It was snowing wet. I walked a few blocks and turned a corner. A police Mitsubishi with flashing lights was standing on the sidewalk. A little farther away, two guys in military camouflage were jogging in the middle of the sidewalk. An inconspicuous khaki truck was parked on the opposite side of the wide avenue. The canopy of the truck was slightly open - apparently, the guys wanted to smoke - and several short-barreled assault rifles were sticking out. Above the driver's cab was a pretentious inscription: "People". This was undoubtedly encouraging. However, I suddenly had an urgent urge to lie down on the asphalt, crawl to the corner like a scout, and then, rolling from stomach to back, get to some kind of shelter. And if you want to do something irresistibly, you have to do it, even if you're wearing a new coat, a light creamy brulee, and matching pants underneath. Especially since the crescendo of this inexplicable desire of mine coincided second by second with the absolutely unambiguous whistling of bullets and the absolutely definite roar of machine gun bursts accompanied by tracer lights
