Rimanoa

Hello, son

Aug. 21, 3:13 p.m.

As I have already mentioned "my son is at home with a terrible disease", this disease is called Cancer of the brain (not all of it of course). Of course, there's no cure for cancer, except for that schizo in Hamburg. He said the drug had to be administered intravenously. Maybe he was lying, but in any case, there is no other cure. It was time to try it.

My son lived very close to my main apartment — just a block away. He had lived there alone for six years, after a car accident that killed his mother (but not my wife; there was no time for a wife), and the last time we met was four years ago….

I opened the door with my key and stepped inside, covering the metal barrier. A long hallway opened up in front of me, turning in two directions (one into the kitchen and bathroom, the other into another bathroom and the living area of the five-room apartment).

The atmosphere was very quiet, but tense (my son was rarely in silence and in peace in general, so, most likely, the dead hum could be only without him, but not this time) — it felt something creepy, wild and very dangerous, as if in the lair of an ogre.

I took out the "CZ-85" (Czech pistol with good reviews, for example, good penetration ability with 500–518 J. of muzzle energy, CZ — Czech zbrojovka; "Beretta 93R" "lay" next to the mad scientist, and the new barrel again from home) and headed slowly and carefully towards the kitchen. After taking a couple steps and hiding around the corner, there was a loud and nasty creaking sound around the same corner. I turned around, knowing for sure that there was someone around the corner and, obviously, that someone was armed as well (I remember a similar case, when I had to stand in that position for two hours without twitching or even breathing deeply — it's not hard to guess who won then, but five years had passed since then, and at my age only a month has a big impact).

I heard the sound of movement, sharp, lightning-fast. I responded in kind, sticking the barrel out and preparing to pull the trigger, and saw… a sly, calm "wolf" face, like my own twenty years ago.

"What, you want to put a hole in your father?"

It was my son, poking at his submachine gun "VIKHR" (a shortened version of the special automatic rifle "Val"; caliber 9 mm with the use of special (SP-5 and SP-6) cartridges, not to mention the penetrating ability — at a distance of 150 meters this thing penetrates the engine block of the car, so that if a bullet hits my head from such a distance, the brains would fly in all directions; By the way, for those who do not know — made in Russia). This is the life we have, when two close people almost killed each other out of joy.

After the tension created, there was a quick release: we simultaneously, as if off the chain and hugged each other, patting each other on the back and almost shouting at mutual speech lines: "Long time no see!"

"Four whole years!"

"Why don't you come, you ask?" "Dog work…"

"So dump her to hell!"

"Already quit…" — after I said the phrase, my son pulled away from me and looked straight into my eyes with complete bewilderment, not believing his ears, and then asked again: "Dumped?"

"Yeah, I quit. I'm bored."

"I don't understand anything… Did he run away or something?" "Well, yeah."

"We both know perfectly well that you will be found…"

"Nobody lives forever, but you know, either way, my task is at least somewhat accomplished…"

"What do you mean?"

I pulled out a vial of medicine: "This should help (actually my doubts about it were 100 percent, but it's better to 'plant optimism in the native land')."

"What the hell is that?" "The Cure."

"There is no cure for Cancer."

"Now there is," — no sooner had I finished my part of the dialog than the "son of Faust" faltered and was about to fall — it was not a fainting from happiness, it was one of the effects of the disease.