Honest Moose From the Tribe Of Hooey-Prickers xxxx

With my arrival, the theater of bickering operations was transferred to Tonya's bedroom. From the living room, all that could be heard was Vanya taking up a perimeter defense in the corner by the window, while his father-in-law, mother-in-law, and sister-in-law, both in turn and in chorus, shouted out their grievances against him.
The words were indistinct, like the old Pilyutikha's curses through the kitchen wall, but I wasn't paying attention anyway. However, I could tell that Vanya was fighting back with short bursts, Bandera-style. They’re used sparing the ammunition.
Occasionally, one of the attackers would run into the living room, to recall what else they'd forgotten to use, and then rush headlong back to rejoin the fray. Except for Tonya, who never left the bedroom, stubbornly pounding away with the same monotonous, armor-piercing .45 caliber replica from the opposite corner.
I didn't look inside, but it's all pretty clear—family scandals don't offer a wide variety of tactical options.

And all that chaos raged against the backdrop of the wild cries of rebellious farmers in Central Asia, because the Central Television network was showing the series 'Man Changes Skin', where they were furiously scurrying from one side of the screen to the other. Hence, the voices.
Then the farmers got completely brazen—they jumped out of the TV! And they continued running around on the oilcloth. The bastards threw their feet onto the table! They caught the moment while the viewers were busy having personal squabbles in the bedroom.
And I'd long known that anything could happen from this Central Television network…
. .. .
One Sunday, my mother-in-law made soup from a bare but huge bone and placed my bowl next to the box where a mafia clan forced an honest judge to commit suicide. And when he shot himself through the temple, his brains splattered smash bang into my bowl—shrumpff!
But what can you do when your mother-in-law is standing overhead, making sure you show her cooking the proper respect? I had to eat it hot off the stove…
. .. .
But no one ever escape the just retribution! And now, taking advantage of the moment when we were alone with the TV, I switched the bastard—clack!—to another channel. And there it was, a classical string chamber quartet. Amazing! Just the thing.

However, soon my father-in-law trotted out of the bedroom to recharge. And he sensed something was wrong; it wasn't stimulating as expected. It took him a while to realize it was because of the cello. What the hell is a cello in Central Asia? But unfortunately, he finally got the hang of it, and back to the old channel—crash! And the grateful peasants from there chorused, 'All-al-ala!'
He gulped it down like a can of energizer and, now fully loaded, rushed back into the eternal battle…

The latest research in the field of serious literary critics as well as scrupulous investigations by the appropriate agencies and organs are gradually bringing it to the light that the widely known facts from the protagonists adventures, taken for their face value, are all lies. He is a goody-goody boots, deep inside. Perhaps (in very rare cases) a tiny bit forgetful of tying his shoe strings, as yet.


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                Content -- words: 79,269; p.p.: 248;

Preface
~ ~ ~ The Planets' Parade
~ ~ ~ As If A Mine
~ ~ ~ Whose Side Are You On?
~ ~ ~ The Beautiful Defeat
~ ~ ~ A Cell Of The Society
~ ~ ~ Defying The Wash
~ ~ ~ The Other-Worldly Cats
~ ~ ~ Freedom Has Its Price
~ ~ ~ The Fate Of A Recidivist