Unicorns

"The thing is," sighed the general, "my father served as a guard in this ITL-16, where I was born in 1938. So, this Ivan Prachkin and I are 'godbrothers,' we might have lain in cribs next to each other. Now then," he thought for a moment and continued, "leave the papers with me, and make a request to the ITL-16 archive yourself. Dig through all the documents, but I want all the papers regarding Ivan Prachkin's birth, with all the details, on my desk. Do you understand me? Do it quietly, and you’ll be a major; if not, you’ll leave here a sergeant. Dismissed! Well, what else is it?"

asked the general of his pale subordinate.

"Excuse me, Comrade General, one more question. What should we do with Prachkin's wife?"

"What about her?"

the general didn't understand, "What's the matter?"

"Well, there's a rumor in town that she's curing men of drunkenness, and many women have asked her to cure their husbands. You know, like she did to Nikolai, with a frying pan to the forehead. So, she's asking for permission. Is it allowed?"

"Let her hit them to her heart's content," the general smirked, "and if she kills someone, let the MVD sort it out. Maybe there will be fewer fools in town."

"Mikhalych, I swear to God it's true, I'd bet my teeth on it," Vovchik was pacing excitedly around the boiler room, "I saw it myself. Olka, the contagious one, tricked him. 'Let's go, Valerik,' she said, 'and help Verochka move a wardrobe; there's no man in the house, Kolka is in the loony bin, there's no one to help.' So he went, of course. And there Verka was waiting for him with a frying pan. And she whacked him on the head. Here, here, Mikhalych, look, there he is, coming this way," he whispered, pointing out the window. Valera entered the boiler room, holding his forehead and staggering.

"Hello, son," the foreman said softly, "good thing you came, we just needed a third. Vovka, pour it," and he pulled a bottle of vodka from a nook. Seeing the familiar poison, Valera recoiled and moved his hand from his forehead. The bump was huge and resembled a horn.

"Here, Valerik, take it," Mikhalych said smoothly, offering him a glass, "relax."

"No, foreman," he whispered, pushing the hand away, "sorry, but I can't even look at the damned thing. I just came to the boiler room to get some fittings. I'm going to a client; I have an order," and he left.

"That's it, Vovka," groaning as he tossed the glass back, Mikhalych said, "Armageddon is coming for the Russian man. The damned foreigners have cursed us, hitting us where it hurts most, the bastards. But you're lying, you won't take me!"

"Foreman," Vovka exclaimed bravely, "I won't abandon you, we'll meet this, what's it called, 'Armageddon' together!"

"No, son," Mikhalych said, gently pressing him to his sweaty chest, "I've already drunk my share and I'm not afraid, but you still have a whole life ahead of you. You'll be left all alone, poor guy. Just promise me, don't go to Verka, she's a witch. She'll destroy you. Here, take this," he said, offering a simple sandwich with bologna, "as a keepsake from me."

"But what about you, teacher?"

Vovan sobbed in despair, "Without a snack? How will I live?"

"Happily!" Mikhalych said, wiping away a tear, and pulling a case of vodka from under a pile of rags, he added, "I have an emergency supply of the good stuff here, so I'll hold out for a couple of days. That's it, goodbye!" but seeing his apprentice's bewildered look, he added strictly, "That's an order!"

and pushing him out of the boiler room, he closed the latches on the iron door.

"Poor old man," Vovchik waved his hand, "heroic! Posterity won't forget you!"

and hanging his head, he wandered off, clutching the precious sandwich in his sweaty hand.

"I'll keep it!"

he muttered like an incantation, "I promise you, teacher, I'll keep it!" Chaos reigned near the Prachkins' house. Dozens of women, holding hands in a double ring, surrounded the struggling men. The three most desperate ladies, with the build of railway workers and wearing padded jackets, would snatch one unfortunate man from the crowd, drag him into Verka's apartment, and a minute later he would be led out with a huge bump on his forehead. Groans and cries of despair could be heard from all sides. The ground was littered with broken glass from bottles, trampled paper cups, and mangled corks. The air smelled strongly of sulfur and human waste. Vovchik crossed himself in horror.