“Inappropriate!” Vasilii Petrovich called in his wake.
“What nonsense!” Artiom said feverishly as he lumbered down the stairs. “Pharisees! Pharisees and brainless lunatics! Mezernitskii himself plays in the brass orchestra! Shlabukovskii is in the theater! And Grakov writes for the paper… And I, pull my leg, warned them about Grakov and now I’m forbidden entry? Me! Because I dug holes for Eichmanis twice and one time sat amid the swine from IID? Well, they can all go f**k themselves! I don’t want to know them. And that old i***t too! Let him gather his berries until he drops dead…”
Artiom even stopped, barely overcoming the desire to run back upstairs and tug Vasilii Petrovich by his old ears with their blue veins, grab him by the scruff and smash his nose into kitty corner full of piss.
