Under the blanket, he masturbates.

"... My wife finished for the second time when the rapists passed my daughter around in a circle; they deliberately taped my eyes open so I wouldn't miss anything. The gang leader pulled his mighty member out of the flesh being fucked and conspiratorially offered me to join in. I knew that if I refused, they would kill us all, and reluctantly, I pulled down my trunks."

That's the kind of spicy scene my consciousness snatched from a handful of scattered pages I stumbled upon while cleaning. I was dusting, whistling my favorite tracks by chubby rappers (cloud-rap) under my breath, and then such a find.

Apparently, these are the notes of the previous tenant. Presumably

a writer — judging by the style and twisted plot.

I urge you not to be too surprised by the fragmentary nature of the narrative — some of the sheets were soaked in some oily liquid, making it impossible to decipher the writing and unstick the pages without damaging the text. Therefore, I took the liberty of filling in the blurred words and phrases. Please forgive me if it turned out tacky; after all, I'm not a professional writer, but a homegrown one.

So, here we go!

Manuscript page 1:

"An old 'Ford' sped along a deserted highway. The man behind the wheel had no idea where he was. The situation was getting out of control. But it would all be fine if not for his wife, who sat in the back seat with their (already adult!) daughter, nagging him relentlessly about his meager earnings and poor sense of direction. And the more fervently she nagged the man, the lower he sank in his daughter's eyes. Impulsively flooring the gas pedal, he subconsciously hoped for a swift resolution to the domestic conflict.

— Darling, did you know that on a deserted highway, the probability of a car appearing within a 30-minute period is 0.95? — he asked his wife, trying to ease the tension.

— Darling, — she replied caustically. — I have no idea what you're talking about.

— In that case, what's the probability of an oncoming car appearing within 10 minutes?

— Have you forgotten how to think for yourself? Bought a car, stuck a navigator in it — can you sleep at the wheel now?

— If you fuck with my ears, we won't get there any faster! — he retorted.

— And who said this was the short way, huh?

— I always choose the easy way, but for some reason, you're drawn to the hard way. Is that somehow related to female nature?

— Watch the road, naturalist. I'll show you at home where the pistil is and where the punch in the face is.

— Mom, Dad, stop arguing! — their daughter appealed to her parents, but it was already too late (around midnight).

— Your sex education only encourages premarital sex. Undermines the foundations of society. People like you should have their parental rights revoked! Close all the damn schools — leave the Sunday ones!!!

— I would never send our daughter to such an institution! — his wife hysterically replied. — We live in a secular society, Sergei. The process of secularization has begun and it can't be stopped.

— If you've decided to put an end to Orthodoxy, then you should cross out at least half of your vocabulary, because we're talking about the Cyrillic alphabet!

His wife clicked her tongue in response, which further enraged Sergei.

— I'd like to see you when Dad's gone — the man blurted out. — What will you do without me?

— As always, we'll rely only on ourselves and our own strength. Right, daughter?

— Don't you dare drag the child into this! — the husband snapped.

— She hasn't been a child for a long time, if you must know.

— What are you hinting at?

— Do you even know what year it is?

— 2017, thanks for reminding me.

— Wrong answer. Your year.

— What do you mean?

— The Year of the Rooster.

— Rooster?!!

— Le coq sportif.))

Sergei had already turned to slap his wife, but lost control of the car and crashed into a passing Tavria..."

I tore myself away from the text with difficulty and discovered large beads of sweat on my forehead. How did the author manage to affect the reader's consciousness like that? What's the secret to the immersion effect? And will the negligent wife get a slap? Those were the questions occupying me while reading the first page. Let's read on!

Manuscript page 2:

"Sergei's head still echoed with his wife's words, like an alarm bell, calling him a snob and shit. Perhaps that's why he didn't stand up for her when they were cut off by jock footballers from the student fraternity 'Omega-Beta-Zeta-Lambda.' The torso of each of these lean, athletic guys was clad in a branded sweatshirt with the logo. Sergei used to wear one himself when he was young and hopeless.

Their leader named Kenny Omega (the names were embroidered on the backs of their club jackets) immediately took the initiative, showing everyone present who was the ace here.

— Just look who bumped into us, guys! What beauties.

— Dad, tell them to back off. — his daughter whispered in his ear, but he, apparently, was seriously shitting his pants. But he had to say something, so he cleared his throat and said:

— Good day.

— Damn! — Kenny interrupted him. — These chicks have a personal driver.

— A bearded chick! — someone from the fraternity guffawed, and honestly, quite wittily, because Sergei had quite the bush on his face.

The club members circled the old 'Ford' like a pack of sharks. If they sensed fear, they could safely move on to the scene of the massacre, and our hero (though what kind of hero is he, dammit?!) understood that. He had completely lost the thread of the narrative and didn't know how to behave in this electrified situation, whether to laugh or cry, and quite possibly both at once.

— Just look who's jerking us off here. Smashed our headlight and wants to split like nothing happened. You think you're the coolest here, huh?

— No, sir, that's not what I meant...

— For such things, you have to pay a hundredfold! Got any money?

— Money? You need money? How much? I can give you my wife's credit card.

— You think we're robbers, you dumbass?

— Not at all, sir.

— Do we look like thieves to you?

— No way, sir.

— Look at me carefully, boy. What do you see?

— ?

— My name is Kenny Omega. Rapist and murderer. Nice to meet you."

By the 3rd page, the author abruptly switches to first-person action. I was simply blown away by this turn:

"They were provoking me to lose my temper and get out of the car. They circled around, teased, stuck out their tongues. Clearly wanted to have some fun with my girls, rape them, then stab them, and possibly fuck my mouth. Only God knows what was on their minds.

They left me no choice. I had to step out of the car onto their turf. If I knew how to play this game, I would have bluffed, but the rules were unknown to me, and all that was left was to nod and agree with the main instigator, the ringleader of all this bullshit.

Alla (my wife) was already flirting heavily with one of these guys, and my daughter was looking at Kenny like the man of her dreams, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. Once upon a time, she used to look at me like that, but I fucked up early and never caught that look on myself again.

— And look, our little girl is ripe!

— Don't touch her, you bastard! — I whispered so loudly that Kenny didn't even hear.

— We're gonna take these chicks for a ride now. — he said. — And take the rooster to the quarry.

Kenny ordered everyone to saddle up. I desperately pleaded not to separate us, but the bandits wouldn't budge. Of course, I was jealous — me to the quarry, and they get to ride with these two! Where's the justice?

They assigned me to some mangy-looking José.

And when we set off, I confessed to him that I was willing to suck him off if he let me go. He snorted, then offered a hundred bucks.

— Deal! — and I got down to business.

Better 100 rubles than nothing, right?

Later in the desert, my wife confessed to me that the guys had told her everything, and she didn't blame me.

— What do you mean? — I didn't get it. Did José really tell her everything? What a dick!

— You, — she said, — jerk off all you want, but what outrages me more isn't that. — Alla said conspiratorially. — Why do you do it in secret, are you really embarrassed to masturbate

in front of me?

— I don't engage in childish sins from a young age! As if! — I was outraged to the core.

— I don't blame you, Sergei. Everyone does it. Even me. — said my wife, blushing. — It's NORMAL!

— Those were the last words I heard from her. — I recounted a little later at the local police station. — Their entwined bodies on red velvet are still before my eyes.

— Before your eyes? — Sheriff Omar asked. — You said they were lying down.

— I mean, they 'stand' in my eyes, but in reality, they 'lay'.

— What reality? — the sheriff chuckled. — A case hasn't even been opened yet. You'd better describe their appearance properly.

— They look like hardened scoundrels who should be hanged by the neck!

— Not them! — the sheriff interrupted me. — Your wife and daughter. They're the ones we need to put out an APB for!

— Oh, right, of course. I have a photo.

— A photo is even better. — said the sheriff — Show it quickly!

— I'm not sure it's suitable. — I hesitated. — It's of an intimate nature.

— Intimate? Hmmm. Even better! — a sly smile played on the sheriff's face. — Describe the criminals to my colleague while I scan the photo.

And the sheriff went into another office with a strange, limping gait.

Having no choice, I described the bandits to the local sketch artist. He made a composite sketch. It turned out, to put it mildly, 'not very good,' but we can't all be Vrubels, painting masterpieces in oil right away.

— Kenny!!! Son of a bitch!! — the sheriff recognized the composite when he returned. — His full name is Innokenty, but no one calls him that, not even his own mother!

The sheriff said this Kenny and his gang were already 'right here' (and he pointed) bothering him. He was willing to do anything (and he winked conspiratorially at me) to fuck this rascal... I mean, put him in jail.

— I know where he hangs out. — Sheriff Omar said in a hoarse voice. — Are you ready to meet him face to face?

— Yes.

— Sure?

— Yes!

— Can't hear you. You sound like a woman.

— Sir, yes, sir, yes, sir!

On page 4, the interrogation is in full swing. Our heroes first caught the lousy José to extract the necessary information from him.

"The sheriff pinned this scumbag against the wall and began processing him professionally. He'd grab him by the hair, then by the handle of his piece (a 'Magnum' pistol). Threatened physical violence and close encounters with relatives.

José was already beside himself. Tears streamed from his eyes, burning his lips, swollen not from kisses.

If revenge hadn't clouded my vision, I probably would have stood up for José (after all, we weren't exactly strangers after that night) and maybe even covered for him. But, unfortunately, this was the only way to get to Kenny-the-culprit-of-the-celebration-Omega. And I swore to do it.

So, when it was necessary to plug the gas mask hose to make José 'cooperate with the law,' I did it without hesitation and was right. Both before the Law and before God.

So, Kenny's location was revealed. The sheriff and I were already racing on his trail. We were about to catch up, catch him off guard. In my fantasies, I was already fucking his mouth, making him call me Master and serve me.

— Here's the plan. — the officer suggested. — I'll scare him, and you stick it in.

— Stick what in? — I asked.__