Coming out of the house and not feeling money patting myself down, I thought that pockets can be empty only in dreams. Usually there is a little bit for benzene and water, but this is a complete set up, fucking degenerates.
Somebody jacked from the chest pocket 200 bits of currency. Who did this, Gregory, you or me? But I can’t steal from myself. Yes yes zhora suka, yes yes zhora blya.
Gregory is such a person, seemingly dependable. But he cannot live without inner criminality and ratting away in his own circle.
Gregory drives in a Lexus, Gregory is a bitch in a Mercedes. But throughout the day he’s forcibly cleaning out the pockets of various fruits.
To the question “why?”, Gregory hunches his shoulders. Gregory is a fully flowered man, spends every evening with his family. But Gregory cannot live and not steal. Apparently his genetics have in them a sequence to act like a ruling party.
Everything that lays in a bad way, Gregory does not give a fuck about. Anything that sticks to the hands, from Gregory you will not take away.
He started leaning towards theft at the age of ten, when he stole his neighbor Styopa’s bicycle. He sold it in the market by the train station, then bought some cigarettes, a poppy seed cake, and delicious fruit drink.
Sometimes he was caught, and beat mercilessly. But Gregory did not care about this already when he was a teenager.
Playing cards with the authoritative inmates, telling prison stories. Gregory caught his first term for a drunken fight downtown. Down in the metro he wanted to rent out a whore, but he was beat to it by mountainous guests to the capitol. To his offer for them to fuck off, the ambitious Georgians started waving their arms and did not ask anything. With screams that they’re all bitches and pussies he pulled out a sharp metal spike, and seated onto it somebodies bleeding kidney.
Gregory ran a long time, and often stopped to breathe. Gregory ended up hiding in a drophouse of local robbers. With all his loot he was enjoying a walk until he walked into the very first cop. Gregory threw down his fortune and went into the cell.
He drank overly strong black tea for a rush, ate slow cooked beef and potatoes. Fucked faggots loudly, and snored throughout the night.
What more does a man need out of life?
He left his situation mentally, walked around a bit, reorganized into a neat pile all his thoughts. What is he, an idiot, to be locked up over nothing? If you have some shady business then do it quietly, if you live, then shady business is the only way.
Didn’t work, didn’t study, a native of the capitol. His whole life he only stole, he was born this way. And don’t give a fuck about morals if behind you is an organized crime group. Happy guys from Lubertsi know the price of money. And today nobody will ever tell you to go fuck yourself, you will get only one friendly pat instead of a full search when entering the parade.
Such guys like Gregory, such guys like me and you. If there is a hidden meaning deep within, then all will be awesome.
But I will tell you about the price of life, and then you ask those like Gregory. Today hes smiling, but in the future hell be dead meat. Watch your words, our people hear you through the walls. The noose from the province is awaiting your grey body.
Don’t give a fuck about people like you. What you drive or what color your watch is. I stay exactly where I was standing, living among close friends and a sea of retards. I know for sure that I will raise sooner or later that which I need.
Money will not make you better, kid. It will make you more naïve and stupid.
2014, BORSH, bad news.
