Borov is up to his old tricks again
Arkady Mikhailovich Borovinsky was quick to punish, and woe to those who didn't know it. The owner of Neptune-Invest LLC, Boris Grinberg, ultimately paid for this ignorance with his life; his miraculously surviving mistress, the chief accountant, paid with ruined health and a hundred thousand dollars. Seemingly a considerable sum. But Borov kept thinking he hadn't gotten the whole jackpot. What worried him most was the sudden death of Neptune's deputy director Velichkovsky, to which he was in no way connected, which in itself was wrong. Persistent rumors had long circulated around Neptune that the cunning deputy had siphoned off from the company an amount no less than his boss. But what
demand can you make from a corpse whose family had long since fled to Israel? On the other hand, during a heart-to-heart conversation in the bathroom, Elena Sergeevna confessed to Borov that Velichkovsky had recently been infatuated not only with her but also with Grinberg's wife, which gave hope that she was aware of his machinations. After careful thought, Borov decided to work on the inconsolable widow.His first thought was to repeat the kidnapping trick, to force the grief-stricken woman, in the calm setting of a country house, to reveal the fate of the ill-gotten capital. But when Borov saw Mirra Andreevna in person, his plans changed. The thing was, she didn't give the impression of a grief-stricken woman at all. She was, so to speak, a very merry widow. One could quite possibly hit on her without resorting to violent methods and even derive some pleasure from it.
The new plan matured quickly. Without informing his wife, who was vacationing in the Maldives, Borov invented a fictitious name and occupation for himself, after which he easily met Mirra Andreevna at some social party. Mirra Andreevna turned out to be quite a piece of work, which Borov duly appreciated, so the buxom widow came to visit him not in a sack but with a bouquet of roses in the back seat of a luxurious car.
Leaving the guards at the door, Borov escorted his companion to the dining room, lit candles, pulled two antique chairs up to the table, poured champagne, and proposed a toast to their chance meeting. Mirra Andreevna nodded graciously, clinked her glass against his, and with visible interest took a sip of the sparkling drink. Obviously, the exorbitantly expensive French brut was to her taste because she drained her glass in two gulps and coquettishly licked her lips. Borov immediately poured a second. Mirra Andreevna readily supported this initiative as well. After the third toast, the bottle was empty, and Mirra Andreevna's plump cheeks were covered with a playful blush. They had a snack of caviar sandwiches and continued the banquet with casual chit-chat.
Judging by the guest's mood to consume foreign wines, Borov understood that getting her drunk and fucking her wouldn't be hard work today. The rest was more difficult. Loaded with champagne, Mirra Andreevna chirped in a rich contralto about anything—opera, ballet, fashionable writers, styles of women's underwear—but not about what interested Borov. Deciding to steer the conversation in the right direction, Borov delicately expressed condolences regarding Grinberg's death—what a wonderful man he was, you know. The widow looked at him in surprise.
— You knew my Boris?
— Of course. How could I not know him?
— You obviously didn't know him well, — she shook her head, — Or you knew him from the wrong side.
"She's not a fool at all..." — Borov thought with regret.
— You, Gennady, are a man of a different mold, — Mirra Andreevna continued, — You are decisive, confident, one might say, brutal. But Boris...
"Yeah, I've got brutality in spades, — Borov smirked mentally, — God forbid you get a full spoonful of it!"
— Although even you don't always shine with intelligence, — Mirra Andreevna brought him down to earth.
— Why? – Borov was taken aback.
Mirra Andreevna fixed him with an unblinking gaze from eyes as black as olives.
— You didn't want to talk about my husband with me, did you?
Borov was embarrassed like a schoolboy caught masturbating in the toilet.
— Well, no, of course... — he muttered, — I mean, yes, but...
Grinberg had indeed ceased to interest him since Elena Sergeevna had given him up with all his guts and savings. He was much more concerned about another dead man now.
— Then about what? Or about whom? – the guest continued to inquire insinuatingly.
She was clearly taking the initiative. Borov couldn't allow that in his own home.
— Mirra Andreevna, darling! – he protested, — God knows, I love ballet and rags too, but we must talk about something else besides!
— And why do we need to talk at all? – asked the widow, coquettishly exposing a bare thigh from the slit of her dress.
— Well... — Borov drawled, not knowing how to respond to this romantic impulse.
Mirra Arkadyevna's gaze ran over the table.
— Do you have cognac, Gennady? Good cognac? I'm tired of the wine already.
— Of course! – Borov was delighted.
— Then treat the lady to something stronger, and then we'll dance. Don't you mind?
— Oh, come on, my joy! How could I mind?
After a glass of Courvoisier, Mirra Andreevna, swaying, rose from the table. Borov followed her example
— Ladies invite gentlemen! – proclaimed the widow, placing her ring-laden hand on his shoulder, — Maestro, music!
— As you wish, – Borov clicked his heels gallantly, embracing her by the waist, — What melodies and rhythms do you prefer at this time of day?
— "Hotel California", – Mirra Andreevna languidly rolled her eyes, completely giving away her advanced age.
— Oh, you have excellent taste, – Borov approved, — Guys, put on the vinyl Eagles, just not too loud...
From the side, their dance looked a bit comical—both partners lacked ballet grace, both were not entirely sober, and Borov mostly looked not at Mirra Andreevna herself but at her rings, estimating how much they might be worth. However, the widow felt quite pleasant to the touch, and soon Borov's palm slid lower. His partner delicately ignored this boorish gesture, but an awkward question about Velichkovsky coupled with an attempt to get into her panties ended in complete fiasco for Borov. Giving her partner a withering look, Mirra Andreevna cut the dance short, straightened her dress, and resolutely strode towards the coat rack.
— Where are you going, Mirra Andreevna? – Borov became agitated.
— Home, Gennady Igorevich, — she declared in an unexpectedly sober voice, — I need to go to Moscow, on urgent business. I completely forgot. Thank you very much, everything was wonderful,
— What happened?!
— Nothing. Tell them to call me a taxi.
— What's gotten into you?!!
— Nothing, — the guest smiled strainedly, — I really must go. I'm sorry, Gennady Igorevich. Let's continue another time.
Outward proprieties seemed to be observed, but something told Borov that if he let the little bird out of his hands now, she would fly away from him forever.
— No, you forgive me! – he waved his hands, prudently cutting off the widow's path of retreat, — If I accidentally stepped on your foot or grabbed the wrong place...
— That has nothing to do with it. I'm a grown woman, I've been grabbed for many things.
— Then what does have to do with it?
With this question, he finally made the widow lose her temper.
— What has to do with it?! – Mirra Andreevna stamped her foot, — That you are not who you claim to be! You're a liar! And you stink!
She couldn't have done anything more foolish.
— What?!! – Borov turned crimson.
He didn't forgive such boorish treatment to anyone, not even his mistresses. Before Mirra Andreevna could say anything in her defense, the guards who had rushed in shoved her back into the chair and taped her hands to the armrests. Deprived of the ability to resist, the widow looked wistfully at the unfinished cognac.
— Suggesting we continue with five? – she naively tried to turn the incident into a joke.
— Don't change the subject! – Borov frowned, — What were you saying about stink?
Mirra Andreevna put on an ostentatiously serene expression.
— I actually meant your cologne. What did you think?
But to her misfortune, Borov was not in the mood for jokes that day. His eyes showed an unwavering desire for revenge.
— Cologne, you say? – he grinned maliciously, taking a dirty-green cloth bag with a buckle strap from the cabinet, — Would you like to smell something worse?
— Could we do without threats, Gennady... or whatever your name is? – Mirra Andreevna continued to imprudently sass, not understanding the full depth of the abyss opening before her.
Borov silently laid out on the table the rubber artifact recently tested on Elena Sergeevna. At the sight of the gas mask, Mirra Andreevna recoiled in fright—in those days, newspapers were full of reports of torture using this simple device.
— I agree, it's an uncomfortable and unaesthetic thing, — Borov nodded, fitting the goggle-eyed snout to the widow's double chin, — But I don't know a better way to protect against stench.
Trying on "product No. 1" made an indelible impression on Mirra Andreevna—the too-tight gas mask helmet-mask tore out a good portion of her hair and squeezed her jaws so hard that it deprived her of speech. Seeing what his arrogant guest had turned into, Borov experienced a sudden attack of wit.
— You know, it even suits you! – he laughed, – Big eyes, smooth skin... Just need to lubricate the snout.
With these words, he took a jar of Vaseline from the bag and dipped his index finger into it. The widow looked at him hunted from behind the fogged-up lenses and made an indecent sound with her stomach.
— Ugh, Mirra Andreevna! – Borov grimaced, — Is that the champagne making you gassy, or are you going to shit yourself from fear?
The widow shook her head and mumbled something incoherent.
— Well, it's your own fault, – Borov bared his teeth predatorily, — And now you'll find out what real stench is!
At his command, three bearded abreks grabbed Mirra Andreevna by her plump thighs and, hoisting them onto the table, began to pull down her panties. Realizing what was happening and what the Vaseline was for, the widow howled in horror, but it was a voice crying in the wilderness. However, it did attract one person. Me.
When, disturbed by strange sounds, I entered the dining room without knocking, the mise-en-scène was as follows. At the set table, in an expensive antique chair, my stepfather sat like a sultan, sipping some exquisite cocktail through a straw. Opposite, in an exactly identical chair, a fat, big-titted elephant woman was shamelessly splayed with her legs thrown on the table, nonchalantly sticking her trunk into her own ass. What she was sipping at the same time, I didn't even want to think.
— The cycle of shit in nature, – I cynically described what I saw, — What kind of monster is that?
— A good acquaintance of mine, — my stepfather answered without batting an eye.
— And why did she stick her trunk up her ass?
— I don't know. The rich have their own quirks.
I cautiously approached the strange female. Her glossy gray face was pulsating amusingly, gathering transverse wrinkles on her forehead.
— Ma'am, is that really comfortable for you? – I timidly inquired.
Not deigning to answer me, the elephant made a disgusting sound, as if sucking something in. Then she sharply threw her head back with the obvious intention of tearing the trunk out of the stinking hole.
— Listen, I think she doesn't like it, – I reported in bewilderment, — Not one bit.
— No, it just seemed that way to you, — he brushed it off, — She likes it very much, can't you see?
I suspected my stepfather was simply fooling me, but I didn't argue, just stood nearby, not taking my eyes off the hairy slit that had captivated me. Meanwhile, the adults' conversation continued.
— You see, – my so-called father raised a didactic finger, — Sometimes it's better to chew than to talk!
The elephant silently nodded. Obviously, she had nothing to object.
— Though, I'll have to tell you something, — my stepfather continued, — Otherwise, we'll be forced to deal with your daughter.
— Ooh! – the elephant moaned, jumping in the chair.
— Don't get so nervous. It won't help you.
The elephant resignedly shut up.
— So how about it? – my stepfather asked expectantly, leaning right up to her snout, — I'm waiting!
— Sorry, dad... – I touched him on the shoulder, — How long has she been sitting like that?
— A couple of minutes, why?
— Dad! You'll suffocate her to death!
As if confirming my words, the elephant suddenly went limp, dropping her bald head onto her luxurious chest.
— Well, there you go, you've overdone it! – I whispered.
A shadow of fright ran across my stepfather's face.
— Okay, guys, we'll handle the rest without you, – he commanded, ushering out the guards.
Cursing under his breath, he felt the elephant's neck adorned with a gold chain. Then he grabbed the base of her trunk and with effort yanked it towards himself and upward.
— Alright, she got hers for being rude...
The elephant's face twisted bizarrely, revealing to the world the plump face of a middle-aged brunette, thickly smeared with droplets of feces and streaks of running makeup. Her eyes were closed, her lipsticked mouth was contorted in a horrible grimace, and I decided we were looking at a lifeless corpse. However, my stepfather thought otherwise, and soon slaps and smelling salts brought the woman back to life. She looked about fifty or so. Although it was hard to call her a beauty, something in her appearance seemed attractive and even a little familiar to me. My doubts were dispelled by my stepfather himself.
— Here, son. Aunt Mirra, a good acquaintance of mine.
— Mine too... – I babbled, stunned, — Hello, Mirra Andreevna.
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