The Ghost Of Cop

"O, my gosh!" Sasha wanted to swear but stopped cautiously. A ghost was sitting right in front of him. A genuine, real, translucent ghost. He was dressed in the typical clothes of the native proletarian. His shabby old clothes were grey or rather with a touch of grey dust - grey-grey, grey-blue, grey-brown... The collar of a theoretically white shirt sticking out from under a wrinkled sweater also looked grey. It seemed as if you turned it inside out, it would look like a dirty army undercollar. The guest from the other world had an unshaven face and puffy eyes. Sasha did not feel intense cold or sense a sulfur-like smell, but the ghost smelt like a drunk man with some kind of infernal smoky alcoholic fumes, and because of that, Sasha felt rather dizzy and sick.

"Hi, buddy!" said ghost.

Sasha kept silent.

"I guess you ain't very glad to see me. I wouldn't be happy either if I was alive. But, you see, it is destiny."

And then he suddenly fell silent.

"Anyway, never say never. Not about prison, not about wealth. And ghost's visits too," said the uninvited guest at last.

Then there was an awkward silence.

"Are you a gay?" said the ghost, in order to defuse the situation. "I never trusted journalists. I wrote police reports and read denunciations all my life and knew this life at first hand. I knew very well its hidden side".

"I'm not gay", said Sasha with hesitation. If the other world does exist, he thought, and if it is like this, who knows what is in his unconscious mind?

"Well, that's good", said ghost after some hesitation. "You know, the afterlife is better than any interrogation with extreme prejudice. It delves into our dirty laundry. But, in the process, you do not know what you are accused of. And then it is unclear who and what you can trust? And there is no boss here."

Then there was an awkward silence again. Sasha had the feeling that somebody hit him in the ears and left him partially deaf, and they were waiting for his true confessions of guilt in a crime he didn't commit. And he will have to compose the plot himself, because the investigator did not invent anything in this regard. But nothing comes to mind. Despite the readiness to write anything.

"Cop was born," the ghost joked, as he was reading Sasha's mind. "Everyone bears in mind his own cop, brother. I see you have reached the necessary conditions. You are ready to confess. You know, I was a true professional, a psychologist in my business. I would have cracked you at once. No offense but you are a slug. Normal guys do not work as scribblers. We deal with all these bullshit criminals . . . or commit crimes ourselves. Often we do both. I have to admit it's just the way it is. Much depends on fate."

"So, are you ready for cooperation?" the ghost yelled suddenly and shook his fist in front of Sasha's face. Sasha was scared, but then the ghost tried to drink a glass of vodka, which Sasha prepared for himself as a sleep aid after a fussy wasted day. All this reminded him of some comical magical ritual. It seemed like the ghost tried to take the glass by every possible way: he came closer then farther many times. His face expressed unspeakable suffering that was indicative of metaphysical Dante's hell.

"Apparently, the man got into a kind of Catholic purgatory. And now he will have to suffer until he gets rid of the two passions: interrogations with extreme prejudice and alcohol addiction," Sasha concluded.

"What the hell, I became weak after death," the ghost said disappointedly and fell on a chair. To Sasha's surprise, the guest was able to do this, and he did not sink into the depths of hell.

"Well, I have to admit that physical methods in the interrogation are unavailable to me now," the ghost concluded philosophically.
"But 'All hope abandon ye who enter here!' Our ghost mates have the range of psychological methods - lies, blackmail, intimidation, a humiliation of human dignity. We are hanging here - between the Heaven and the Earth and can't move one way or the other. And it is getting worse. Experienced men told us that we lived in castles in the old days and cracked aristocrats. Would you believe that? We live in a cynical time. Nobody wants to keep up the traditions. After articles that your colleagues have written, and after movies, they have made, no one believes in our physical existence. Any contact with us, and folks run to psychiatrists. Or we are often mistaken for the dismissed circus clowns. So I will speak to you frankly. Listen to me. Do you think I'm a nightmare, I'm a freak? We are legion, one is worse than another. Just imagine, just think about it. A mob of freaks is around you. They won't let you sleep, work, think, and even they won't let you fuck. They swear, threaten, offend, expose... They will arrange for you such a metaphysical "press hata" (1). So choose: either I am a good cop, or they will deal with you. The choice is yours."

"Well, what should I do?" Sasha asked. He was confused.
"I must become a good cop," the ghost said with meaning.

"What do you mean? And shall I somehow magically change your essence?"

"Idiot. I always thought that you, journalists, were fools. Even God can't do this. Anyway, I have not met Him yet. But I would like to."

"So what do you want from me?"

"We, ghosts, have the hypothesis. If we are remembered as a good people, we will get the indulgence. I must be an honest policeman in human hearts. Think about it. It is considered that in the States, the policemen believe in God, do not take bribes and after death go right to the Heaven. And I want to be a hero in the eyes of contemporaries. In short, you must rewrite the story of my life. I also appeal to your patriotism. You know what reputation we have in the eyes of compatriots. However, if something happens, they run to us. Whatever we are, only we purge the country. By the way, even the president of the Russian Federation understands this. And here you are - a journalist, a wuss."

And then, suddenly, Sasha felt fear, anxiety, and grave melancholy. The possibility of forced coexistence with a herd of ghouls, who intimidate and call to your conscience, did not please either. As a result, there was some spiritual alchemical process, and he got inspired.

Sasha tried to announce his agreement in the most passionate form. But it could look like a completely useless jumble of phrases and slogans to an outside observer. But it was said from the heart. It was evident that he did not pretend.
The guest looked at Sasha with satisfaction.
"You can drink vodka, I'll let you," the ghost looked at the glass with an expression of envy on his face. "I know when you are 'under the influence' such unexpected thoughts come to mind. Also, it helps to build rapport."

After that unexpected spiritual s;ance, more and more inspired drunk conversation about life in the shabby kitchen, with a rusty stove in a crumbling house. And the window had a view on the gloomy dump.

"How did you die?" Sasha asked cautiously.

"I died . . . under very mysterious circumstances," the ghost said meaningfully.

"Can you give some details on this?" asked Sasha, waiting with hope for details of the intriguing episode about which the public will read anything, whatever nonsense you have to make up.

"I froze to death when I was drunk," the ghost answered succinctly.

Sasha looked at the ghost in perplexity.
"What? Don't you get it again?" asked the ghost with everybody else I died under mysterious circumstances. You're a journalist, it's not the first time when you make up fairy-tales."
The ghost was silent for a moment, and then he spoke skeptically, "Well, that's your job to make interpretations. I'm a professional in another business. I got used to framing people under the articles of the Criminal Code. But you must make me a saint. It's not exactly a saint, of course, but not too far from holy."

"Well, how did you become . . . a law enforcement officer?" Sasha's hope for his professional skills was about to melt down.

"It's destiny," said ghost, in the style of criminal authority who tells a student of technical secondary school about the truth of life. Something like 'Who has never been in prison, does not know what life is'. "I was demobilized from a military service as a cool soldier who had been bullying conscripts that, like you, couldn't have hidden from the army duty. After a similar experience at the beginning of military service, it was not difficult. Why not? This is a school of courage. At first, you were bullied, then you bullied. It's all for the sake of discipline. How do you picture the army? WeII, you have no idea. Because you didn't serve. At first, your journalists wrote in the newspapers that there was discipline, order, and serenity in the army, and then only the dirt and violence. But the real guys - they are all like that. They don't obey army discipline without rituals with beating and humiliation. And any officer understands it."

"I'm serious, but you can hardly understand me," sang the ghost in the style of singer Shufutinsky and laughed amiably.

"Come on, buddy, don't worry," said the ghost leniently. "But, you see, that's the deal. You must know what life truly is, otherwise, it turns out that I am lying to you. In the other world (actually, in my world now) such tricks do not work. I got it. Although, not immediately. I had to come through a rough patch . . . Anyway, I came back from the army. I drank for two weeks, which is proper, and enjoyed life," continued the ghost. "Then I came to my mind after the hangover and such sadness gripped me. I had no job, no money, they paid next to nothing at the factory. Different jerks drive around in the BMW cars, they ruined the whole country. And then my army buddy suddenly arrived, 'Hey, join us'!"
And the ghost paused. . . .

"And frankly, I could've run with any gang as partners in crime. I felt sorry for my country, I felt sorry for ordinary people and I felt hurt to see how oligarchs and black ass motherfuckers live in great luxury. Anyway, if the member of a gang has offered me a helping hand at that moment, I could've joined the gang. Class hatred. Do you understand my feelings?"
Sasha gave himself time to think of it. "Well, actually, I don't really understand it."
"Pretty clear. You are a diligent boy, school prig. 'You need to be a good pupil'. And, of course, you can admire the luxury yachts in glamorous magazines. 'Maybe I will ever get lucky.' Do you think so?"
"Yes ..." Sasha admitted carefully.
The ghost paused trying to humiliate him. "Well, damn, you," he said reproachfully. "Go ahead - invent your pitches further."
"Then it was my first day at work," the ghost continued. "Do you know a joke about the road-roller?"
"When gang in a jeep crashed into the road-roller? They called traffic cops, talked them. Then the traffic cops came to the driver of the road-roller and said, 'Come on, tell us how did you overtake, cut the jeep off the road'?"
"That's a real case. But not quite right," the ghost said harshly. "They were not traffic cops, but our patrol officers. Of course, we had no right to deal with road accidents. The man has no understanding of the situation, and gang don't care about that. You know, they could have taken his apartment after this incident. And this is not a joke. So we made the situation go away. Is it possible to immediately explain this? That is why we pressed him a little. After that incident, I've learned for a lifetime the importance of psychological pressure, even if the person is not guilty. The man left with no money in his wallet but with his apartment. And everyone's happy. We made some easy money, gangs do not like to clash with cops for no reason. That was the real deal. Well, either the man could have been out of the apartment or could have paid a little for our help. And, as a result, there wasn't a crime. Anyway, my mentor was the purest soul. He was a psychologist with a capital P. He was better than your Jew, Freud! He made the situation simple and clear to me. Plus, he shared money with me. And you say...". The ghost strangely finished the phrase, although Sasha didn't mean to say anything. He did not know what to think?

"You should have seen how we cleaned yards from drunkards," the ghost continued friendly. "It was not a patrolling - it was a song. Who knows better than cop the psychology of the average person? Nobody. Like you, for example. You have talked with many smart and famous people. And so what? You couldn't catch them lying in spite of your journalistic experience, could you? Could you convince them to do something? Persuade them to write denunciation for example or sign the confession?"
Sasha took time to think again. "No," he said honestly.
"That's right," said the ghost. "But people like me work with them. Although, they outrank me. And maybe they are cleverer, but this is not for sure. The best of them started like me. I will tell you clearly. Look at the window."
Sasha carefully got up out of his chair and stared at the dump. He recalled its smell which he felt countless times when he took out the garbage.

"Do not look at the dump. And don't let yourself have these sinful thoughts that people call the police 'garbagemen'."

Sasha got afraid that the ghost has telepathic abilities.

"Look what is next to the dump. Get at the root. What is there? There is a children's playground. And on this playground punks are boozing. What would you do?"

"I don't know. Probably I would walk past . . . "

"And, if you were drunk, you would join the company. I know journalists, you are rotten people, you like to drink for free. When you are drunk all people are brothers. But children have nowhere to play. And what do they see, and what life lesson do they get?"

Sasha felt ashamed.

"I see you never had any conscience," said the ghost

nevertheless.

Sasha felt more ashamed and he collapsed on the chair contritely.

"Okay, let's start from personal motives," said the ghost. "It is only when you are drunk all people are brothers. I see. I loved heart-to-heart talk, for example. But so we are. Other people could want to fight and like criminal 'feats'. Many people do not like too intellectual guys like you. Let us suppose that somebody smacked you in the face. What's next?"

"I don't know. I would go to heal bruises, I guess."

"But if they crippled and robbed you? You would come to me, of course. I started my career purging yards from drinkers. This is great art! You should understand it. You think the authority of a law enforcement officer is very important in this situation, don't you? This is true but just partly. Alcohol boldness pushes folks to craziest 'feats'. Add that many young people in our area are a little bit criminal-minded. And there are only two of us in patrol. Anyway, every day there is a danger to become disabled or to lose your life. Thank God, I had a good mentor. He made it clear to me with simple explanations. And we had a proletarian gut in common. First, it is of critical importance to assess the combat situation. If there are more than six boozers, you shouldn't get involved with them. It is better to call for backup by walkie-talkie. There's no sense in most cases but you won't be reprimanded if something happens. They won't say that you did not manage with the situation. After that, you must approach boozers. You should appear quickly and unexpectedly. But you shouldn't look like carefully creeping shrimp. This is also great art! Sometimes it's better just to loom on the horizon. Sometimes that's enough. But that approach must not be abused. You won't fulfill the detention plan, and you won't make any money for that day. You must immediately identify the leader. But experience is not the most important thing in this case. You need to follow your gut, feel by your ass. That is why the main psychological attack should be directed at him, at the same time you should besiege the most impudent of the company. You have to say it sharply and firmly, 'Well, boozing!' At this moment they should be confused, they should feel your authority, and they should feel threatened. While they are disoriented, you should command in a softer tone, 'Collect the bottles, quickly!' And shoot them down with a phrase, 'Let's go to the police station.' This is an important moment - they can start quibbling or decide to get in a fight with you. So in advance, just in case, you need to lower psychological pressure and say it in a conciliatory voice, 'Let's draw up a report - nothing more'. I can't explain everything; there is a certain art. It's also like telling me how to play the harp. You have to act evasively and threaten, and use conciliation jokes, and show condescending respect. It is like press the keys of a complicated instrument. At the same time, you feel the constant threat. You got it?"

Sasha looked at the ghost with respect. He felt himself like an applicant to a top-secret Masonic lodge who was being initiated in hidden mechanisms of world politics. "And how interesting may be mysteries of the underworld comprehended by this sophisticated person," he thought.

"Well, that it is," said the ghost with satisfaction.

'The mysteries of the underworld' were shown in such style.

"Well, and then it looks like this. If you want to fulfill a detention plan, you can impose fines at the crime scene or bring the criminals to the police station. That's the way it goes. But you'd better do both to get profit. You can tell me that it is not good to take bribes. And I'm asking whether you have ever tried to live on the salary of a policeman. You earn more than me, but, anyway, you need money. You write puff pieces, you bend over backward to present fake data as investigation results. You write articles in government and in opposition newspapers at the same time. I read them. They are written averagely, by the way."

Sasha felt very uncomfortable.

"And what will happen when you kick the bucket? What will you answer during God's interrogation? You will show him this garbage you wrote? Will you tell him how you fucked, drank vodka without any remorse? But don't worry, there are only just us here," said the ghost condescendingly. "We are ordinary people with our sins, we don't fly to the Moon. As for me, do not forget about my spiritual part - I purged the country from criminals. After talking to me, perhaps, some of them grew a conscience. If there is no spiritual fear, there must be animal fear! Anyway, I think so."

Ghost glanced at the glass. "Drink, don't be shy. I know that it's very hard to accept what's going on here. It's a сurse that I can not improve my inner world in this way. But my soul is with you!"

Sasha emptied his glass with disgust and took a sip of Coca-Cola.

The ghost smiled contemptuously. "Synthesis of East and West - vodka with cola. And besides, in disgust to the national drink. You can't even drink like the Russians. The whole your life is like that, you can perceive native essence only in a Hollywood wrapper."

However, after this cocktail, Sasha's thoughts became a little bit clearer.

"But how can we make sure that we're on the right way?"

"Our after-death experience show that as we become enlightened, our appearance changes." The ghost squinted at his clothes, "In my case, the police uniform will appear on me. How do you imagine the uniform of a Russian policeman?"

"Excuse me, that is not my department, with all due respect. It's to Yudashkin."

The ghost thought a little, "I had a hunch that I need not an ordinary journalist but a journalist - gay. But I thought if gays have gone to heaven, it would have been absolute chaos. So what do you think?"

"I don't know. I am not a representative of the The Last Judgement Court after all."

The ghost frowned, "Courts, courts. I do not like them. You do the dirty work, you risk your life, and some sharp-tongued lawyer in one court session ruins all your work. Now they are establishing jury trials. These blabbermouths will trick folks like simpletons. And our prosecutors are straight arrows; they are not skilled at demagogy. I think so: either you are on our side or you are on the side of criminals. There's no third choice. Before my death, I created a project of the patriotic volunteer militia that should have supported our police investigative activities. I'd foreseen everything. So the guys did not walk aimlessly on the streets but would have done a useful job. So that they could have dug up dirt about lawyers, to stress them before the court hearing, to infiltrate jury trials, to recruit witnesses. I offered my project to the authorities."

"So what?" Sasha asked with interest.

"And nothing. FSB officers held conversations with me. They say everything was invented before me. They are using such tactics in serious matters. Politics, big business. They advised me in a friendly way to keep my mouth shut. So the best work of my life was dumped. And then I died under mysterious circumstances."

There was an awkward silence. A persistent thought crept into Sasha's mind: maybe he died and went to the absurd afterlife branch for his sins. And now this stubborn cop will guide him here. It's very offensive that he is not even an intelligent FSB agent. Sasha decided not to think about it for a while.

"Maybe it's better for you to go to the priest," he offered carefully to escape disturbing thoughts.

"They know nothing about life. And about death either. Сould you imagine that a ghost looks like me? Never!"

"Maybe they do not know some branches of the hell; they have other priorities."

"That is the same thing I'm telling you; they know nothing about life. But God sees everything. He isn't a simpleton. Besides what happens if I come to a priest? Нe will begin to cross oneself, and scream, 'Get out! Evil spirit!' They are very stubborn. And I don't have physical methods of influence now. I am a demon for him, that's all."
"Why should I have thought otherwise?" Sasha asked timidly.
"Could the devil have humiliated himself like that in the eyes of the people? After that, all people could have run to the church. He works in a glamorous style. 'The melancholy Demon, the spirit of exile,' something like that. Apparently, he is gay."

The ghost thought a little. "Well, generally, if you like it or not, we will have to deal with this metaphysical bullshit. Fate has ridden us into a corner. Or it was God's Providence."
Sasha began painfully sorting through everything he read about mysticism. And nothing came to his mind except for Hollywood stories. The ghost waited threateningly.
"Tell me, did you have some special mystical experience? Did God send you some signs?"
"Yes, I had," the ghost answered quickly.
Sasha looked at him hopefully. "What kind of experience do you have?"

"I had alcoholic delirium. Green devils came to me."

"Maybe they said something to you?"

"I don't remember," said the ghost after some thought, "Maybe. Did you have an alcoholic delirium? No? So you can't understand me. You don't know what real life is. I wouldn't wish such spiritual experience to anyone."

"What lesson have you brought from that ... spiritual experience?"

"Lesson- shmulesson. Began to drink less. Stopped mixing vodka with port and biscuit as a snack. It had been really sign from God, after all."

Sasha thought a little. "Apparently, shouldn't start now the investigation in this direction," he finally decided.

"How was your life going further?" Sasha tried himself in the role of the psychoanalyst.

"I became a police officer."

"Did you stand out at the service ... in a positive sense?"

The ghost smiled benignly.

"My conscience is clear. I prevented many fights, sent many drunkards in sobering centers, beat up many bullies, appealing to their conscience with curses, I exposed many moonshiners - ... More than I can count. And I helped the investigators in their work. I even came up with a new method of operational work under the name Ass," the ghost stressed the last word.

Sasha stared at the ghost in disbelief.

"You don't get it? I'll make it real simple for you, how my first mentor did. You need, for example, to recruit an informant. You should give him some secret nickname. I immediately figured out that all romance was not suitable for our way of life. Who the hell is James Bond if he snitches on neighbors. If you knew, what they were writing. Freaking Forsyte Saga. In general, this is not 'The New York Times'. Besides, we are not in New York, we are in Moscow. They all signed with pseudonym 'Ass'. They should have known their place in our life. It is also a moral incentive: if they worked well, I'd give them a better nickname, 'Schmuck', for example. It's very important because such a tactic was the reason for their development. Even the 'Agent 007'. It didn't matter. At the same time, I made fun of these knights of cloak and dagger. Go figure it. Who would say that he is an agent 'Ass'? Or 'Agent 007'? This is psychology, brother."

"Maybe you suffer after death because of such methods?" Sasha suggested cautiously.

"Do you think that the American cops don't press folks? Everywhere is the same in our business."

"So, maybe everything is about the degree?"

The ghost thought a little, "You do not take into account our native specifics. Crime is very high. Our salary is very low. You can barely make ends meet. A shortage of staff. Each investigator handles several cases. And we have no American scientific equipment. There is not even enough money for gasoline to paddy wagons."

Sasha thought that the ghost of the cop was joking and tried to smile.

"Stop grinning," the ghost said severely. "This is a tragedy. I'm sick to read your caricature writings. They, you see, do not like the inspiring style. But in fact, there is a very terrible picture even in homicide cases. We aren't able to get all the details of any crime; this is not 'Sherlock Holmes', brother. It's often impossible to tie up loose ends. There is professional killers business, and we don't even have enough time. Willing or not, but you have to press suspected. I understand that, you begin to understand, but do you think that God does not understand?"

"Probably, you had kicked ass ... had beaten a very good person during your investigative practice?"

"It might have been," recognized the ghost, "But I'm clean. If I saw that a person was not guilty, I would let him go. It's an unsolved case? Fuck it. Who cares? There is no choice. I wouldn't have lost my job anyway. There are not enough workers. Besides, in practice, it's okay if you got hit on the head with a plastic bottle. This is very good to make somebody think about the future. Some rich kids would do it a hundred times before they got involved with criminals. Do you think these slugs are saints? Add they have сonnections; some of them believe that their very powerful fathers will save their asses in any case. They can create such a long con, which a guy from the work area will never do. As a matter of principle, I would lead them all through interrogation as suspected even they aren't guilty. Especially, because they did not serve in the army."

"Some people will believe after this that the criminal world is a fact of life which must be considered," tried to argue Sasha.

"There is an exception to every rule. You can't save the whole world. I'm talking about the general picture."

Sasha thought a little. It seemed to him the guest can introduce anything as an educational procedure or prophylactic measure. Even sex with prostitutes under compulsion in the police cell. Sasha imagined, how they beat him at the police station and accuse him of murder which he did not commit. He even tried to summarize everything that the ghost said from the beginning. The brain refused to perceive the current situation.

"It's some kind of nonsense, it's impossible."

"Here we start again... Now you will run to a psychiatrist."

"Well, what else can I do?"

"Psychiatrists are rotten people, I say. They are worse than lawyers," said the ghost in pedagogical style. "They can justify even the devil. Imagine the scene at God's judgment. The speech of psychiatrist, 'The crimes of the antichrist are due to congenital pathology of his psyche, congenital narcissism, resentment of the father-creator ... In general, he has been legally insane for several millennia. He needs treatment with tranquilizers and psychotherapy.' Here is an example from life. I remember solving the murder case. The killer was a freak from an influential family. He was taken to the Serbsky State Scientific Center for Social and Forensic Psychiatry! The dad of this freak bribed the doctor. Pay attention, I knew about it but I couldn't have proved anything. The psychiatrist made up this guy such a diagnosis - the length of the sentence was six typewritten lines. Leo Tolstoy couldn't write like that. I remember only one phrase 'temporary mental confusion.' And only because I had delirium tremens myself. The judge was rotten: he took a bribe and considered the diagnosis."

"Maybe the guy became a better person now? It is still a human relation; an educational procedure as you understand it."

"l don't fucking know. You're a fucking moralist. The general idea is: if you have money, the psychiatrist always exonerates you. Do you know how many convicted offenders I have seen who pretended to be crazy? You and your mother couldn't imagine even together. But why I am telling you? You avoided the Army duty with the help of the psychiatrist. You didn't even have to pretend. You ate free state food for two months in the company of real crazies. If taxpayers just knew about it ...But I know. I studied your case well before I came from the other world."

Sasha felt shame.

"I see it again that it's a useless appealing to your civil feelings," said the ghost. "Ok, I have to press buttons of your personal motives. Do you think that madhouse is sanatorium? Do you think that I won't get you there? Now the psychiatrist will not help you. In addition, there is all bound by the FSB. They will make you 'guinea pig. 'You'll get a 'bad trip' like under LSD. They gonna show TV-programs in style 'Ring the bells, call psychos'. They gonna scare you with spies, maniacs, criminals, and crimes which never existed in nature. As if we need to clean the country immediately. They gonna remind all of your sins since childhood. Wanking you or not, everything is bad. You'll piss involuntary which is very humiliating. Finally, you'll be ashamed even if you just scratch your ass. Such heavy torments of conscience ... And television programs - stupid, non-aesthetic ... Women on such TV - almost all fishwives. They are not your type. All of these will be blowing your mind, and you will be blamed for this. You can, for example, come to be in such a state, that you watch the comedy 'Sexmission' and perceive it as a tragedy ... Like the threat of feminism. Because it is a correct way to think so, according to bosses. And there are strange cellmates around you. Psycho-sneak, psycho-godfather ... and other types. Finally, you stop talking. You will lose your teeth ... And your dick will not be hard anymore," he added persuasively after a pause.

The ghost was silent for a few more seconds.

"Did you imagine it? Good," continued the ghost. "Do you know how an American military psychiatrist Lifton calls such procedures."

"No," answered Sasha perplexedly.

"Logical dishonoring. You got it now? Don't think that I am a semi translucent fool. I read something to get the essence. Our law enforcement system always knew how to put every person on his place via humiliation. It doesn't matter for gays; they might even like it. But it's not good for you. We, the police, just intimidate nerds by rape in the cell. This is enough. In this case, historical memory works well. But the agents of the FSB are very tricky. Who knows what's on their mind. We, the cops, are more precise, more honest. Hold on to us, son. Even if the cop came from the next world."

The ghost was silent for a minute. "Or maybe you gonna prefer 'press-hata' with ghouls? Don't be afraid, I am joking ..."

"Why do you scare me all the time, after all? How can I create a positive image of you after that? I don't understand anything."

"So you needn't understand something - you need to go with your heart. You need to feel the real atmosphere."

"But how did you die?"

"I have said before. I froze to death when I was drunk. I celebrated the Police day. I fell into a snowdrift and fell asleep. Then I woke up - and welcome to the afterlife. And pay attention - I boozed with the FSB agents. It's a really bad sign. Firstly, they spoiled my life's work. It's rather to say, they came up with it before me. Then I fell in the afterlife. But God loves a trinity. God, save me if meet them here. What happens then - it's hard to imagine. That's the way it goes. You need to rewrite it."

"How so?"

"I'm sick of you! It's your job. It's a good idea, for example, ordinary cop became a victim of competition between branches of law enforcement. Or how policeman couldn't bear the despair over the powerless fight with a crime. And here, brother, you shouldn't cross the fine line of the truth of life. You shouldn't leave the soil of Russian chanson. They take our people are as the argumentless manipulated agents."

Then there was a grave-cold worrying silence. And then Sasha remembered. He had driven with a friend to a friend's party. His friend was driving. The car slammed into oncoming traffic. He, like an intellectual boy, didn't swear even before his death. "O, my gosh!" Sasha repeated this phrase after death. And then all this craziness started. Sasha, startled, got up from his chair and took the TV remote. He turned on the TV. Putin and Zhirinovsky appeared on the screen.

"What, again?!" exclaimed Sasha.

"But what did you imagine? Nietzsche. 'The Eternal Return.' Vicious circle. Fate. Only with the Russian amendment. Yes, yes, that's just the way it is. And you will live as before. And you will write your idiotic articles but in a different way. And I, the cop, will be your guide through the realm of the dead ..."

1) A "press hata" is a cell in a prison where laws of lawlessness govern supported by the administration, and where the person is forced to give certain testimony by the means of mocking, beatings, and tortures.