Avalanche - page 497
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one is left to think about the time of those passengers who hang out here.
Katala doesn't spend much time here - but he does... ;)
But the rest of the "others", including me, fall into three obvious categories:
1) The jerks.
2) MiShek.
3) Grun.
Obviously category one has a confusing internal classification of wayfarers and seekers. Some of them are imbeciles from childhood... :)
But the last two characters are indivisible and consistent.
Piglet knows what he's talking about and will make a walkthrough - if necessary.
;)
BUT time is the most invaluable resource.
And if someone KNOWS it is wasted for "nerfs" - it:
1) can't be every day many times over (there are such characters).
2) CAN BE CATEGORICAL...
And one more thought: if one is paid to manage the masses of Mokla proto-programmers, maybe that's the whole point of the managers?
;)
When God created Time - he created it enough.
When God created Time - he created it enough.
So I don't know.
Time is beyond JEM's control...
(
When God created Time
What if I made an analogy to you?
What is it again?
So I don't know.
Time is out of his control too...
(
I had nothing to do with it. It's an Irish proverb.
In essence...
))) You're limiting G-d? Oh, man, you guys. God is God.
...
1) jerks.
2) MiShek.
3) Piglet.
...
Mikhail Sergeyevich! Another weirdo!!!!! I take it that you are " 1)"-one among the peers... BU-GA-GA-GA-GA - once again flattered by your presence...
Right. You really are idiots. Of course, I've got nothing better to do than glitch you. No. I'm going to write the code. Okay, you click on it and a smiley face flies back...
Okay. We are idiots.
But what are you (not just you) doing here with us idiots?
I, for example, idiotic, from my point of view, branches do not visit. Why do I need it?
And why do you (I don't mean you) do it?
It's a funny picture.... I'll try to paint it in oil...
...............................................................................................................................................................................
................................................................. Five hundred pages dedicated to the branch.
City dump. October, 2011.
A frowning sky looms over the foul waste, and seems to have absorbed all the dirt from the piles beneath it.
Sharp gusts of wind carry scraps of newspapers "The Stock Exchange Herald" and bags with the logo of the supermarket "Pyatrochka".
Insolent and agilecrows are constantly trying to snatch tidbits from people exhausted by their constant search for food.
But, the team, led by their irreplaceable leader John, nicknamed 'Blade', set out to rake through yet another mountain of stationary rubbish.
"Let's go, vagrants... Move it... Soon, very soon, grace will be upon us... Our Master Mikhail Vsevolodovich Kachnov has signed a new contract with a supplier from England...
A whole avalanche of the worst rubbish is about to descend on us..." the helmsman encouraged the crowd.
"I wish the supplier was from Greece," sighed an unshaven subject nicknamed 'Piglet'.
Everyone began to nod in a friendly and understanding manner. Many knew that he had Greek citizenship and hoped that his kin would track him down and pick him up.
Gruen kept promising that his best friend, he would definitely take him with him.
And the meaningless hope warmed people's souls.
"A smoke break!" commanded John, and the crowd immediately settled down on the rubbish from the local timber mill.
The conversation was about nothing... We were telling jokes, reminiscing and retelling each other our favourite YouTube videos...
Nothing, absolutely nothing, not even TA, which was perfectly mastered by the ringleader's favourite and the ex-wife of the owner, the blonde and gorgeous Svetten, presaged any drama.
A gust of cold wind rolled a crumpled newspaper to Piglet's feet.
"Uh-oh! "Stocks & Futures... My favourite... " he groaned with anticipation.
Normally he would start browsing through the newspaper from the front page, so that he could immediately determine the context of the whole issue at once...
But, this time an unknown impulse made him look at the last page.
His eyes blurred, his hands trembled...
Греческая семья разыскивает Григория Петровича Остроумова, 1964 г.д., уроженца села .....Hysterical laughter fell, now already Grigory Petrovich, to the ground...
And in three minutes he was already, with an extremely serious look and implacable anger in his eyes, shouting:
"Yes, you're all idiots, losers, sunk in the swamp of dementia, dunces of fuck..... with resecn...."
"SILENT!!!" the ringleader's voice sounded like a gunshot.
"The day after tomorrow will be 500 days since you've been here with us, all this time we've shared our fate equally...
You are ours... You are one of us..."
His right hand slid smoothly from his sleeve, and a blade glinted ominously in a ray of sunlight that incomprehensibly broke through the dense clouds.
.........................................................................................