Revenge of the driver
• Revenge of the driver
The story of a neighbor country, uncle Genes, now retired, and in the mid-nineties - a commuter train operator.
At one of the stops in the vestibule of the first car come two drunken young men 18 years came not alone, with mopeds. For a time, drinking beer, racket, like anyone especially not interfere. When they finished the beer and the topics of conversation, they came up with a new game.
Steel "to be measured pipiskami" - brought their mopeds gazuyut, find out who the engine roars louder. Full wagon smoke, a few hours in the evening, passengers moved to the next car. Already in the cockpit at the locomotive crew was not breathe. Assistant engineer, boy not much older than these "Schumacher", comes out into the lobby.
- Guys, you stop the engines something, not one coming here ...
- And you cho? The main is that it was found? Your job - to press levers and announce stops, so go and play, do not bother the lads a rest!
- I'll call the police, fifteen days will sit for hooliganism.
- Go on, though three times defiant, we still go to the next stop, the goats, even in the car will not have time to sit down, and we are on their "delta" is already in the neighboring village will, we have the cylinders for 80 cubes. Hear how to growl? (Followed throttle jerk and a cloud of acrid smoke from the exhaust) ...
Assistant completed this unconstructive dialogue and returned to the cabin, gave the engineer a conversation. - Uncle Gene, where a chain under the dashboard lay may apply force?
- Ofigel? Maybe they do not have and eighteen now skull accidentally break, then 10 years strogacha get. You seem to say, they are the next to go together? And what we argue, do not go, and go to be, they are now his own strength against him to apply.
At the station, the train was stopped so that the front door of the first car "drove" about ten meters outside the platform. History is silent on what argued driver and assistant, but Uncle Gene was right.
Doors open. The sound of engines in the style of "failure to the throttle." And two decently tipsy "body", not noticing at dusk no platform, scared all the frogs, with their mopeds fly in swamp muck. Mopeds, sucked water, fade away, troublemakers foot squish in the reeds in the resulting silence is heard untranslatable Russian folklore:
- You know ... (continuous mat). I'll call the cops, you're with me for a moped and new jeans will pay a lifetime!
- Come on, call! I have a locomotive with empty wagons 120 pulls. Until you will choose for the phone to find the nearest village (cell-then it was not, and probably would not have survived in the water), while the police in the car sit, I'm on my train is already here will be 200 kilometers.