Anything Goes [Story] by Oleg Razumovsky

One day I sat with Natasha near her house, eating the cakes she gave me. Her parents hated me. They thought that I was useless scum. Even her Father, a pathetic drunk, despised me. But Natasha sorta loved me and sometimes brought some food from home. And even bought booze, if she managed to steal money from her old people. She was a kind girl.

Just the day before we had got shitfaced drunk. After we had finished two bottles of vodka at my place, we decided to go somewhere. I do not remember exactly where and it is not very important. Maybe to Van Gogh, who had invited us to visit him last weekend. When we went out it was already getting dark. Natasha, when drunk, usually rushes straight forward like a tank, and does not see anything in front of her. And there on the corner, near a bus stop, a Mercedes, was making a U-turn, and the girl crashed right into it. Natasha fell down. I began to lift her, but she collapsed on me… Eventually, we sobered up a bit and began to laugh like two idiots, sitting on the ground.

But this is not very important either. The most interesting things are to come. So, we sat on the bench, eating those goddamned cakes and thinking about how to get a drink. We were absolutely broke. No money at all.

And then we saw two people, a drunken guy and a tipsy girl, coming to the entrance. And the fella asks if we would treat him to some cake. Yes, of course, no problem, I say, here you are. The guy is much obliged. He calls me a great man and invites me and Natasha to his place. It turned out that they were profiteers and traders, Max & Svetka, and rented a room in this very block-of-flats on the second floor. Inside there are three bottles of vodka on the table and some stuff to eat. Well, decent food actually: salami, chicken legs, even fruit salad… I do not remember exactly what else. It’s not important.

We sat down at the table in the kitchen. In the room there was no furniture at all except for a single mattress on the floor  and an old stereo. We did not listen to the music, though. We started to drink booze right away, one glass after another, as if in a hurry. And chatted about something, as if had known  each other for a long time. Laughed a lot too, like fucking idiots.  

Max was the first to pass out. He began shouting something unintelligible, flapping his hands like they were wings, then ran off into the room, just fell right down on the mattress and was still. 

Shortly after this, Natasha followed suit. She passed out at the table. Me and Svetka dragged her to where Max was on the floor. 

So me and the gal sat in the kitchen, drank vodka, talked and laughed. Svetka knew a lot of bawdy jokes. We laughed a lot. Suddenly her face darkened. She took a large knife from out the table drawer and said to me:
“If you’re a man, stab Max. I hate the fat animal. He ruined my whole life. I’ve poisoned him several times already, but it didn’t work yet. Kill that motherfucker, I beg of you.”

I wasn’t, thank God, that drunk at that moment, though we drank much. Quickly figured out the consequences. Okay, I slay the boar. Then fuck this slut. And then what?
“And then,” she tells me, “we’ll go with you to Van Gogh.”
“Do you know him?” I am surprised.
“Of course. I am his godmother.”
“We’d better go to him right now,” says I, “and then we’ll deal with Max.”
“Well, OK,” agrees Svetka.

So, she dresses, takes the knife with her, and we go out. It’s night already and it’s pretty cold too. To keep us warm we buy a bottle of counterfeit vodka in a stall and drink it in the bushes. Svetka instantly begins to carry on like crazy. She sucks me off on her knees and then hugs me real tight. I see her scarlet mouth, wide-opened and quite mad blue eyes and get very excited, throw down the nutty bitch in the mud and fuck her good and proper.

We had to take a cab to get to the distant neighborhood where Van Gogh lived. But Svetka had a lot of dough on her. That was a good day at the bazaar.

Arrived. Went up to the seventh floor. Began to knock on the door.  The silence is complete. Finally, Van Gogh’s mum asks in a low voice:
“Who the fuck is there in the dead of the fucking night?”
“Open up, fucker!” Svetlana yells and pulls out the knife. Whispers to me
“Now, I’ll stab the bitch.”

But Van Gogh’s mother was a smart woman. She knew her son’s pals very well. She shouted behind the closed door that she would call cops right away if we didn’t fuck off that very moment.

So, we had to fuck away until it was too late.

When we returned to the flat, Max was already stirring and moaning. Natasha was muttering in her sleep. She was probably strangling someone in a dream. I and Svetka all of a sudden began to laugh wildly like two idiots. What a fucking life. 

Published by mistyrampart

Freelancer, poet, dreamer

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