gruesome act of sabotage ordered by, at least, three intelligence services of different imperialist nations!)
Of course, I'm interested in any response to my scrabbles. But quite a few bottles have sailed off my hands tagging along after the torrents in the Digitized Gulf Stream, and only silence echoes back—not a single splash by the wiggly tail of a playful goldfish, no whiskey-voiced 'ahoy!' by a pessimist albatross:
“Hey, Titanic! Smack bang you heads against a fucking iceberg!" (as if it would stop us, both the iceberg and me or let us bypass each other, or cancel what was predetermined before the creation of the world!)
Still, it does not take much of IQ to figure out the reason for sea critters’ shyness – the Internet is only 25 and folks are not used yet to think openly. What’s worse, being trained to read between the lines, they can’t see what is said directly, right before their eyes.
At 25, I was a way more timid guy, albeit shaggier.
Let’s speak easy, the hunger for feedback once more highlights my irrepressible egoism and wish for a distraction. Gimme anything to forget all them those Big Brothers—glossy glove puppets, each one, stretched over three fingers – the Military-Industrial Complex of their respective belonging. Seated about the ghostly sheen in their table of negotiations, they portion away the uneven heights of Karabakh:
“These uranium deposits in Kalbajar be for you, and this piece of pleasant climate for military bases – my share.”
And soon after the talks (and also resulting from them) the Prime Minister of Armenia (non-Armenian), gives up the lives of 7.5 thousand boys to fulfill his obligations to Big Bros, and along the highway through the indescribable beauty of mountain nature, huge SPAYKA trailers are rushing crammed with the variety meat of humans, torn, spoiled, messed-up by the cluster bombs shrapnel, white phosphorus and fragments of old-fashioned Grad missiles…
The world has changed beyond recognition since then. It has become more comfortable, more dynamic. Kinder. Cleaner.
It’s getting harder and harder for me to keep apace with the tempo in its everyday life, to follow all those witchy-bitchy gadgets.
However, these all are my problems, because of my age, maybe. Too slow learn I keeping the refugee ID on me, presenting it to polite Russian peacekeepers in a freshly chopped off colony…
I still can’t know nothing and care less when off the city limits, the team job of repairmen from the Stepanakert Water Supply Services, unearthing a water-pipe on a slope, gets interrupted by an unknown person (non-Azerbaijani), who shouts, “Siktyr Ermenlyar! (fuck off Armenians!)” and shoots a sidearm at them.
Because the peacekeepers communicated with the Azerbaijani side about the pending repair work at that spot and got "Roger that!" in broken Russian.
Because exactly that hour in Shushi City, another irreplaceable (and why not? as if the trick is only for very Big Brothers, eh?) president, spiffed in a swanky camouflage, winds himself up by his own screams before a row of microphones and video cameras, so that the whole of Azerbaijan perk up and get united:
"Wow! What Rambo of a czar we have! The big shot knows how to hook up a great victory!"
"Ilham sulh!"
"Si-eg he-il!"
(Corporal Schicklgruber at this moment grinned maliciously:
"Genau das hatte ich gesagt! Das dritte Reich ist unsterblich!. Ja! Ja, meine lieben Herren! Si-eg he-il!.")
Because another 20-year-old boy’s body stiffens on the slope, shot and killed by another Hero of Nation.
The blood oozes through a new hole in his worn-out T-shirt. The dark-red blood, which is not to turn grass in just an hour, it has a more important function – it is the means of payment for purchase and sale of land, ranks, medals…
