The incident in the morgue is my terrible story. A scary story about a morgue. Yellow subcutaneous fat protruded from the wound, under which one could discern the shiny metal surface of the device. It was as if a horse chestnut kernel was emerging from its soft shell.
When I was in medical college, like everyone else, I became friends with a fellow student. One day Natasha, that was my friend’s name, told me a terrible story that happened to her father many years ago.
Her father, as a young guy, got a job as a night watchman at a morgue. The work was not difficult, and the pay was good. Her father's name is Dmitry. So, when meeting the replacement, Dmitry noticed that he was behaving quite strangely. The replacement took Natalya’s father aside and began to explain some rules of work in the morgue.
They included the following: it is mandatory to wear a cross on your body, under no circumstances walk along the corridors of the morgue, and after midnight lock yourself in your room with a padlock and a latch. He strongly advised not to leave the room at this time, no matter what happened. But Dmitry did not attach any importance to this then.
On Dmitry’s first working night, a colonel was brought in for the autopsy. His relatives were categorically against this autopsy. The boss told Dmitry to be careful that night, as anything could happen. The evening turned out to be calm and quiet. As expected, at 10 o’clock Dmitry walked around everything and retired to his lodge to watch TV. To the man's surprise, his replacement left a note wishing him good luck and a bottle of vodka. Dmitry, of course, put all the table utensils aside and turned on the TV.
A little after midnight, the man heard creaking and strange rustling noises in the corridor and went out to take a look. At the end of the corridor, Dmitry noticed the silhouette of a man, naturally at that moment he thought that hooligans had gotten in and shouted that he would call the police. But instead of answering, the silhouette rushed towards the guard. But the unknown man’s gait was strange; he seemed to be hobbling. Soon Dmitry saw that the man was completely naked and blue. At that moment the man became very frightened, his heart began to beat furiously, and he ran to the guardhouse. There Dmitry locked himself with a latch and reproached himself for not listening to his replacement and not having the keys to the padlock ready. It turned out that the protection at that time was only that same latch. Suddenly someone began to scratch and break in the door. The man heard an angry groan and wheezing breathing outside the door. The scratching of the door continued until three in the morning. When they died down, Dmitry slowly crept up to the icon hanging on the wall and taped it to his chest. Then he took out a bottle of vodka left by his replacement and drank almost half of it in one gulp. The man shook until the morning, listening to the terrible sighs and groans heard not far from the door.
His replacement arrived early in the morning. The man couldn’t decide to open the door for a long time, but then he finally came out. The chief who arrived at that time was screaming loudly because the dead colonel who had been brought the day before inexplicably had green paint under his nails, which was not there during yesterday’s inspection. Dmitry was in serious trouble. The door to the lodge was green and scratched on one side. At that moment, Dmitry realized who was at the door that night. After listening to the angry boss, the man went to the nearest store and bought a box of vodka for his replacement.
Good afternoon, dear readers!
This post will be short... well, short... a little shorter than others).
But at the same time, I hope, as interesting as the previous ones.
As you asked, I will tell you some interesting, in my opinion, stories from the work of the SME Bureau. And I’ll start with an incident that happened in the second month of my work as a daytime orderly, and gave me confidence that although we have professionals working for us, the main thing is teamwork from all departments!
There will be no harsh words, but I will leave a warning.
Some people may not like what they read here. Re-read the tags, dear friend, and the essence of the story will be clear to you. And then decide for yourself whether to read it or not.
Part one. By (Crime) crime
I had already completely settled into my new job and that morning, as usual, I arrived at the office at 8:00, discussed the latest news with my colleagues over a cup of tea in the break room, and went to accept work from the night worker. That night was calm, and only two bodies were waiting for us. One of them is Bichara, who was found under a bridge. The smell was appropriate, but its main advantage was the beard. Huge, gray, curvy! Like a real Old Believer. As it turns out a little later on the table, he died from hypothermia due to alcohol intoxication. Vishnevsky stains and 3.5 ppm alcohol, which the laboratory revealed, only confirmed the preliminary diagnosis. But the post is not about him.
There was another body on the floor in the refrigerator. Woman. 47 years old. TBI. The head was carefully wrapped by the orderlies with some kind of rag because... the broken skull was actively losing its contents directly onto our floor. It was decided to start the working day with her. In addition, they called us and said that they would bring two more criminals by lunchtime. So while the homeless man waited in the refrigerator, we started working with the woman.
I threw the body onto the gurney and took it to the sectional section. An expert and a girl laboratory assistant were already waiting for us there.
As we learned from the report of the inspection of the scene, the woman went to the barn to feed the cattle in the evening, where she was hit in the stomach and head by a horse’s hoof. She flew away from the daring and fell with the back of her head on a metal pin - a part from a cart that secures some kind of connection. (This detail was also delivered by the investigator to our bureau for a comparative examination). About 2-3 hours later her husband found her in the barn. I noticed that my wife had been gone for a long time and went to see where she was. Found her lying on the floor. I called the police and an ambulance. They declared death. That's actually the whole backstory.
So the autopsy
The expert began to describe clothing, weight, height (approximately) and other characteristics that are usually dictated before the main stage of the autopsy begins.
I don’t remember verbatim what was dictated there, but the gist is something like this. Woman. 47 years old, looks his age, body length - this much, satisfactory nutrition, dressed in such and such, etc. I cut my clothes and we are greeted by a nice hematoma on my stomach. The expert describes its color, size and position. Moves to the head. Describes the damage. There are two injuries on the head. There is a distinct horseshoe mark on the forehead. Bruising, soft tissue damage. The bones are intact upon superficial examination. And on the back of the head - head injury. What bones were described and how they were damaged. In simple words - a hole, about 2 cm in diameter.
In such cases, I do not touch the head until the expert has completed superficial examinations. We laid the body on its stomach and the expert examined the occipital (fatal, as it turns out in the end) injury. I compared it with the pin from the package and concluded that so far everything fits.
Turn it over. He examines the damage on his forehead and is clearly dissatisfied with something. He began to click and sniffle displeasedly. He fiddled with his forehead for a long time. And the dissatisfied one moved to the stomach. And then his snoring even attracted the attention of the laboratory assistant, who even turned to see what was happening there. The expert threw the tool on the table and walked towards the door.
- Break. - he commanded and left.
I looked at the damage - what didn’t suit him there, idk... Here’s a bruise on his stomach from one hoof, and here on his forehead from another. The fact that the skin on my forehead is broken is quite natural for me. Who hasn’t had their forehead broken as a child... I didn’t understand what was happening.
He returned to the section not alone, but with a colleague. And from their conversation I began to understand what was wrong.
To put it simply, they didn't like the bruise on their stomach. It did not look like a blow from a hoof, but the head injury, although clearly caused by a horseshoe, was doubtful about its nature.
It was decided to suspend the autopsy pending communication with the investigator.
I don’t know what kind of swing with organs there was, but by lunchtime I received orders to bring the body for an autopsy. No sooner said than done. And without further ado, we did our job. By the way, there was obvious damage to the brain, which led to quick death. This and much more was written in the certificate and in the act.
As I later found out, the expert described everything in the act as he saw fit. There was no specific information about the hoof strike or the nature of the damage. Everything was written there as it should be in such cases.
By the way, when a body with injuries is sent for examination, the investigator poses a question for the expert. And the expert answers it whenever possible. Guilt or innocence is determined by the investigation and the court. The expert only gives the investigation answers to the questions that interest him.
That's what they decided on. The body was given to relatives and we forget about it for a couple of weeks.
Part two. Comparative expertise and model building
And then one day we were sitting, drinking tea in the rest room, and the expert told us that tomorrow they would bring the injured hoof. They say the investigator has changed and the case is reopened. An independent examination was appointed, and after studying the act by these same independent experts, there are grounds for exhumation and re-examination.
In short, here's the thing. The woman’s relatives came to the funeral, and the village heard enough that her partner had beaten the deceased. Often she would spend the night almost naked (in which she managed to rush out of the house) with neighbors, etc. They started pumping up the investigation, opened the case, and there was no testimony from the neighbors at all, no survey of the immediate environment, in short, the young cop decided to quickly close everything, so as not to spoil his statistics and not work properly. And this cop was not a simple cop, but someone’s protege. He was sent to the district to quickly promote him and return to the city with a rank and a good service record. But this cop ran into meticulous relatives and was forced to give up the case, which was successfully continued. The main suspect is the common-law husband of the deceased.
And now there is a stench in the room, and on the table there is an exhumed body. Two more experts arrived for the examination. One was from another bureau, and the second was brought from far away by relatives as an independent person. The atmosphere was solemn or something... So many minds in the room, and an important task before them.
Everyone was familiarized with the act and concluded that the description was comprehensive and corresponded to what was there. They also found the part where it is written that without additional examinations it is impossible to accurately establish the nature and conditions in which the damage was caused. The investigation also conveniently ignored this recommendation.
And so the work began. A sample of the horseshoe and the same pin were submitted for examination. Just like the first time, no one doubted that it was this pin that stuck into the head and caused death, but with the hoof on the forehead it was not so clear. They fiddled around, poked around and buzzed like bees. Threads were attached to the forehead and the angle of inclination was determined. They took a horseshoe and combined it with the wound. We built a pattern and direction of impact. So they fiddled and fiddled and eventually began dictating a report to the laboratory assistant. And then everything became clear to us. The blow was struck from the bottom up, like a horse hits, and almost perpendicular to the forehead with a slight offset to the side. Those. They hit either from the side with a swing. The trajectory of movement is parallel to the floor. Or from top to bottom from behind the head, provided that the body was in a horizontal position on the back. Then the trajectory of the impact is a descending arc perpendicular to the floor. And the damage itself raised doubts about the survival of the injury. They agreed that the injury was more likely postmortem, inflicted immediately after death, than intravital. Looks like we've got our head sorted out.
We began to examine the stomach. During the time spent in the grave, the bruise became even more contrasting. A discussion began, books and atlases rustled with images of damage, etc., and one of the experts left the dissecting room and went to the refrigerator. He returns with a shoe (taken from some corpse), begins to apply it and lively discuss the result of the comparison. Everything was already clear to me! The bruise is the result of being kicked in the stomach while wearing a shoe. The experts deliberated for a long time on how exactly to describe everything correctly, and then the laboratory assistant began dictating the report. Ready!
There was an atmosphere of success in the room. The doctors noisily discussed the case and exchanged opinions. When they separated, I went up to the body to put it in order. The suture on the stomach was unraveled in the area of the hematoma and had to be stitched up again, and the skin on the head in the area of the impact was separated from the skull. All this needed to be fixed.
I looked at the damage and couldn't believe my eyes. Well, it’s clearly obvious that it’s a horseshoe. And the shape of the notch is exactly where it would be if a horse struck. And as it turns out, there she is...
Bottom line
Naturally, this case caused a lot of noise in our bureau and we all followed its progress, and when the investigator who led the case came to us, we surrounded him in a circle and waited for the details.
He said that having received the updated report and the testimony of neighbors, they put pressure on the widower, and he split. By the way, he beat his wife for a long time, competently and skillfully. No bone damage or extensive visible marks.
And that evening he quarreled with his wife in the barn and kicked her in the stomach. She fell and hit her head on some piece of iron. Yes, yes, the same pin from the cart. The man turned out to be cold-blooded and calculating. He realized how he could stir things up. He took a horseshoe from the wall, nailed it to a thick stick, positioned himself so that the shape of the horseshoe corresponded to the desired position, and fucked his soul mate in the dead forehead with a flourish. A horseshoe-shaped wound immediately appeared on his forehead. Having substituted an innocent animal, the man waited 2.5 hours and only then called an ambulance and the police.
That is why the wound looked like it was received after death, and not during life. The heart was no longer beating at the moment of impact. This is what the expert noticed at the first stage, which he wrote about in the report.
The guy has nerves of iron, doesn't he? After killing your wife and covering your tracks, wait more than 2 hours so that the whole story looks real, and only then call an ambulance. This would not have affected the outcome in any way. The woman died almost instantly.
Half a year later, I learned from another investigator that the man had gone to prison, and the daughter of the deceased brought a hefty cake to the investigator, who broke the case.
I don’t know what happened to the cop who initially closed the case.
Here's the story.
It was then that I realized that an expert is just a tool in the hands of the investigation. Yes, he can do a lot, but only within the framework of the case being conducted by the investigator. If law enforcement agencies are interested in quality work, then results can be expected. And if they don’t care about the truth, then the expert’s report is sent to the folder. That's the end of the matter.
Please do not ask me for details of the examination. I am just a nurse and cannot competently answer your questions. I wrote everything I knew.
Thank you for your attention.
People get to the morgue in different ways. Death is met in different ways. Some are surrounded by relatives, others are in a sewer well or on a door frame. For some, death is relief from torment, for others it is a blow of fate. The morgue welcomes everyone - young and old, rich and poor, loved and abandoned, everyone - equally impartially.
-... Why did you come to us on Thursday? - asks the orderly Sasha. - To understand what was what, it was necessary on Monday morning. Firstly, they don’t open it on weekends. Secondly, people commit suicide on weekdays less often than on weekends. Loneliness or excessive drinking is to blame - who knows?..
Suicides are opened with special care. What if this is murder? That's what the examination is for, to dot the i's. Even if the body is cut by an electric train, the remains will still be opened “according to technology.” And Sasha will again lament the fact that it is “extra work” to open the skull of someone who was left with a “wet spot” after the electric train.
It is understood that a morgue orderly, like a turner at a machine, must keep his tools ready and in good working order. Sasha understands this. Otherwise, you'll end up with a headache. It is better not to allow any hitches. And I would like to relax after the next autopsy, but the relatives outside the door will not let me “forget myself.” They do not understand the “specifics” of the morgue. As if by agreement, they arrive in cars to pick up the bodies of their relatives in the morning. And they demand that the death certificate and the body be given to them immediately. Immediately - not possible. There is only one doctor-expert at the autopsy, but there are many dead. An autopsy is the same operation, and it requires a lot of time and effort.
Living people behave differently while waiting. Some are quietly crying, and some, seeing the closed window at the reception desk, stick their heads in “chest-deep” and, seeing the receptionist drinking tea, yell: “What, you still eat here?”
The experts, orderlies and other morgue employees working here are not offended by the living. Whenever possible, they try to help. You can’t speed up the autopsy, but the process of dressing the deceased and placing him in a coffin has been brought to the point of automatism.
If the elevator is working, there will be no hitch in lifting the gurney with the corpse. But the elevator, like other morgue equipment, has become worn out over many years of use and often refuses to “serve.” Then the orderlies have to “serve.” They go down to the basement, roll out the desired corpse from behind a massive door (as if from a crypt), covered with a flannel blanket, and manually drag it upstairs, each time remembering with the “kind” word of the designers who conceived two turns on the stairs, which are neither on a gurney nor can't be overcome on a stretcher. Only by hand, with the body in full swing.
What if this body has decomposed and swelled? The orderlies have one task: to take out the “mass” packed in a bag so that it does not spread on the road. Otherwise, cleaning up won’t be a hassle, and you’ll need another bag for the remains. It doesn’t even get to the point of “spreading” of bodies in the morgue. These are taken out of sewer wells, basements, drainage hatches or from attics.
They brought the “spoiled” one in front of me. The jacket has been preserved. And sneakers. It's better not to look at the rest. And experts have to work with such “material.” According to the full autopsy program. Perhaps the poor fellow will be identified by his sneakers. Or a jacket. But he will go on his final journey in a sack. What if they don’t recognize him? After some time, it will lie in the ground under a registration number. The morgue employees will take him to the cemetery. This is a “free supplement” to the job responsibilities of the morgue’s staff photographer, Svetlana. She will take photographs of the remains and accompany them to the burial place, document everything and return to her direct duties.
“This is not a woman’s job,” I tell Svetlana.
“Not for women,” she agrees. - But someone needs to do it too. And in our morgue, no matter what job you take, you can’t say that you’ve dreamed of it since childhood. I also came here by accident. I thought I'd work part-time. I stayed. It’s all like this with us: either they leave immediately or they go nowhere. We understand that not everyone is “given” this - to work in a morgue. If you can, stay and carry this burden to the end...
Doctor-experts Vladimir Chetin, Genrikh Burak, Sergei Soroka did their job until the end of their days. None of them lived to see retirement. It only seems that, working with what remains of a person after death, they have become coarse to the point of insensibility. Medical expert Eduard Trukhan, who had just dissected five adult corpses, “broke down” on the sixth, a child’s one. He himself responded to this “call”, he himself got the boy out of the noose, he himself opened up the thin little body.
Children in the morgue are not uncommon. Children die too. From illness. From our, adult, carelessness. By an absurd accident. But every time a small body on a large “cutting” table is perceived as a personal tragedy. They are opened carefully. Like alive. They dress and comb their hair as if they want to make amends for someone’s guilt. Children's corpses rarely have to be put into the refrigerator. Inconsolable parents bring and take away their children from the morgue, as they say, as soon as possible. But there was a recent case when a girl was not picked up for a whole week. The mother received a death certificate - and disappeared into thin air. I had to call the children's clinic so that someone would go and find out what was what. Let's go. And there is smoke like a rocker, the parents received an allowance for the funeral of the child, they are drinking... Previously, this rarely happened - so that the relatives would not take the dead. Now there are several cases every month.
They refuse mainly the elderly. They come to pick up the death certificate. For benefits. And then look for the wind in the field. Morgue workers then call relatives and appeal to their conscience. Sometimes it works. More often than not. They refer to the high cost, to long-standing grievances. To the state, which is “obliged”. Children refuse to bury their parents. Sisters - brothers. Brothers - sisters. The “refuseniks” are collected and taken to the cemetery by Svetlana. It happens that they then call the morgue to find out where the “dear” grave is. More often than not.
Although sometimes this happens. It was on Monday. It's been a tough day for the morgue, as they say. There were so many corpses that there was nowhere to put them. So we had to sort it. Those whose relatives were waiting behind the wall were placed on tables by the orderly and prepared for autopsy. And the one who is unidentified - on the floor, under the washbasin. And then, out of nowhere, a guy runs in. Usually the door is locked, but here they forgot. He ran to one corpse, to another, then threw himself under the washbasin. He grabbed the dead man, pressed him to himself, and began to cry. It turns out that it is his father, who disappeared two days ago. The guy was knocked off his feet, looking for him. Found…
Sasha felt uncomfortable. But what is his fault? There is nowhere to put the corpses. There is only one refrigerator in the morgue. Designed for six gurneys. There is also a second one, but the refrigeration equipment in it practically does not work. But she, too, is loaded to capacity. During the cold season it is cold in the morgue. Corpses do not deteriorate. In summer everything is different. The corpses deteriorate before our eyes. Stench, stench. Open windows don't help. How many curses and insults the morgue workers heard on those hot days! The relatives shouted, cried and left, but the employees were here from bell to bell. Is it easy? Is it easy to sweep away homeless people’s things and other rags into a dustpan? The employees sweep, wash, do everything that is supposed to be done. And then they take it out to the trash can, where the same homeless people stand waiting to put on the lousy clothes that have just been removed from the dead homeless person. The homeless are in demand for any rags, so they stand guard at the morgue in the hope of “making money.” This is how infection spreads: from the dead to the living.
An important aspect of the preliminary external examination of the corpse is the detection of implanted pacemakers or portable defibrillators.<…>
These devices must be removed from bodies that will be cremated because these pacemakers and defibrillators can explode when heated.
However, they must be removed in any case, because they are almost always suitable for reuse - either entirely or in the form of individual parts. (Entire pacemakers are used in charitable activities, for example, to supply these devices to health authorities in third world countries).<…>
One morning, Jason solemnly handed me a pair of gloves and a plastic apron and asked if I would like to “check the box on the trainee skills list.”
At first I imagined that Jason was joking, and that I would now have to once again scrub the morgue until it was mirror clean.
Trainees, indeed, achieve true virtuosity in handling sponges and rags, cleaning hair and pieces of subcutaneous fat from sinks in the very first weeks of work.
This, of course, sounds very unappetizing, but, in fact, it is very important to prevent the drains from becoming clogged, and therefore, pulling out hair and other debris with tweezers brings some satisfaction and even has, in some way, a psychotherapeutic effect. I would reach a state of nirvana after cleaning the metal sinks in the autopsy room until they were shiny.
When Jason took out threads, scissors and a scalpel from the cabinet, I immediately realized that I was about to do something completely different, and I even guessed what it was. We had permission from the deceased's family to remove the pacemaker from the body, and I saw Jason do it several times. Now it's my turn.
I felt the device on the left side of my chest with my hands and was able to determine its outline.
These devices are usually easy to detect by palpating the skin of the chest, but they are not easy to find in obese individuals because pacemakers are small, streamlined, and easily lost in subcutaneous fat.
Pacemakers help maintain the normal rhythm of the heart during arrhythmias (that is, when it is abnormal) by sending electrical discharges to the heart at a certain frequency.<…>
I had already raised my hand with a scalpel over the flat surface of the device when Jason suddenly said: “Are you sure this is not a defibrillator?”
A defibrillator is larger than a pacemaker, but I had no experience and could not tell the difference between the two devices by touch. Defibrillators are implanted in people prone to cardiac arrest caused by fibrillation. In the event of such a stop, the device gives a high-voltage discharge, which returns the heart to life.
This device cannot be removed like a regular pacemaker. If an unsuspecting technician were to cut the device's wires with metal scissors, the device would discharge and give the technician a very severe electric shock. This discharge can even kill.
If you find a portable defibrillator, you need to call the interventional cardiology clinic and call a cardiac physiologist, who comes with a special device that turns off the defibrillator and then monitors its condition to make sure that it is inactivated.<…>
Although for those who work in the morgue, the dead are people in the full sense of the word, I still subconsciously feel the difference between the living and the dead. Later, when I made my first full cut into the skin of a deceased dentist, I experienced phantom pain, feeling how this man was suffering from his bedsores. However, over time, I became immune to such feelings. I realized that a person lying on an autopsy table is not capable of feeling the pain of an incision, and that I just need to do my job.
I easily made a short cut just above the flat surface of the pacemaker. Then I grabbed it with my thumb and forefinger and squeezed hard.
Yellow subcutaneous fat protruded from the wound, under which one could discern the shiny metal surface of the device. It was as if the horse chestnut kernel was emerging from its soft shell.
There were wires trailing behind the stimulator, and I cut them with scissors. I cleaned the device with disinfectant and put it in a plastic bag with a label. The pacemakers were collected from us every few weeks by the Catholic Heart Laboratory. Having done all this, I stitched the incision - I had already practiced stitching once when Jason removed the pacemaker - and the stitch was barely noticeable. I sealed the cut with a plaster, and now the corpse could be put back into the bag.
Well done, bunny! - Jason exclaimed, checked the practice log box and signed. This was another step towards obtaining the coveted mortuary technician certificate.
Explosions in crematoriums became quite common before the removal of pacemakers from corpses became routine practice. The first such case occurred in Great Britain in 1976.
In 2002, the Journal of the Royal Society of Medicine published data showing that almost half of British crematoria had experienced similar explosions, causing property damage and injury to staff. One recent case was the Grenoble crematorium explosion in France, when a pacemaker exploded in the corpse of a pensioner. The explosion was equivalent in magnitude to two grams of trinitrotoluene and caused £40,000 worth of damage.
We have a forensic expert. He's a good guy, we're friends with him. Yes, and we encounter it often. Sometimes we drink cognac, sometimes vodka. So, he’s a good storyteller, and he tells wonderful stories for this purpose. I do not claim authorship, nor do I claim authenticity. Free retelling from the first person.
Story one. "Refrigerator"
It was either April 30, or before some other holiday. Our refrigerator broke down. Unit, I mean. They began to look for a refrigerator ( and in our city at that time there was only one “refrigerator”, Igor Ts. - so short, strong, bearded. Marine.), found. He came in the evening, around five o'clock. We took him to where the unit was, and I went to my office. And he also asked: “Just don’t leave me here, otherwise I’m afraid.” Okay, let's not leave it. In the end (the day off is just around the corner), the girls all went home, and I was the only one left. I sat, wrote papers, and wrote, then someone called, they had an argument, and I thought, I’ll give up on everything and go home. Can you imagine (still inconveniently) I really forgot about this refrigerator! He went, closed the doors, and went home.
Then I tell you from the words of the girls. In general, he finished work at about nine in the evening. ( a small digression: from the room with the refrigeration unit there is an exit to the sectional room, from there there is a foyer, from which there are three doors - into the refrigerator itself, to the street and towards the offices. In the evening, the passage to the offices is closed, because... At night, an ambulance brings the deceased. Well, accordingly, the door to the street is also closed). I poked my head into one door - it was closed. The street is closed. To the third door - there citizens take a break from life... There were no cell phones then, there was nowhere to wait for help. He climbed into the window in the unit ( the window is covered with a metal mesh) to ask someone for help. He looks - a couple is walking, a man and a woman, respectable, about 50 years old. And the time is evening, it’s already getting a little dark. And so, they pass by, and he shouts something to them from the window, well, they say, wait, can I see you. Wow, this guy went crazy! He ran behind the clinic, around the corner, and looked out to see if his wife had been saved or not. In general, the refrigerator scared two more people, then they despaired. He went to the foyer, sat down on the couch there, and waited. And so, at night, after 12, an ambulance brings a corpse. The driver opens the door from the street, comes in, andaaaaaaaatime he was standing, a sort of bearded, square guy, his hands on his chest, looking from under his brows. The driver screamed in a bad voice and ran away (he walked away for a long time). And the refrigerator man silently left and went home. He was so offended, the girls then found him again, he didn’t want to take the money, didn’t want to talk to them at all. But then somehow they buttered him up and told him...
The second story. "About souls."
Somehow the police lifted me out of the house at night, at about three o’clock, to kill me. They sent the car, I go out, I say, I still need to go to work, grab some gloves. Let's go. We drive up, I go, open the doors, walk in, and then - “frrrrr” - the air is so neck-deep behind me, a breeze. I was afraid! It’s night, and such an establishment, I think - damn, really, souls fly! On weak legs I got to the switch, turned on the light - sparrow, bastard! How did he get there in the middle of winter?
Story three. "About the nose."
We’re standing there, performing an autopsy. It was summer, the window was open ( the window is covered with a mesh, as I already said, but up close you can see right through it, but from a distance it looks like it’s solid). And then my nose started to itch soooo much - I have no strength! I turned to the window - “Bee!” ( he sneezes a lot, I must admit)))) And there are men squatting outside in the shade, about six of them, respectable, about 50-60 years old, talking something ( that squatting - these are not criminals, this is a local flavor, in the steppe there are no chairs). And so, that means I’m sneezing, and these men are like sparrows - sneezing! on both sides. And they stand with frightened little eyes, looking at each other, unable to understand anything.
Well, in addition, the fourth story, a hunting one, is from him.
We went hunting one day. Well, here I go, the boss of so-and-so, the boss of so-and-so, this one, and that one. And so, we arrived, shot, then let’s cook and have dinner. And one boss ( Name) was immoderate in alcohol and "drove." I started drilling, I’ll fire everyone, I’ll put everyone in prison, etc. And he is Kazakh, so healthy, 110 kilograms, large. And he came with a driver. The driver was a Russian, a young guy. Well, we are healthy men, we tied him up, stuffed him into a sleeping bag, zipped him up, and put the driver on him - your boss, they say, you and the watchmen. The driver asks - “How can I calm him down in Kazakh, otherwise he stumbles sober in Russian, but here it’s all wrong...” Well, I’m a fool, take it and blurt out: “Zhat, auzin sindyramyn” ( Lie down, otherwise I’ll tear your jaws)
Well, he’s lying there drunk, slowly starting to come to his senses and get confused. And this is what you should have seen: the driver, in a rude voice, says to him, like a child: “Zhat, auzin sondyram.” He explodes, begins to jump like a bull in a bullfight under this driver, swears, but his strength quickly runs out and he calms down again. Then, after about ten minutes, it starts to wobble again - and again the same thing. And here is such a circus - several times. Every time we roll away side by side, and the driver, the unfortunate one, keeps persuading him: “Zhat, zhat, auzin sondyram.” Then he moved away a little, they took off his carrier and released him from the bag. The driver ran away, but he kept getting angry at us.
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