The Algorithm of Chaos. Сергей Николаевич Огольцов
best way to make Lex shut his non-stop jingling yack is to ask how was his work today and—abruptly—you’re blessed with a ten-minute break, as a minimum. Not a peep. Lex all in thoughts. Full of gloom, shut up, introvert.
Seems, like the fate of that Jewish couple impressed him deeply, nice people also worked for the government before were roasted in the chair for leaking the know-how and formulas of A-bomb to the Soviets.
‘Take it easy, I was kidding. Don’t wet your bed tonight. There-there, kid. Say, what is your want?’
’How about 6 pm at Uncle Tom’s Cabin? Suits you?.
A guy needs a heart of stone to say “nah!”to their old-time buddy. Except, maybe, for that nymphomaniacal slut on the throne of the Russian Empire. In her estimation it were your enemies and not friends to be hold close to your bosom which attitude let you feel the slightest movement of their souls and thought and whatever else would spring up.
Though cunning, foolish was the bitch. It’s your friends who you should keep your eye on, 24/7. It’s they who know your weak spots better than even you yourself. They will not miss, their stab would be smack into, precise and to the hilt.
O! Brutus! And you too…
Some goofy gander, ain’t it? Your friends are the best at croaking you. Rest in peace, stupid asshole.
‘By me, it’s okay,' said V.
2
(Notwithstanding the establishment’s name, stay assured that no one has ever spotted any Uncle Tom about. None of the trust-worthy old-timer patrons would recollect him if you ask. Still and yet, hardly any one was made nervous or otherwise uncomfortable by the fact because his nephews visited the place not frequenter or else incognito. You never can tell.
Ma'am Harriet runs the establishment, an oldie but bitchy shrew with the response-time reflexes of a rattle snake that won her a profound veneration in the neighborhood. No gunslinger from the Most Wild West will hold a candle to her briskness. Although instead of a weighty Colt the old lady keeps in the holster of lace-trimmed patch pocket in her apron a tube of lacrimator spray. That her preference demoted a baseball bat to the rank of a ludicrous old-fashioned exhibit. (The survey undertaken lately by Forbez Monthly claims that barmen in the Middle-Wild West connected in some or other way to the Russian Mafia prefer a gorodki stick for the purpose.)
Additionally, her knack canceled expenses for a bouncer on the premises—with consoling laments, this black mamba would lead the tamed hooligan (his ear pinched with her thumb and index finger) to the exit and show him the nearest fire hydrant, in a God-sent Samaritan grandma’s manner as if he could see a goddamn thing thru the tears and mucus slopped all over his mug.
And then she’d creep to the kitchen, that cape cobra, like, to wash up her hands for hygienic considerations, yet actually to collect the usual share of sycophantic compliments from her subordinate employees…
In the daytime Uncle Tom’s Cabin turns a cozy family diner to keep up with that kinsfolklike varnish in its name and at night hours it is a restaurant of a fully deserved repute because of the excellent food by Ma’am Harriet’s kitchen (eluding the slippery ground of any racist shade—we are over and above propagating the slightest extremes—it should be mentioned that, yes, the chef’s skin color conformed to the environs because it was Uncle Tom’s Cabin, after all).
Thus, the superb grub multiplied by that pleasantly mellow atmosphere in the style of an old-time estate in one of the Confederation States, say, Virginia, Alabama or, maybe, Georgia which is on my mind… though not in that enraged roar by Charles Ray but in the classical form of this number composed back in 1930 (which in about twenty+ years became the Song of the Year), the way it was sung in 50s by the vocalist at the band of the Gypsy virtuoso guitarist Django, nicknamed Sultan, well, you know what I’m about, so don’t miss visiting the eatery even though the old hag with her assault spray tube pays me not one red cent for the advertising. No, Sir, nothing exept a cup of tea once in a blue moon, just tea without pastry, that old stingy bellicose biped reptile.)
V sat down in the rearmost stall and leaned onto the padded back of the double seat in the attitude of serene repose. His right arm stretched out over the slightly convex protrusion run along the seat’s backtop buffed in the gleaming skin the color of… well, the skin color also suited the room’s decor and feel.
Fortunately for those who too soon get weary with the easy flow of relaxed descriptions like the introductory paragraphs in the current chapter, Lex’ plump frame showed up thru the entrance door. Good timing…
His ample jowl spread widely out the club corners of his shirt. The spruce dinner jacket taken off and spread over or rather hung onto his left shoulder draped the left half of Lex’ torso. Yes, hanging it was and with certain a dare-devilish cheek to it too—no safety rigging at all while the well-rounded shoulder had no hooks to clutch at. It takes a desperado jacket to choose such a brash yet risky position.
On the other hand, hanging in so unorthodox a way filled the clothing item in question with a visible spirit of reckless laxness, when watched from aside, which conveyed to Lex’ voluminous roundness a hint at potential erectable standing. Maybe. In case it were needed.
On the whole, he cut a fine picture, like a hussar of the Czarist Army in their parade uniform tunic which was donned in just one sleeve, leaving the second one to freely dangle about. Every commissioned officer shoved his arm into one and the same sleeve, even if you were a left-handed hussar. No excuse would do. The elite troops should keep to the uniform regulations.
However, this here gutsy Lex left all the hussars far behind letting both his jacket sleeves empty, besides, he had no mustache so dear to heart of any cavalryman or pedestrian of a highwayman disposition…
‘Some intriguing puzzle is,' announced Lex, who managed to ferry his jacket to the stall occupied by V, and drop it on the opposite back whose seat he collapsed into, close by (next to his dinner jacket, for those who joined us right now), ’ why you, Pretty Boys, are so predictable, eh? Nearing the Cabin I knew that you’d be sitting in the corner. Does not matter which—right or left—a corner remains corner. But why?’
‘To give the commoners a chance to gape and admire our nifty appearance, maybe,’ suggested V.
‘So splendidly simple! You’ve ditched my elaborate theory that you keep to it as a vantage foxhole to keep in check possible startups. Some Kid from Kenosha, you know, who pops up to benchmark how swift you are at drawing your piece. Can’t that be why?’
‘The question “why?” opens the floodgate for trigazillions of theories each of which might be plausible to a certain extent,' responded V dully like a pedagogue dead bored with repeating the same hooey for dummies.
‘O! You don’t say so! What a nightmare! Now, back from the deluge to the file I stole taking advantage of my position at the Firm. On the whole, it’s a kinda collective log…’
‘Shut up! Got domed with a brick from the roof? What sputter is this? You drunk or something? But if I’m wired? Mark well – all you say now might be used against you and distress your ass bitterly.’
Lex shook his head in disdain.
‘Forget that deprecated shit, dandy. Recordings do not count now were it even lie-detector-backed sincere confessions of the repentant SOB, thanks to the non-stop scientific achievements. Nowadays, my lawyer would prove easily it’s a recording of my innocent prank. Moreover, you have nothing but my words and, even though the voice is also my, where is the evidence of the malicious intent?
Wake up and get your rocks off! We live in the times of 2-step-verification. No court would pick up a case based on mere words without well documented thoughts of the perpetrator planning the misdeed or thought by them while doing it.
So, honey, just action without the 2-s-V is of no count any more. Were you even caught with a smoking gun over the body riddled in tatters or with your pants down before a bevy of kindergarten kids. Whatever. You might have easily been a victim to puppeteering, they set you up by means of retroactive manipulation of causality. Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen.