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Having performed the evening washing of the legs under the tap, I was walking along the corridor when Pupkin returned from dismissal.
Some bowed down, he quickly went to the bataler to change clothes.
He walked into the cockpit, pressing the folded robe to his groin, bending over in three deaths, laid it on a jar (dudes, just a stool), covered with a twisted strap and disappeared under a blanket.

And from that moment on he began to fidget and creak springs unceasingly.
– What the fuck are you wearing? – reasonably asked his neighbor in the bed and did not wait for an answer.

A young fighter, Efimov, went up to the switch and, telling that eighty-six days were left to order, plunged the room into darkness.
Gradually the night was filled with snoring and crying, the whispering people fell asleep.
Through a dream, I heard someone rushing to the exit with a muffled swearing.
A jar fell, the door slammed, and the culprit, cursing already loudly, was trampling down the corridor.
“What bitch woke up Lenin?” The Kuznetsov trade union complained, “similar words said, rising from the graves-beds, evil servicemen.

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Here, from the side of the washroom, uncontrollable screams rushed.
Slipping slippers, retaliation moved to the sound.
Its source was sailor Pupkin, absolutely naked, with a phallus sticking upwards.
Pupkin moved nonstop, crouching and dancing; shaking his hands, his head made circular motions and his eyes were completely fuzzy.
He was like a shaman.
From the distant tap beat a stream of water.
– Pupkin, fuck your mother, what are you, bitch, ahhuel with grief? – shouted to him comrades.
– Oh-oh-oh! Yo-yo-yo-ya-banarot! – answered Pupkin, jumping on his heels and straightening up in a spiral fashion.
Suddenly he grabbed his agitated organ with both hands and tried to tear it off.
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