Happy Life
Auto-translated
He had almost caught him. The scoundrel tried to hide in the forest, thinking that his stolen magical elven cloak would help. Big mistake. No one escapes Justice. And so, realizing this, the cunning Villain decided to strike from ambush. He hid near the path and covered himself with leaves, freezing in anticipation.
"How loudly my vile heart beats, eaten away by lies, hatred, and child-killing," thought the Villain.
But no. It was not the beating of a heart, but the thunderous stomp of Justice. It was the Horse of a brave Elven Knight, who had sworn on his own Blood and the Banner of his Dragon Order before the Village Elder and his Beautiful Full-Blooded Daughter that he would catch the cur.
The thumping of hooves and the clank of Metal Plates drew closer. The Villain held his breath. Through the mud and damp leaves, eaten away by time and insects, he could discern a blinding light that cut painfully into his eyes. Almost there. And so, when the sound was nearly upon him, the Villain leaped from his hollow, covered in clinging leaves, mud, and ants, and with a wild scream plunged a poisoned fifteen-inch Dagger straight into the joints of the armor. Sand and vegetation flew into the air, and for a few moments, Chaos reigned. But then, rubbing his eyes, the Villain saw how the Knight, whole and unharmed, breathing heavily and grunting as he pulled clumps of grass from the crevices of his armor, nobly rose from the ground, while his Faithful Horse Ganiel, wheezing, breathed his last.
"You have once again shown your vile nature, Villain," boomed the Knight from inside his helmet. "Your Strike hit not me, but my faithful Horse. But that will not stop me from delivering you to Justice!".
The cur realized the fight was lost.
"What... what..." — something was wrong. He felt he was missing something important. This brigand was almost defeated. All that remained was to pronounce his sentence, bind him, and escort him to the village head for justice.
- I'll pay you twice as much if you leave me alive!!! Even three times! - the Villain exclaimed in desperation, spraying saliva.
- You cannot buy my Honor, scoundrel. Nor the lives of the slaves you killed, - the paladin boomed firmly, striking his chest with a resonant thud.
- Peasants. They were peasants.
- This!.. - the Knight began, waving his arms in the air in a noble gesture.
Something started falling from above.
"Vfmf..." — a bright light penetrated through his synapses straight into his consciousness with a terrible grinding sound. His mouth felt as if it were stuffed with sand, and there was no way to spit it out. Finally, the horror of ignorance began to slowly dissipate, releasing memory.
With great effort, he opened his eyes, which were immediately pierced by a sunbeam breaking through closed curtains. His eyes watered. Realizing finally that his mouth was stuffed not with sand, but with the corner of a blanket, he spat it out. Intuition did not deceive him — breathing became much easier. With difficulty freeing clumsy, numb hands from under the blanket, he put his fingers in his mouth, picking out either hairs or fur. Disgustedly wiping them on the long-suffering blanket, he realized too late in his half-asleep state that he had only gotten into his own saliva. The day was starting off brutal.
Sitting up in bed, rubbing his reddened eyes, focusing and looking around, he determined that he was buried under his own clothes. He knocked over this shelf again.
"Why even hang it twenty centimeters above the sofa, right over the head, lol?" — he cursed for the same reason once more, — "At least I didn't hit myself".
Dangling his legs from the bed and feeling around for old, worn-out slippers, he struggled to stand up. It was cold. He reached for the window, opened the curtains, and winced at the brightness of the new day. Glanced at the clock — nine in the morning.
"..." — he decided, smoothing his disheveled hair.
In faded family boxers and a white undershirt, it was indeed cold, but he didn't want to rummage through the mess so much that he waved it off and, sluggishly dragging his feet and shuffling, left the room, leaving behind the stifling and unpleasant smell of sleep.
Walking onto the balcony, he looked out at the street and surveyed the surroundings from his high-rise. The wind gently ruffled his beard and ran a bracing chill over the stubble on his head. The sky was gray, covered with ragged clouds.
"On such a fine day, it's a sin not to take a walk!" — raising a finger in the air admonishingly, he declared.
Giggling sounded from below. These were children laughing at the uncle who talked to himself. After all, he lived on the first floor.
"Shut up, you little bastards!" — he shouted, threatening a five-year-old boy with his fist.
The children scattered in terror. Someone started crying. With a sense of duty fulfilled, he went back into the room.
"Let's see what's happening on the internet today!" — he planned the upcoming day, entering the bedroom and wincing at the stuffiness. Forgot to air it out again. Anyway, doesn't matter.
Suddenly, gloom washed over him. He didn't know if this was due to the change in weather or the incident on the balcony, or perhaps even a disturbing dream whose details he no longer remembered. Reaching for the computer case, he pressed the button. The familiar and so dear noise of the machine starting up calmed him slightly. Patiently waiting for the system to load, wincing from a slight inflammation, he sat on the edge of a stool. And then, the screen brightened, displaying a greeting.
"Good morning to you too," — he muttered in apathy.
However, the apathy completely vanished as soon as the new desktop appeared on the screen. Oh, it was a magnificent desktop! For long nights he had painstakingly searched for the right image and finally found one.
The picture depicted a fairytale forest with a gurgling stream cutting through the thicket, on the bank of which sat a noble elf holding a lute made of magical wood on his knees, admiring the magical essences and wonders floating in the air. Yes, it was a beautiful desktop, for above the forest bathing in sunbeams that freely penetrated between sparse pink cumulus clouds, the most beautiful of all dragons he had seen majestically spread its wings.
Patting his favorite with the appearing cursor, he sighed once more. Art requires sacrifice, and his favorite character must share such a beautiful art with another. More than once the thought occurred to him to erase the extra one, but he didn't dare, as he had no skill in graphics.
He shook his head, casting aside the whining, tediousness, and bits of fluff that had probably stuck from the pillow during sleep.
"launching, launching, launching the internet!" — he hummed his little song under his breath, clicking the mouse.
After listening to a couple of favorite songs, reading a couple of paragraphs of text, and exchanging a few phrases with internet friends, he visited his favorite resource. As always — conversations about nothing.
"i'm kus-kus =^^=. whut? goin to eat now, bldjad x)", — he shared his plans with pleasure in the corresponding thread.
Changing his status in the messenger and thereby informing all the worried people in the contact list of his intentions, he struggled to stand up, rubbing stiff and frozen legs, and reached for old sweatpants. Reluctantly pulling the glossy fabric, unwashed for months, over his naked body, he vividly described the details of this act in a favorite thread on a favorite resource — "I'll put on a magical winter cloak to fight the cold)))". Putting on a tattered, faded Soviet sweater, he left the room shuffling in slippers.
Immersed in his thoughts, he passed by a mirror.
"Let's see...", — he muttered, putting one foot on a chair and assuming a majestic pose. — "What a mustache-beard I have! Just like an admiral!", — twisting imaginary mustaches and looking with some regret at the two-day hairy fuzz above his upper lip, he proclaimed.
At the very moment when the imaginary troops were ready to receive orders, his foot slipped off the chair to the side, which almost led to a tragedy. Angrily kicking the spinning wheeled chair, the hero continued his difficult journey. And the road lay through the bathroom. Entering and carefully examining his face in the mirror, he squeezed a new pimple. There was no water; he had to wipe the pus-covered hand on his pants.
"Otherwise not bad," — he hummed with satisfaction, finally entering the kitchen.
He was too lazy to look for the TV remote, so he turned the device on manually. Clicking through channels and finding nothing interesting, he left MTV on anyway. Some show about dating was playing. After watching for a while and waiting for the commercials, he finally came to his senses and sat on a stool.
"Maybe Brad will turn out to be gay," — random thoughts floated in his head. He was torn from the thinking process by something hitting the glass. Jumping up on the spot and running to the window shouting "What's going on?!", he saw a janitor rummaging through the trash, scattering junk in all directions.
"That... That was strange... XYNTA," — he decided, and shrugging his shoulders, leaned toward the refrigerator. Reaching for a piece of cheese, he noticed that his hands were still shaking from the adrenaline rush.
Somehow crookedly cutting himself a couple of slices, looking back at the TV every second, he placed them on already cut pieces of bread. He never put butter in sandwiches. It took too much time and effort. Moreover, he'd have to wash the knife afterward. The tea bags had run out; he was too lazy to brew leaves, so he simply poured himself a mug of water with sediment from the kettle. Enjoying the food, crumbling it on the floor and table, and washing down the dry meal with warm yellowish water, he watched the continuation of the TV show with interest. Annoyed that Steve turned out to be gay and his intuition failed him, he shut off the TV with some effort and hurried back to the computer.
First, he refreshed some of the open browser windows, waiting for updates. There were no updates, nor any messages in the messenger. Slightly disappointed, he vividly described the recent incident in the kitchen, the plot twists of the TV show, and his life-threatening fall from the chair in the hallway, seasoning the story with a few funny faces. After sitting at the monitor for about five minutes and refreshing the thread, he still saw no comments and waved it off irritably. While he was eating and writing, songs by a new favorite death-metal band finished downloading, which he listened to with pleasure. Exchanging another couple of phrases with internet friends and scrolling through a few more threads, he glanced at the clock.
"Two in the afternoon. Time for lunch!", — he decided. And went to have lunch.
"Sooo, what do we have here? Aha! They left me pasta for lunch! How great!", — he inhaled the aroma of cold, watery noodles in a pot. The aroma was familiar.
Scooping the clumped dish onto a plate, he heated it in a brand-new microwave oven purchased a week ago.
"Mmmm!", — he inhaled the same aroma and coughed, — "Now just a few exquisite seasonings".
Aside from salt, no seasonings were found, which he confirmed after ten minutes of searching; cursing this sudden desire to dine beautifully, he had to heat his food once more. Dousing it in ketchup and waving off the TV, he went to the computer with his food.
Eating the vermicelli while smacking his lips and sucking on dirty fingers, suddenly remembering with horror, he changed his status in the messenger accordingly. Only then did he sigh with deserved relief.
Examining explicit artifacts of elven girls riding lizards, he accidentally sprayed saliva and ketchup onto the keyboard.
"What to do?" — he wondered. Coming up with nothing better, he somehow wiped the keys with his sleeve.
Having finished lunch and chosen several suitable pictures of the most beautiful elves and the most brutal reptiles, he engaged in feverish activity for a few minutes, the result of which was dirt on the floor and general exhaustion.
"Maybe I'll play something," — he said to an invisible observer with unexpected kindness in his voice.
Gaining a couple of levels, completing a couple of quests, and acquiring a plus-sword, he leaned back on the stool, holding onto the edge of the table, reflecting. His thoughts encompassed many things; unseen horizons and opportunities stretched before him, which he firmly intended to realize in the future. Sometimes at such moments he felt a faint tinge of sadness, but this time a victorious smile lit up his face. He knew that everything would be fine.
The alarm clock showed one in the morning.
"I'll go to sleep. Tired for today..." — he yawned and, saying goodbye to friends and listening to the last song, turned off the computer. Pulling off his pants and sweater and throwing them in their usual place, he lay down and covered himself with a blanket. Tomorrow morning he will go collect another pension.
And now he slept and saw sweet dreams.
_________
P. S. Coincidences in this excretion are not accidental; the image is collective. Something like half a dozen people who, upon closer inspection, turned out to be not so different. And it's a pity that tags are needed for indentations.
"How loudly my vile heart beats, eaten away by lies, hatred, and child-killing," thought the Villain.
But no. It was not the beating of a heart, but the thunderous stomp of Justice. It was the Horse of a brave Elven Knight, who had sworn on his own Blood and the Banner of his Dragon Order before the Village Elder and his Beautiful Full-Blooded Daughter that he would catch the cur.
The thumping of hooves and the clank of Metal Plates drew closer. The Villain held his breath. Through the mud and damp leaves, eaten away by time and insects, he could discern a blinding light that cut painfully into his eyes. Almost there. And so, when the sound was nearly upon him, the Villain leaped from his hollow, covered in clinging leaves, mud, and ants, and with a wild scream plunged a poisoned fifteen-inch Dagger straight into the joints of the armor. Sand and vegetation flew into the air, and for a few moments, Chaos reigned. But then, rubbing his eyes, the Villain saw how the Knight, whole and unharmed, breathing heavily and grunting as he pulled clumps of grass from the crevices of his armor, nobly rose from the ground, while his Faithful Horse Ganiel, wheezing, breathed his last.
"You have once again shown your vile nature, Villain," boomed the Knight from inside his helmet. "Your Strike hit not me, but my faithful Horse. But that will not stop me from delivering you to Justice!".
The cur realized the fight was lost.
"What... what..." — something was wrong. He felt he was missing something important. This brigand was almost defeated. All that remained was to pronounce his sentence, bind him, and escort him to the village head for justice.
- I'll pay you twice as much if you leave me alive!!! Even three times! - the Villain exclaimed in desperation, spraying saliva.
- You cannot buy my Honor, scoundrel. Nor the lives of the slaves you killed, - the paladin boomed firmly, striking his chest with a resonant thud.
- Peasants. They were peasants.
- This!.. - the Knight began, waving his arms in the air in a noble gesture.
Something started falling from above.
"Vfmf..." — a bright light penetrated through his synapses straight into his consciousness with a terrible grinding sound. His mouth felt as if it were stuffed with sand, and there was no way to spit it out. Finally, the horror of ignorance began to slowly dissipate, releasing memory.
With great effort, he opened his eyes, which were immediately pierced by a sunbeam breaking through closed curtains. His eyes watered. Realizing finally that his mouth was stuffed not with sand, but with the corner of a blanket, he spat it out. Intuition did not deceive him — breathing became much easier. With difficulty freeing clumsy, numb hands from under the blanket, he put his fingers in his mouth, picking out either hairs or fur. Disgustedly wiping them on the long-suffering blanket, he realized too late in his half-asleep state that he had only gotten into his own saliva. The day was starting off brutal.
Sitting up in bed, rubbing his reddened eyes, focusing and looking around, he determined that he was buried under his own clothes. He knocked over this shelf again.
"Why even hang it twenty centimeters above the sofa, right over the head, lol?" — he cursed for the same reason once more, — "At least I didn't hit myself".
Dangling his legs from the bed and feeling around for old, worn-out slippers, he struggled to stand up. It was cold. He reached for the window, opened the curtains, and winced at the brightness of the new day. Glanced at the clock — nine in the morning.
"..." — he decided, smoothing his disheveled hair.
In faded family boxers and a white undershirt, it was indeed cold, but he didn't want to rummage through the mess so much that he waved it off and, sluggishly dragging his feet and shuffling, left the room, leaving behind the stifling and unpleasant smell of sleep.
Walking onto the balcony, he looked out at the street and surveyed the surroundings from his high-rise. The wind gently ruffled his beard and ran a bracing chill over the stubble on his head. The sky was gray, covered with ragged clouds.
"On such a fine day, it's a sin not to take a walk!" — raising a finger in the air admonishingly, he declared.
Giggling sounded from below. These were children laughing at the uncle who talked to himself. After all, he lived on the first floor.
"Shut up, you little bastards!" — he shouted, threatening a five-year-old boy with his fist.
The children scattered in terror. Someone started crying. With a sense of duty fulfilled, he went back into the room.
"Let's see what's happening on the internet today!" — he planned the upcoming day, entering the bedroom and wincing at the stuffiness. Forgot to air it out again. Anyway, doesn't matter.
Suddenly, gloom washed over him. He didn't know if this was due to the change in weather or the incident on the balcony, or perhaps even a disturbing dream whose details he no longer remembered. Reaching for the computer case, he pressed the button. The familiar and so dear noise of the machine starting up calmed him slightly. Patiently waiting for the system to load, wincing from a slight inflammation, he sat on the edge of a stool. And then, the screen brightened, displaying a greeting.
"Good morning to you too," — he muttered in apathy.
However, the apathy completely vanished as soon as the new desktop appeared on the screen. Oh, it was a magnificent desktop! For long nights he had painstakingly searched for the right image and finally found one.
The picture depicted a fairytale forest with a gurgling stream cutting through the thicket, on the bank of which sat a noble elf holding a lute made of magical wood on his knees, admiring the magical essences and wonders floating in the air. Yes, it was a beautiful desktop, for above the forest bathing in sunbeams that freely penetrated between sparse pink cumulus clouds, the most beautiful of all dragons he had seen majestically spread its wings.
Patting his favorite with the appearing cursor, he sighed once more. Art requires sacrifice, and his favorite character must share such a beautiful art with another. More than once the thought occurred to him to erase the extra one, but he didn't dare, as he had no skill in graphics.
He shook his head, casting aside the whining, tediousness, and bits of fluff that had probably stuck from the pillow during sleep.
"launching, launching, launching the internet!" — he hummed his little song under his breath, clicking the mouse.
After listening to a couple of favorite songs, reading a couple of paragraphs of text, and exchanging a few phrases with internet friends, he visited his favorite resource. As always — conversations about nothing.
"i'm kus-kus =^^=. whut? goin to eat now, bldjad x)", — he shared his plans with pleasure in the corresponding thread.
Changing his status in the messenger and thereby informing all the worried people in the contact list of his intentions, he struggled to stand up, rubbing stiff and frozen legs, and reached for old sweatpants. Reluctantly pulling the glossy fabric, unwashed for months, over his naked body, he vividly described the details of this act in a favorite thread on a favorite resource — "I'll put on a magical winter cloak to fight the cold)))". Putting on a tattered, faded Soviet sweater, he left the room shuffling in slippers.
Immersed in his thoughts, he passed by a mirror.
"Let's see...", — he muttered, putting one foot on a chair and assuming a majestic pose. — "What a mustache-beard I have! Just like an admiral!", — twisting imaginary mustaches and looking with some regret at the two-day hairy fuzz above his upper lip, he proclaimed.
At the very moment when the imaginary troops were ready to receive orders, his foot slipped off the chair to the side, which almost led to a tragedy. Angrily kicking the spinning wheeled chair, the hero continued his difficult journey. And the road lay through the bathroom. Entering and carefully examining his face in the mirror, he squeezed a new pimple. There was no water; he had to wipe the pus-covered hand on his pants.
"Otherwise not bad," — he hummed with satisfaction, finally entering the kitchen.
He was too lazy to look for the TV remote, so he turned the device on manually. Clicking through channels and finding nothing interesting, he left MTV on anyway. Some show about dating was playing. After watching for a while and waiting for the commercials, he finally came to his senses and sat on a stool.
"Maybe Brad will turn out to be gay," — random thoughts floated in his head. He was torn from the thinking process by something hitting the glass. Jumping up on the spot and running to the window shouting "What's going on?!", he saw a janitor rummaging through the trash, scattering junk in all directions.
"That... That was strange... XYNTA," — he decided, and shrugging his shoulders, leaned toward the refrigerator. Reaching for a piece of cheese, he noticed that his hands were still shaking from the adrenaline rush.
Somehow crookedly cutting himself a couple of slices, looking back at the TV every second, he placed them on already cut pieces of bread. He never put butter in sandwiches. It took too much time and effort. Moreover, he'd have to wash the knife afterward. The tea bags had run out; he was too lazy to brew leaves, so he simply poured himself a mug of water with sediment from the kettle. Enjoying the food, crumbling it on the floor and table, and washing down the dry meal with warm yellowish water, he watched the continuation of the TV show with interest. Annoyed that Steve turned out to be gay and his intuition failed him, he shut off the TV with some effort and hurried back to the computer.
First, he refreshed some of the open browser windows, waiting for updates. There were no updates, nor any messages in the messenger. Slightly disappointed, he vividly described the recent incident in the kitchen, the plot twists of the TV show, and his life-threatening fall from the chair in the hallway, seasoning the story with a few funny faces. After sitting at the monitor for about five minutes and refreshing the thread, he still saw no comments and waved it off irritably. While he was eating and writing, songs by a new favorite death-metal band finished downloading, which he listened to with pleasure. Exchanging another couple of phrases with internet friends and scrolling through a few more threads, he glanced at the clock.
"Two in the afternoon. Time for lunch!", — he decided. And went to have lunch.
"Sooo, what do we have here? Aha! They left me pasta for lunch! How great!", — he inhaled the aroma of cold, watery noodles in a pot. The aroma was familiar.
Scooping the clumped dish onto a plate, he heated it in a brand-new microwave oven purchased a week ago.
"Mmmm!", — he inhaled the same aroma and coughed, — "Now just a few exquisite seasonings".
Aside from salt, no seasonings were found, which he confirmed after ten minutes of searching; cursing this sudden desire to dine beautifully, he had to heat his food once more. Dousing it in ketchup and waving off the TV, he went to the computer with his food.
Eating the vermicelli while smacking his lips and sucking on dirty fingers, suddenly remembering with horror, he changed his status in the messenger accordingly. Only then did he sigh with deserved relief.
Examining explicit artifacts of elven girls riding lizards, he accidentally sprayed saliva and ketchup onto the keyboard.
"What to do?" — he wondered. Coming up with nothing better, he somehow wiped the keys with his sleeve.
Having finished lunch and chosen several suitable pictures of the most beautiful elves and the most brutal reptiles, he engaged in feverish activity for a few minutes, the result of which was dirt on the floor and general exhaustion.
"Maybe I'll play something," — he said to an invisible observer with unexpected kindness in his voice.
Gaining a couple of levels, completing a couple of quests, and acquiring a plus-sword, he leaned back on the stool, holding onto the edge of the table, reflecting. His thoughts encompassed many things; unseen horizons and opportunities stretched before him, which he firmly intended to realize in the future. Sometimes at such moments he felt a faint tinge of sadness, but this time a victorious smile lit up his face. He knew that everything would be fine.
The alarm clock showed one in the morning.
"I'll go to sleep. Tired for today..." — he yawned and, saying goodbye to friends and listening to the last song, turned off the computer. Pulling off his pants and sweater and throwing them in their usual place, he lay down and covered himself with a blanket. Tomorrow morning he will go collect another pension.
And now he slept and saw sweet dreams.
_________
P. S. Coincidences in this excretion are not accidental; the image is collective. Something like half a dozen people who, upon closer inspection, turned out to be not so different. And it's a pity that tags are needed for indentations.