Sergey shkenev johnny oklahoma read online. Johnny Oklahoma, or the magic of mass destruction

Okay, we can discuss this issue tomorrow on Skype, but in the meantime, look through the rest of the mail.

- These goats again?

The third letter from an unfamiliar address contains only numbers. Twelve thousand. And a squiggle representing the euro.

- Obnoxious, degenerates.

It was the neighbors who once again raised the proposed price. As much as two hundred. And how could it not be torn apart by greed? They probably save, because the salvation of the soul and a comfortable existence in the afterlife directly depend on the amount of transfers to the accounts of the sect’s headquarters, located somewhere between Boston and Miami. How to eat rednecks!

- And now the evening psalms! – Ivan rubbed his hands gloatingly, leaned the speakers of the sound system against the empty aquarium standing on its side, moved the resulting structure to the wall, covered it with a thick blanket, and... – Maestro, cut the march short!

Do you like to listen to Rammstein at two in the morning? Recommended as the best remedy for drowsiness!

The morning began with a call from the local police officer, who received a slander from the neighbors. Senior Lieutenant Tetyushev also once studied with Ivan in the same class, so he first asked if he needed to first go to the store for milk or bread.

- Yeah, grab a couple of rolls, if it’s not too much trouble.

He replied that it is not difficult for a good person to do anything, even to grab something for a more fruitful conversation. Hearing the refusal, he chuckled into the phone and promised to bring beer.

Immediately after the conversation with the district police officer, the mobile phone rang:

- Yes? The torpedo boat base is listening!

The invisible interlocutor grunted into the microphone and shouted:

- Johnny, this is Vovan, in kind!

– Another one can’t sleep in the morning.

- I'm on business, what! Didn't he leave your wallet with documents with you?

– There’s some kind of leather folder lying under the table.

- Wow! This is it! Will you be home?

- No, fuck, I’m going to run a marathon. Of course I will, where can I go?

- I'll come in now.

I had just finished talking when the locks on the front door clicked. Irka? Well, yes, who else! She scattered her shoes in the hallway like a proprietor, cursed at the mirror on the wall that had not been cleaned for a long time, and flew into the room like a red whirlwind.

-Are you still sleeping? – And then, pretending to trip over the crutches left by the bed, she collapsed on Ivan. - Oh, Johnny, didn’t I crush you?

- Go away, you demonic spawn! – The writer was literally torn between the desire to show off the cheeky guy in the forehead or to succumb to the call of nature. Prudence won, but by a very small margin. “You have completely disfigured me.”

- Where? Let me see.

It is unknown how this attempt would have ended if not for the delicate remark of Lavrentiy Borisovich Kats:

- You are on the right course, comrades. But it’s better to lock the door.

“But it’s not good to peek,” the redhead was not at all embarrassed.

“Oh, Irochka,” Katz waved him off, “don’t make me laugh.” At eighty-two, the only thing I'm good at is voyeurism. Want free advice?

“The way to a man’s heart is through the kitchen, not hiding under the covers.” Come on, get ready for the writer’s coffee!

- With milk?

- Science fiction writers drink black.

- And the poets?

– Poets drink everything, they are traditionally alcoholics. Johnny, you don't write poetry, do you?

- No, Borisych, I’m not writing. Is it necessary?

- In no case! – Katz leaned down and grabbed the redhead by the ear. - And where is our coffee, baby? Or do you suggest drinking beer in the morning?

The door in the hallway, which had been left unlocked, slammed, and a skinny man in a police uniform recited:

“My beer,” Katz noted. – Seryozha, have you again offended the organization that protects me?

- You offend me, Lavrenty Borisovich. “The police officer put the glass-clinking bag on the floor. - You give them out-of-date goods, but I brought the freshest ones.

Katz called a “roof” a pack of local gopotas who one day intended to impose a tribute on a businessman. It is not known what they were inventing there, but as a result of the negotiations, Borisych got two dozen janitors and loaders working with enthusiasm. Not just pure enthusiasm - the incentive was the opportunity to pick up locally produced beer, which had one or two days left before the expiration date. The owner of the only brewery in the city could afford some charity.

Ivan, taking advantage of the fact that Irka had gone to the kitchen, hurried to get out of bed and get dressed.

- Borisych, did you also forget something from me this evening?

- I? – Katz winced as if he had grabbed tequila without lemon. - Johnny, are you really so disappointed in people that you can’t imagine an ordinary courtesy visit to a decent person?

- But still?

- Wallet.

- What's the wallet?

Lavrenty Borisovich sighed and explained separately, like to a juvenile idiot:

- A very old, sick Jew. At night. With a wallet. One. Are you funny already?

“I see,” Ivan nodded. “Only Vovchik is missing a full quorum, but he will soon catch up.” He promised.

Katz glanced at the wallet under the table.

“I have long suspected that Vova would be one of ours.”

- From swindlers and schemers? – the district police officer clarified.

- Fuck you, Seryozha!

The boxer appeared about fifteen minutes later and made quite an effect. When he came right out of the wall between the kitchen and the stairwell, Irka dropped the Turk with coffee, and everyone else came running to scream. To immediately freeze into pillars of salt like the wife of the biblical Lot.

- Glitch! “Senior Lieutenant Tetyushev was the first to come to his senses. And mechanically he reached for the empty holster.

“Hrrr...” Vova bared his long fangs, no less than his little finger, menacingly and breathed out flames. – Are you staring at the hell, mortals?

– Is everything ready for the ritual, Brother Mikhail?

– Yes, distinguished master, we can start now.

– And the blood of the victim?

“It’s available, we didn’t even have to organize a call for a medical examination to take tests - our client yesterday cut his blood on the street and left a fair amount of damage.”

“I know this, brother Mikhail, that’s why I intend to perform the ritual today.” This refers to proper blood preparation.

“Don’t worry, illustrious master, her condition is such that not a single dazzling ruler can resist temptation.”

– Gifts to the dazzling ruler?

– An innocent maiden, a righteous old man and an incorruptible guardian. Enough?

- Where are they?

– One floor above, distinguished master. Bring?

- It's not worth it. The rulers eat so sloppily that... Not the best sight, brother Mikhail. We start in fifteen minutes.

- May I go?

- Yes, brother, go. While I'm getting dressed, you can draw a figure and light the candles. Do you remember the diagram?

- By heart, illustrious master.

- Okay, let's get started.

The door closed softly, without a creak, and a smiling man in an expensive suit from a famous couturier stretched sweetly and tastefully. Then he yawned, almost dislocating his jaw. Damn disabled person! It’s because of him that it’s been impossible to get a good night’s sleep for two weeks now! But there is a limit to every patience, and today it has been reached. May the will of the dazzling rulers be done!

The master, who in the world goes by the name Maurice Frantsevich Kirpsha, uttered the appropriate phrase out loud and winced. No, he was never a fanatic and viewed the challenge of the demon not from a mystical, but exclusively from an economic point of view. Yes, a demon... yes, from the underworld... what's wrong with that? He will inhabit the body of this disabled writer, hand over the necessary papers for the sale of a three-room apartment in the city center... The last of nine apartments in the house. By the way, you can organize an auction.

Sergey Shkenev

Johnny Oklahoma, or the Magic of Mass Destruction

The binding design uses the work of the artist E. Deco

* * *

There are three hundred steps to the ATM and thirty minutes spent on them. Three hundred precisely measured steps. Throw the crutches forward... shift the weight before the unruly legs give way... pull them up... throw the crutches away again... Habitual and familiar over the past six years.

Then to the store - eight hundred and thirty steps. Far. The huge supermarket, shining with lights, is much closer, but Ivan liked to go here. It's more humane here, isn't it? And it’s impossible to push a cart while leaning on crutches.

The three steps to the door are the hardest. The owner of the store swears at every meeting that he will definitely make a ramp, but either there is not enough time or money. Through the glass you can see the saleswoman rushing towards him - Ivan is not the richest or the most regular customer, but they always help him up. Some people just like that, but this one is personal. A former classmate who once joined the army and never got married.

Yeah, hold on... ninety-two kilos versus her fifty.

- And you won’t get sick, honey!

He smiles sadly now. Irka is really good, and if it weren’t for the damn war! And now he’s making hints. Very clear hints.

“I’m not sunshine, I’m just a redhead.”

Just that rare case of copper-colored hair and slightly dark skin that lends itself well to tanning. Firm and smooth skin. He knows…

- Is Lavrenty at home? – Somehow getting over the threshold, Ivan plopped down on a chair at the entrance. - Call me, please, be kind.

- Here, where will he go? – Irka shook her head. The infection knows how the red waterfall has a bewitching effect on him. - Holiday again, Johnny?

In the English, or rather American, manner, Ivan was nicknamed at school, and when the angry boy promised to cut up the teasers into Khokhloma, he also became Khokhloma. By the tenth grade - Johnny Oklahoma.

The cunning, smart and very old Lavrenty Borisovich Katz appeared literally a minute later. First, an impressive belly floated out of the door, then the constant cigar... and now the whole thing.

- Vanya, friend! What destinies? Are you really bored? I do not believe!

“I don’t believe in your joy either, Borisych,” Ivan did not remain in debt. - Do you have any cognac?

- Cognac? – Katz thought, looking at the display case with bottles of different sizes, where one could see the labels of “Hennessy”, “Ararat”, “KVVK” and other “Martels”. - Where can I get it?

- Look for it.

Borisych narrowed his naturally sad eyes and burst out laughing, showing strong, smoky teeth. For a long time now, since the times of perestroika, coupons and Prohibition, everyone knew that it was impossible to buy decent swill from Lavrenty, but if you really need it, then only from him you can get this decent swill. Most often for nothing, since the old Jew did not like to take money for services provided to good people. For what is bottled in the basement nearby, you can pay whatever you want.

In principle, it’s not poison there either, but a leftist from the night shift of a distillery, but today is a special case.

- I’ll find it! – Borisych stuck out his index finger with a pistol. - But you will give me an autograph.

- How do you know?

- Elementary, Johnny! If a person buys one bottle of beer a week for four months in a row, and then suddenly demands good cognac...

- Sherlock Holmes.

– At least Doctor Watson, I don’t care. And don’t resist, the clearing is over with me. By eight o'clock in the evening, put the kettle on, and Irka and I will bring the rest.

- Why her?

- Necessary! – Lavrenty waved his fist in front of Ivan’s nose. - You dried the girl and you leave? Oooh, Dostoevsky... Ira!

- Yes, Lavrenty Borisovich?

– We close at seven and go to Vanka’s to wash the new book.

“Fees,” Ivan corrected.

- Especially. Ira, have you ever drank cognac with a real writer?

- In winter, what?

“Yes, exactly,” Borisych was not at all embarrassed. “Then you’ll leave right now and help this young talent prepare the table.” You know it yourself - creative people have keyboards instead of brains.

It’s unpleasant to walk awkwardly on crutches when a beautiful girl loaded with heavy bags is walking next to you. The feeling of one’s own helplessness painfully scratches the soul and hits one’s pride until there is a taste of blood in the mouth. No, he accidentally bit his lip while holding back his anger.

Irka doesn’t notice the weight, although her luggage now resembles a Tajik migrant worker moving from construction site to construction site and carrying the belongings of the entire team in trunks, including a cast-iron cauldron for pilaf and a life-size portrait of her late grandmother’s beloved donkey. Borisych loaded it without regret.

- Listen, Johnny, will your princess marry the knight Blumentrost? Otherwise they’re already fighting in the second book, just like you and me!

Ivan is indeed a writer. True, out of modesty, he calls himself simply a published author, but the nineteen volumes on the bookshelf argue against exaggerated modesty. Soon there will be twenty of them - the fee received is not exactly a fee, but an advance from the publisher. The rest will be two months after publication, and only then will it be possible to talk about royalties.

He started writing by accident, at first he simply read, spending days and nights at the computer. What else should a disabled person do, for whom walking down the street is considered almost a feat? Shouldn't you drink vodka? Yes, I became interested in science fiction, then switched to fantasy with magicians, dragons and other elves - my soul asked for a miracle. And one day I realized that I could write much better than the muddy stream of consciousness and unsatisfied desires mixed with complexes that filled the Internet and bookstores. One thing got in the way - science fiction requires at least some kind of education other than high school, but this is difficult.

There is always a way out. And extremely noble knights galloped across the pages, no less noble ladies rustled their crinolines and clanked their armored bras, and fire-breathing dragons took flight. There were even homosexual elves, as required by the recently emerging literary tradition. There were goblins, orcs, gnomes, trolls... The modern reader is greedy for strawberries mixed with pink snot. Yes, yes, what is a book without pink snot?

You won't get fat on fees, but by publishing four novels a year, Ivan could afford to look at life with some optimism. In any case, I was not afraid to die of hunger on my pension, which was enough to pay for utility bills, pay for the Internet and two meals a day three days a week.

Sergey Shkenev

Johnny Oklahoma, or the Magic of Mass Destruction

The binding design uses the work of the artist E. Deco

* * *

Yeah, hold on... ninety-two kilos versus her fifty.

- And you won’t get sick, honey!

He smiles sadly now. Irka is really good, and if it weren’t for the damn war! And now he’s making hints. Very clear hints.

“I’m not sunshine, I’m just a redhead.”

Just that rare case of copper-colored hair and slightly dark skin that lends itself well to tanning. Firm and smooth skin. He knows…

- Is Lavrenty at home? – Somehow getting over the threshold, Ivan plopped down on a chair at the entrance. - Call me, please, be kind.

- Here, where will he go? – Irka shook her head. The infection knows how the red waterfall has a bewitching effect on him. - Holiday again, Johnny?

The cunning, smart and very old Lavrenty Borisovich Katz appeared literally a minute later. First, an impressive belly floated out of the door, then the constant cigar... and now the whole thing.

- Vanya, friend! What destinies? Are you really bored? I do not believe!

“I don’t believe in your joy either, Borisych,” Ivan did not remain in debt. - Do you have any cognac?

- Look for it.

In principle, it’s not poison there either, but a leftist from the night shift of a distillery, but today is a special case.

- I’ll find it! – Borisych stuck out his index finger with a pistol. - But you will give me an autograph.

- How do you know?

- Elementary, Johnny! If a person buys one bottle of beer a week for four months in a row, and then suddenly demands good cognac...

- Sherlock Holmes.

– At least Doctor Watson, I don’t care. And don’t resist, the clearing is over with me. By eight o'clock in the evening, put the kettle on, and Irka and I will bring the rest.

- Why her?

- Necessary! – Lavrenty waved his fist in front of Ivan’s nose. - You dried the girl and you leave? Oooh, Dostoevsky... Ira!

- Yes, Lavrenty Borisovich?

– We close at seven and go to Vanka’s to wash the new book.

“Fees,” Ivan corrected.

- Especially. Ira, have you ever drank cognac with a real writer?

Sargaev Andrey Mikhailovich

Johnny Oklahoma - 2

Sergey Shkenev "Student's robe with bloody lining" (Johnny Oklahoma - 2)

There are not many troubles in the life of the rector of the Imperial University, and basically it consists of easy duties and an exciting break from them. But today the venerable Grand Master Count Arthur von Jurbarkas was in anticipation of major problems, and was thinking about ways to avoid them. The deans of the faculties, frozen in respectful poses, unsuccessfully awaited instructions from their superiors.

Finally, after a long silence, the rector deigned to open his lips:

Gentlemen, I have called you to a council. Yes, you heard right, exactly for advice.

The experienced masters, who had eaten dozens of dogs in pseudo-scientific and intra-university intrigues, immediately became sad, although not all of them allowed their emotions to show on their faces. The announcement of the meeting of the council meant the grand master’s desire, if not to evade responsibility, then at least to make it collective, dividing the possible punishment in proportion to the merits of the rector himself.

So, gentlemen,” continued Sir Arthur, “can we refuse to accept students who have arrived from Grumant for training?”

If only a girl,” the dean of the weather department said doubtfully. - And even then, to face the truth, this is very, very difficult to do.

Why? - the rector asked. - What will stop us?

There is no direct ban on teaching women in the University charter. And our refusal may also cast a shadow on the reputation of His Imperial Majesty, who did not indicate the desired gender of future students in the invitation.

For a moment, it seemed to everyone that it had grown colder in the office, and the shadows in the corners took on the shape of the Hexagonal Tower, in which the Secretariat of Special Affairs at the Office of His Imperial Majesty had been located for the last three hundred years. An unpleasant place, very easy to get into, but almost impossible to get out of.

The Emperor can't be wrong! - Sir Arthur looked reproachfully at the dean of the weather department. - And if he did not indicate in his invitation the undesirability of female presence at the University, then we have no right to refuse Viscountess Aucklandheim for this reason.

That's exactly what I was going to say from the very beginning, Sir Arthur!

They were going to do it, but they didn’t say anything,” the rector waved him off. - And in general, I need ideas, not useless words. Gentlemen, who has any ideas?

The dean of the Faculty of Household Magic, a ruddy, fat man with the pink bald head of a professional playmaker, said thoughtfully:

Isn’t this Viscountess a relative of the famous criminal Count Aucklandheim, convicted of genocide of the dwarven population in the territory of the kingdom of Grumant, aggravated by the use of prohibited methods of warfare?

The Grand Master slammed his hand on the tabletop:

Your words themselves amount to a capital crime, Master von Salza, and we’d better pretend they were never uttered out loud. His Imperial Majesty ordered that the performance of the gnomes in Grumant be considered a rebellion against legitimate authority, and, as is known, there are no prohibited methods for suppressing a rebellion. Moreover, among our future students there is the same Ritter von Tetyusch, who, together with the mentioned Count Aucklandheim, destroyed... defeated... hmm... forced the gangs of insolent shorties masquerading as regular hird to peace.

Von Salza winced, but did not object to the grand master. Instead he asked:

Is it possible to announce the entire list of arriving students?

Sir Arthur shrugged his shoulders and threw a sheet of paper folded in half onto the table:

Read aloud.

The dean nodded, took the list, and announced:

First up is Viscount Johnny Aucklandheim. Is this also a relative of the old count?

The only son and heir. But don't get distracted!

Second, that is, second, is his wife, Lady Irena Aucklandheim.

Wife? - the dean of the weather department was surprised. - But the dormitory of our University is not intended for housing for married couples, and students of the first two years do not have the right to rent housing in the city. This is an ancient tradition, gentlemen.

How's that? - the rector perked up. - Then this will serve as a good reason for refusal. However, we will return to discuss this issue later. Carry on, Joachim, carry on!

Addressing a subordinate by name clearly indicated an improvement in the grand master’s mood. A solution to the problem was looming, and the fulfillment of the unspoken wishes of His Imperial Majesty had every chance of coming true. No wonder the ruler frowned so much when handing over the list? This means that he was dissatisfied, and the duty of every subject is to ensure that the reasons for the imperial discontent become fewer and fewer.

In third place is Colonel of the Grumant Border Guard Karl Grzimek. Strange...

Our University does not train the military.

I apologize, it is indicated here that the mentioned colonel is retired and is not fit for further service due to a serious illness.

This was not enough yet! - the same dean of the weather department was indignant. - Isn't he contagious?

I have no idea. What kind of diseases are these, homophobia and the laudable desire for lynching?

This is the first time I’ve heard it,” the chief healer of the University with the rank of major-master shook his head. - But if the craving is commendable, then it is unlikely that his disease is contagious. Most likely, this is a personality deformation characteristic of the military, expressed in a painful desire to boast. You know our warriors, gentlemen, and I don’t think that the Grumants are at all different from them.

Then, it's OK. Carry on, Joachim.

“Thank you for your permission,” von Salza said irritably, but continued reading. - And next on the list is Ritter von Tetyush, who distinguished himself in suppressing the recent unrest. A cold-blooded executioner and murderer.

Is that exactly what it says? - the rector was surprised.

Sorry Sir Arthur, this is my own opinion. When you invest decent money in such a reliable enterprise as the dwarf hird, and then an unknown ritter... It's a shame, Sir Arthur!

Empty, Joachim. Forget about losses and continue reading.

Von Salza looked at the paper and immediately raised his eyes in surprise:

Norse?

Who is Norwegian? - the main healer did not understand. -Where do they come from here? Yes, sooner the sky will fall to earth than the foot of a dirty northern barbarian will set foot in us, the shelter of sublime science, blessed by the Heavenly Gods.

I have to disappoint you, Major-Master, but soon two whole feet will set foot here.

How?

The last one on this list is the Norwegian rix Vovan the Mad from the Bluebeard clan.

The chief healer glanced out the window, as if checking the integrity of the sky that had not fallen to the ground, and shouted:

This cannot happen, because this can never happen!

The rector slammed his hand on the tabletop again:

This is the will of the emperor, and we must fulfill it!

But the emperor made it clear that he did not want to see either killer-ritters, dirty barbarians, or sick colonels at the University, and even more so did not want to see the offspring of a criminal count along with his wench!

Excellent, the unspoken wishes of His Imperial Majesty are quite easy to fulfill if you follow the existing decrees and officially issued orders to the letter.

How? - the chief healer immediately became interested, always suspecting that in fact the University was run by this nondescript paper spider, and not by his superiors, who rarely appeared at the workplace. And the opinion of Secretary of State Giovanni Morgan is worth listening to.

It's very simple, gentlemen. More than simple.

Please explain, Giovanni,” the Grand Master nodded encouragingly, allowing him to speak. - Do not be shy.