Zakhar Prilepin - Sin

I should probably go and call to those… Moscow bastards… I thought, but I didn’t go anywhere, and decided to stand and smoke, and watch: it was impossible to tear myself away from the sight of these furious, very strong men.

“Now something’s going to happen,” Molotok said cheerfully. Even he got this feeling, though usually his intuition is napping.

I nodded my head slightly, as if in time with the music: going to happen, going to happen, going to happen.

The Muscovites turned up, languid, smiling, when I was already looking the cigarette butt over, working out where to throw it: to walk over to the garbage can or let it lie here, under my feet.

Of the Moscow guests, only the driver looked annoyed — it was his car, after all, that was being kicked. But from all appearances it was clear that the driver was not in charge. Two of his passengers initially didn’t even go down the stairs of the club to the car, but talked about something, looking around, laughing.

The taller one squinted, looking at the back of the driver walking towards the jeep. The second, who seemed to be just one and a half meters tall, cheerfully shook his head and rubbed his small hands together. For some reason, it seemed that his palms were rough.

The driver approached the car with deliberate slowness. The “serious people” were waiting for him, not moving. Their faces were calm, as usual.

At the door of his jeep, the driver stopped, in no hurry to open it. I didn’t notice who spoke first, he or the people waiting for him, and I also didn’t hear what they said — the music blaring in the club drowned it out.

The tall Muscovite seemed to want to go to the car, but his companion with the rough palms held him back by the sleeve. There was something devious about the short man’s behavior — he was clearly not afraid of anything, and even… on the contrary… he was waiting for it, yes.

The poser came out of the club, but went back in immediately, sensing something.

Something seemed to have happened by the jeep, they just pushed the driver lightly in the shoulder, and he also swung his arm, but that’s hardly a fight, or a cause for one. There was no fight or cause for it, nothing — but swiftly, the short guy, as if he were on all fours, leapt off the steps, and I lost sight of him, only guessing what had happened a few seconds later, when two of the “serious people” standing by the jeep suddenly disappeared from view. They fell down.

Not believing my eyes, I moved towards the jeep. At the same time, another three “serious people” jumped out of their car.

While Molotok and I approached, these three also fell into puddles. But the two who were the first to fall got up — but didn’t remain standing long either.

There wasn’t any fight. No one swung their arms or jumped, and there was no nasty sound of people being punched in the face.

The short guy, as if amusing himself, moved from one opponent to the next, knocking them down with an imperceptible movement, and they, all of them as large as bears, all of them already dirty, with sweaters torn at the collars, fell over immediately, not even managing to swing their arms, or whatever else you can swing when you really want to hit someone.

Out of inertia, I plunged right into the thick of the fighters — or rather, the people who were trying to fight — and ended up just two meters away from the short guy. He turned to me. He still had the same smile on his face, and it seemed that he winked as he moved towards me with dancing, gentle movements.

I realized that in a second or so I would also be lying on the asphalt.

“Take it easy there!” I said cheerfully, looking him in the eyes, only his eyes, as I moved back, stretching out my arms in front of me with my palms open, and still hoping to hit him at least once, or better, more than once, if he made a movement, any movement towards me, against me.

“I’ll kick him… I’ll kick him in the shin, in the bone,” I decided, smiling happily. For a few seconds, like brothers, we looked at each other, with love.

Here he was distracted, as one of the “serious people,” who was rolling in the mud in a very non-serious way, jumped up from the side, and immediately fell over, but the short guy was already moving off, cheerful and lively.

His companion, I noticed, wasn’t fighting at all, but was shouting very fiercely, running up to the people who had been knocked over, and grabbing some of them by the hair.

“What’s wrong, assholes? Don’t feel well? Bet it’s a long time since you got a fright like this,” he said.

By the time that the man who had been knocked over had stood up, the Muscovite was standing by another who was rolling in the puddle. It seemed that he found it more convenient to talk to a person who was lying down. Their driver got into the car and was warming the engine, even smoking while he did so.

He’s the one I should talk to, I realized.

“Don’t get involved!” I shouted to Molotok, and I ran around to the driver of the Moscow jeep.

“Get your car out of here!” I shouted at his face. “Get it out of here, I said!”

He reacted to my voice, put the car in reverse and then stopped, unable to see anything in the rear vision mirror.

“Molotok, if there’s anyone under the wheels, drag them out of the way!” I shouted.

Syoma nodded, dragged someone out by the legs, and waved at me to let the car drive away.

The jeep, reflecting light off its powerful body, drove off, and I followed its movement with my eyes. I happened to notice that the two teenagers in the foreign car whom Molotok had harassed were standing not far from the club.

They’re waiting for us to get beaten up, the jerks… They want to come and finish us off, the vultures…

The “serious people” had already figured out what to do without my help — at least, one of them had. He got behind the wheel and also tried to drive away — to get out of there while the road was clear.

“Molotok, put them in the car!” I shouted.

Waiting for the jeep belonging to the “serious people” to drive out of the car park and on to the exit road that was lit by streetlamps, I opened three of the doors, except the driver’s door, and started to gather up the guys who had been beaten up.

“Go on, get out of here!” I either asked or ordered, lifting up the heavy but limp men, and dragged them over to the car, pushing them inside.

Another two were left. The cheerful, dwarf-like guy was patiently waiting for them to get up so that he could knock them over again, and was not letting anyone near his victims.

“Calm your friend down, let them go,” I addressed the tall Muscovite, who was red and agitated.

“They should be crushed, those animals!” he shouted. “Who do they think they’re dealing with! Crushed!”

“Come on, get him out of there, I’ve had enough!” I shouted, and pushed him unexpectedly roughly, and this had an effect on him.

Throwing out his arms as if to embrace him, the tall man blocked his short friend for a few moments, and this was enough time for Molotok and me. We pushed the remaining two into the car. One of the men had blood running down his face, from somewhere under his hair. The jeep belonging to the “serious people” drove off.

The armored black beast from Moscow once more drove back towards the club building, slowly parked and fell silent.

“Go get them! Crush them!” the tall Muscovite shouted again stupidly, but the short guy waved his hand and went back into the club, almost jumping up the steps.

Lev Borisych appeared — first his head poked out from behind the door and looked around swiftly, and then the rest of him.

“What happened? Did something happen?” he asked quietly, casting his eyes all around, as if to see if something valuable had fallen to the ground somewhere nearby.