Murzagulov is the Babai of all Rus'. “Babai of All Rus'” Rostislav Murzagulov

25.04.2024

The inspector never really saw any party activists, but he constantly met individual cheerful and generous party sympathizers. Despite his venerable age, he did not deprive the representatives of the women's cell of the Kirov region of attention. He also carefully studied the quality of the products of the republican alcohol industry. On the last evening of the inspection, businessman A., assigned by us to the party bonze, solemnly entered Radiy’s office and, with a slightly slurred tongue, announced: “Another one has fallen victim to our hospitality!”

Corrector Valentina Balashova

Editor Shamil Valeev

Editor Nafisa Bilalova

Created in the intellectual publishing system Ridero

Preface

One day in my office the second loudest selector rang. On the lacquered table of a chic old-school GDR special series from the 70s, selector devices of all three possible levels of cool were presented. The coolest thing could only be called from the formidable White House, where the author of these lines served. The numbers there were only two digits long and there were only a couple of dozen subscribers. The device looked cosmic, the connection was instantaneous, and from some of its calls everyone jumped up and said, standing upright. This device was called an “infarctor” for a reason. And third-class selectors were available from just about anyone, even from the deputy departments of some Rosbashselpromarchivs.

The Minister of Press of our territory, which in size and number exceeds a good dozen European countries, called on the second-class selector, also quite a “zur naschalnik”1, but from a different building:

– Listen, the Commission for the State Writers’ Prize named after Khalaberdyev is meeting here. And so I look at the situation - it’s about relevance, the number of readers, and much more, which suggests that I will have to give the prize this year to you!

- Nothing. Today “Shurale2” published your political book with the whole truth about us, did you see? Half the republic has already read it.

Aptragan3. Being a current official with a selector of the first coolness, I, of course, did not publish any political books, especially with the whole truth, but I once wrote a draft of one. It was clear that one of my political opponents had stolen it and posted it online to show everyone how bad I was. I wrote the draft a few years earlier “on the table”, rather so as not to forget the details of my work with “Babay4”, and therefore did not hesitate to present all sorts of facts that could be interpreted in different ways and certainly were not worth publishing while still working at the White House.

So I had to refuse the Khalaberdyev Prize. And in general from the authorship of this book, although journalists buzzed for days: “Really, no?! Seriously, did Babai say that? And so it happened?”

But now, when all the bugs in the White House were already sparkling from idleness in my former office, the thought came to me - why not finish the draft and tell the city and the world what a fun thing it is to lead the Russian regions ?

This is how this novel was born. Make yourself comfortable.

Rostislav Murzagulov.

Babai of All Rus', or Operation “Autumn of the Patriarch”

* * *

Coincidences are random. That's completely random.

It has absolutely nothing to do with reality.

Nothing at all. Well, you understand...

An ordinary day for an ordinary scoundrel, political

4 years before the endgame

Oligarchs are the nicest people. I love meeting them. They quickly become familiar, joke a lot, and smile in a friendly and encouraging manner. They order the best wines and never let you pay. They look deliberately “ordinary people”, sigh about the heavy lot of oligarchs, understand nothing about the “human”, less than a million, scale of money and dream of trips to the potato fields, construction brigades and the like. They are striking in their education and erudition, easily jumping from quotes from Nietzsche to the peculiarities of navigation in the Korean Busan.

At the same time, somewhere in the depths of my lost soul, of course, it is clear to me that it is in a conversation with their own PR consultant that they are so sweet and charming. For some reason they think that I am the only one they need to convince of their goodness, and then the business process will be launched, and I will be able to repeat everything many times, strengthen it and convince everyone else of it.

And just an hour ago, this sweet guy of about 45, now laughing so sincerely at his own story about the first bottle of vodka drunk on potatoes, playing with his nodules, could easily order the head of his security to “rip off the head” of his opponent, without worrying about whether it would happen whether it is taken in a literal or figurative sense.

Two hours ago, he may have thrown a crystal ashtray at the secretary’s head, because this freak will never understand that you shouldn’t talk to the oligarch until he hangs up, even if it seems that the conversation is already over.

It is possible that three hours ago he brought into his lounge a very pretty young economist who had been spotted at a corporate party. She had bottomless, naive blue eyes, like those of one of the oligarch’s classmates, then inaccessible, in her youth. The economist sobbed funnyly that she loved her husband very much and had never cheated on him. And he ironically retorted that he was not going to tell his husband anything, and it was much better for her to grow up to become a deputy head of the department than to be fired with a reprimand and unsuccessfully look for work in our difficult times of crisis. The sluggish resistance was broken, a victory similar to Clinton’s over Monica Lewinsky was won.

Four hours ago, leaving from that same classmate, who had been serving him as one of his younger wives for a couple of years (this is not a typo, our oligarchs, without any Sharia law, have several wives, each bought an apartment or house in an “elite” 1
Dear professors of Moscow State University, I remember that it is correct - in the “elite”, that the “elite” are dogs and cereals, but I’m just trying to be understandable to the reader!

Complex, each has a staff of servants, many have children growing up), he could have instructed the same chief security guard to wiretap her.

Because it is necessary to understand the nature of her relationship with their common classmate Kolya, and if there is anything suspicious, explain to Kolya that in the event of a new, even the most innocent meeting with the oligarch’s passion, Kolya will fall out of the window of his passion’s elite house.

Snatches of such stories reached me from numerous acquaintances I had in common with the oligarch.

I believed some of the stories right away. I brushed off some. But sometimes they insistently got into my head, for example, with headlines about the very same opponent of the oligarch who was suddenly shot through by a machine gun fire.

However, the investigation, as a rule, quickly reached a dead end, which means I had nothing to worry about, you never know what envious people say about rich people.

Besides, the oligarchs paid me, and not bad. I was in good standing with those who needed to have a good reputation for economic or political purposes, especially since political goals in the civilized world live in perfect harmony with economic ones, and in our developing country we have not yet bothered to at least formally divide the business and political elite.

Each of the oligarchs, having grabbed their first billion, naturally began to strive for more and more power outside their office, home and classmate’s bed. Sooner or later, they all began to be enraged by the fact that they had to go to the politicians to solve their business issues, while in reality they had long ago bought these politicians with their guts, which means that you can easily exclude them from the chain of distribution of money if you become a politician yourself.

At first, as a rule, they wanted to become deputies or senators. I always really liked orders like this. The oligarchs did not know the price of politics, paid generously, were obedient students during the campaigns and rejoiced like children in their confident victories in the elections, even if the elections in reality were not exactly elections. But in reality, the whole matter was decided by the transfer of three million rubles to Vice-Governor Ivan Sidorovich, who gave the command to the sponsored election commission to dry up the turnout of the electorate and add votes to the oligarch to his one and a half percent of the real rating.

For some time, the oligarchs reveled in their new status, but pretty soon they became disillusioned, realizing that, alas, in our wonderful country, the representative bodies of power have long since lost this very power. Then they wanted to become something else, for example, governors.

This is where the more complicated wiring began. Only Ivan Sidorovich no longer made the weather here. Here it was necessary to find such Ivansidorychs in the capital of our great country, get permission for the political activities of the sponsored one, introduce him into all possible political circles and personnel reserves, obtain permission to participate in the elections, and, well, do the campaign itself (this was the easiest thing).

Today's conversation turned out to be one of those.

Oligarch Andrei Bobrovsky, nicknamed Bobr, was disillusioned with the deputy seat in the country's parliament organized for him a couple of years ago from his native Babai region and made the difficult decision to move on.

He was so excited and frightened by his own courageous decision that there was no way he could be nice and educated this time. Well, or maybe it was due to the fact that in fact he only graduated from the Norilsk College of Fencing Construction, he bought the rest of the qualifications, including the academician, and he knew only two quotes from Nietzsche from his older wife, and there weren’t enough of them for all the meetings.

We met, as always, in the gold-leaf Most restaurant, a stone's throw from the oligarch's office. However, Beaver did not order anything. He leaned over the table close to my face, looked around furtively and spoke:

- Listen, brother, there’s this thing... It’s this... How would it be... And this, let’s go to “Druzhba”?

Then I realized that the oligarch was excited and now something interesting would really happen. Because “Friendship” was the name of a cheap Chinese eatery with oilcloth tablecloths, with authentic and fast Chinese food, where the capital’s Chinese and students dined. I was familiar with this establishment from my student days, and one of the younger wives somehow took the oligarch there.

The beaver needed a place where he would definitely not be overheard or where snatches of the conversation would not accidentally reach the next table, where the same oligarchs and the same swindlers serving them were dining.

“Friendship”, of course, was just such a place where neither oligarchs nor state security apparatus were yet to be found.

A cavalcade of two square oligarch jeeps and a Maybach rushing between them rushed through half the center of the crowded capital in a couple of minutes, and we were already sitting at the oilcloth table when Beaver croaked conspiratorially:

- I'm going to the first person!

Perhaps a normal person would understand almost nothing from this phrase, but I immediately perked up:

- Oh, are we going to become governor of the Babai region? Cool! It was high time to make a decision! Have you reached an agreement with Babai?

The beaver frowned in response, played with his nodules, and flashed an unkind gaze. It was clear that he had not reached an agreement with the current head of the Babai region, nicknamed Babai, and was going, as we say, “to the quick.” That is, an open conflict with the current tough guy, a “heavyweight” who occupies some serious position with good support in the Kremlin, with the clear intention of snitching on the tough guy and taking his place.

Such tactics were rare even among such purely specific typical representatives of the oligarch class as Beaver. Because the cool guy and his accomplices could send an answer in a wide variety of options.

Usually, if someone did go “to the living place,” this meant that the applicant needed not only money and power.

Usually in such cases there was also a third of the main motivators of the oligarchs, namely emotions. For example, revenge. It seems that the oligarchs I knew were not fools, and should have understood that taking revenge on one of their own kind is fraught with consequences, but the bravery of them was pearled in the same way as from the gopota squatting in the gateways.

To my reasonable question: “Andrey, why the hell do you need to interfere with a living place?” – he boiled again:

- You don’t understand either! And Katz doesn’t understand!

Mark Moiseevich Katz was either a deputy or a junior partner of the type that no self-respecting oligarch can do without. Katz and the oligarch - from school.

He knows everything, remembers everything, understands everything better than the boss and tries to prevent him from getting into every imaginable fornication, where the oligarch rushes from morning to evening thanks to his filibuster nature. We smart kids don't like Kats.

The oligarchs are friends with us, and counting money is a waste for them. And the Kats - they are the ones who take a long sigh and unblinkingly look at us over their round glasses with eyes full of reproach, and clarify whether our estimate is really in dollars, or whether the dollar sign mistakenly appeared instead of the word “rub.”?

It is they who wince when we talk about our heroic exploits to save the oligarch’s reputation, and probably, the bastards, then open his eyes to our greatly exaggerated influence on his image.

It is they, the bastards, who sooner or later tell the oligarch that those miracles of printing that we showed him during his election campaign, scattering sophisticated terms about the impact on the electorate, did not have the slightest impact on the electorate. Since each poster was printed in the amount of three, only for display to the oligarch, and we safely sawed off the rest of the money, winning the elections only thanks to Ivan Sidorich.

But today Katz worked as a whipping boy, and the oligarch did not use him to then divide my words by 16, but sought my support and protection from Katz.

– Are you talking about risks?! Yes, damn..., risks! Risks! If you eat it from Babai right now, then from f...fuck, then from m...dabay!!! Our country is like this! This is our business! If you swallow it once, they won’t count you as a person!!!

The beaver growled throughout the restaurant. The Chinese huddled timidly against the walls, the students buried their noses deep in their plates of udon. 2
Udon is Chinese noodles.

From his confused story, Katz and I heard that Babai either did not process enough, or transferred terephthalic acid - in general, a bunch of some kind of petrochemical dregs, from which it turned out that the grandfather inflicted a terrible insult on Beaver, which could not be forgiven.

Katz listened, rolling his eyes skeptically. “Hai-wei, now he’ll start wasting our money again!” - his face groaned, expressing all the grief of the Jewish people. I nodded understandingly. Although the only thing he understood was that he needed to nod in understanding. However, one more fact was obvious: the dude was hooked and would not spare funds for the campaign. Well, I honestly warned him about the costs. And then - everyone is the fox of his own happiness.

Katz was defeated, arguments were found, Beaver’s proposals were warmly supported, and without much bargaining I accepted the offer to become a creative worker for the working group for the demolition of Babai.

The first meeting of the working group took place here, in Druzhba.

The beaver bluntly went to a specific market:

- So it is. We have a candidate. There is a chief of staff. Draw up an estimate, pass it through Katz. And immediately think about how to solve the main issue. The Kremlin's support is needed. Right now Yurevich is deciding on the governors. And your brother Vasilich works for Yurevich, right? Think about it, what's what?

The oligarch raised his eyebrows questioningly. His question was whether it was possible to give someone money for supporting the Kremlin. I had the answer ready even without consulting experts:

– Andrey, you know, you can’t just stupidly give Yurevich money and ask for support. It's not like he's talking about that. That is, he has money from somewhere, but you can’t go to him, throw a wad of money on the table and say: “Bobrovsky. Babai region". You can simply try to show him his grandfather’s numerous mistakes and make the situation in the region so egregious in some sense in the public that leaving Babai would be harmful to the image of Michal Ivanovich himself. Then Yurevich will coordinate everything with Mitya, drag his grandfather to Moscow and force him to write a statement “on his own.” And at this time, we must carefully promote how smart, handsome you are, how much you love your native region, what enormous experience you have in state construction, and there will be good people who will take you to Mitya or even to Himself.

Beaver nodded:

- Accepted. What about Bineft?

This was another factor that could not be ignored. Previously, Babai was omnipotent, because in his hands there was Bineft - a huge oil refining complex, into which, back in Soviet times, they poured billions of equipment worth 15 greens and which since then has regularly generated billions or more of the same juicy and clean greens in year, and without any special costs.

“Bineft” was once privatized a long time ago by the company “Svistok”, which, as usual, had a chair and accounts on its balance sheet. “Svistok” was owned by unknown employees of Bineft itself, controlled by Babai’s son. And all of the above allowed the grandfather to declare in an interview that he “did not give the fuel and energy complex to the oligarchs, but left it to the labor collective.”

However, this all worked as long as the peasants in the regions had power. When all of it was brought to the capital of the Great Country, the businesses migrated from the peasants to entrepreneurs, as we say, “understandable to federal officials.”

One of the last big officials, the entrepreneurs “understandable” to whom did not yet own anything, was the Secretary of State and the right hand of Michal Ivanovich himself, named Dmitry Aleksandrovich Zaitsev. Behind his back, everyone called him Mitya - for his short stature and cute appearance.

However, dear fellow Mitya showed his teeth immediately upon his appointment to the post of Secretary of State. He famously scattered Michal Ivanovich’s former favorites into corners and became not only the second person in the country in name, but also actually concentrated so much power in himself that only Michal Ivanovich had more of it. But at the same time, Michal Ivanovich was bored with the domestic agenda by that time, and he wanted to rule the world, which he did with varying degrees of success. And within the country Mitya ruled.

By all accounts, the friends of such a respectable person could not help but take over some reputable enterprise. Bineft remained the last reputable enterprise in the country. After a short fight and a couple of criminal cases opened against his son regarding the theft of Bineft by “Svistkoy”, the grandfather raised his paws in the air, surrendered the shop and said on television his famous throughout the country:

- So what to do? You have to live.

The happy new owner of Bineft was Mitya’s friend and oligarch named Pentyushenkov, who was known in the crowd behind his back as “Pentyukh”. He was famous for the phrase he addressed to the line of generals at Mitya’s inauguration, which was accidentally caught by someone and quickly spread:

- Mitya will fucking show you all!

Mitya, in fact, showed it. Among the generals, as it later turned out, there were also those who wanted to take over the last large plant. But to Michal Ivanovich’s credit, it should be noted that the boy said that Mitya was driving inside - and Mitya was driving. Until the boy changed his mind.

Pentyukh was in charge of Bineft. And, of course, he could not help but have an opinion on who would rule the Babai region itself in the future. Therefore, it was important for Beaver to enlist the support of the new owner of the Babai oil industry. For Pentyukh was one of the few who, along with Yurevich, could go to Mitya and say to him: “How long?! This weirdo will rule, who..."

But this is what we had to come up with. And then enter this information into the subcortex of those who make decisions, so forcefully that they decide to demolish grandfather and put, for example, Beaver in his place. Or anyone else. In principle, it didn’t matter who it was, one way or another - the new governor would know who screwed up grandfather, and he would give us our plot of land in our homeland.

We began to think.

Landing of polite green men

One day before the endgame

That summer was warm in our land of evergreen tomatoes. And just on the weekend it happened, we joke without the slightest bit of fun. On this warm weekend, I sat at work and with disgust sculpted either a report on plans, or a plan on reports - some terribly important piece of paper, without which the boss, of course, would not have survived until Monday.

I led the PR-JIAR block in a large company visible on the oil map of the world. 3
G.R. – Government relations. Government Relations ( English.).

Ayara 4
I.R. – Investor relations. Investor Relations ( English.).

My goal was love. The love of one and all, from the janitor to the president and world investors, for our stupid company. Who deserved quite a bit of this love. Well, why should we love it, if the first thing its management did after the purchase was to reduce the salaries of 40 thousand workers by 20%, and contributions to the budget by as much as 40%. The safety regulations were completely gone, and here and there, explosives started going off in factories. A couple of people went to their forefathers, and the rest began to inhale significantly less oxygen in the air mixture. Only shareholder dividends increased, but very noticeably. All this was beautifully called the word “optimization,” but for some reason the love of those around her did not happen.

Which, of course, did not stop my bosses from demanding plans from me for love with the people, journalists, authorities and investors. The plans were to include the frequency of love, varieties of positions, scales of pleasure, words of passion, and decibel levels of love moans.

Today the plan was especially difficult to write. Because my deputy assistant professor, the bastard, went with his family to our corporate boarding house on a legal vacation.

He would not be a major specialist in love for our company, because he himself did not hide his dislike for it, but he masterfully drew up these very plans and reports. Moreover, it doesn’t matter at all what topic. All he was interested in were the names of the points of the plan and the measures of measurement of these points. I noticed the Associate Professor about 10 years ago, when he was still working as a photographer, and every time, within 15 minutes after the shooting, he sent exactly the files that were needed, perfectly scheduled by dates and events, which I had not noticed before in 15 years of working with similar specialists. The associate professor (indeed, by the way, a candidate of sciences - sort of in history) quickly rose up the career ladder and began moving with me from project to project, drawing up plans and reports on rocket science, prostitution, elections, in general, on any issues , where at least theoretically it is possible to measure or plan something. The Associate Professor was especially indispensable when I served as regional vice-governor, because the life of any official consists of 99 percent of plans and reports and only another one percent of choosing a hotel for a vacation trip.

The time for submitting the report was treacherously approaching, but things were not progressing. The hand cowardly reached for the phone. Yes, it’s inconvenient to bother your subordinates, who are also irreplaceable and have become friends over 10 years, on vacation. But a) he will not refuse; b) I will repay him with any goodies that he may need from me in the future.

But he refused.

- Why, why can’t you? – I muttered in confusion, not being ready for such an answer.

– Chief, I’m telling you, I’m moving to another boarding house, to a five-star one.

Yes, the dude got crazy. And damn, how did he come up with “You” with this, he speaks officiously even in sentences like: “You’ve already dunked the sixth without a snack, boss, you’re about to go under the table.”

– Why didn’t you relax in the three-star hotel?

The assistant professor, as always, without emotion, said that all the guests were being taken out under the pretext of an unexpected sewer failure. Now everyone will be accommodated for free in the same departmental, five-star boarding house, a hundred kilometers further from the capital of the Babai region, which bore the poetic name Trishurup.

- What about the sewerage?

- No problem, boss. All six of us use it regularly, everything works. I think that troops are being sent to us, in accordance with the note that you dictated to me a year and a half ago.

My brain completely boiled. Perhaps, yesterday, Sparrow and I shouldn’t have gone to karaoke with the Bumblebees after “La La”. My head completely stopped working, some one and a half bottles of white for each eye - and all sorts of bullshit is imagining.

- What troops are you talking about, brother? About the militant four female backbiters, led by a militant wife of the same sex, who is already sick of your stupid boss, who is preventing you from resting?

- No, why. Have you forgotten that you wrote a note with Elephant, back in the winter, and said that this was a plan to remove Babai? We drank a liter of Chivas, I wrote it down and sent it where you ordered, to the address [email protected]. Then the answer immediately came from one word: “Accepted,” I reported to you. And you and the Elephant went to karaoke with the Bumblebees, “Red Hot Chili Peppers,” your favorite to sing.

Well, yes, to the Bumblebees, to whom else? I immediately remembered that note, of course. It was a cool note. Vasilich told Elephant and me that, just in case, we need to write a whole plan for the endgame of the operation to demolish Babai. Like how we would act if we were Yurevich, who had to explain something to Michal Ivanovich himself.

Babai of all Rus'

or features of county democracy

Rostislav Murzagulov

Corrector Valentina Balashova

Editor Shamil Valeev

Editor Nafisa Bilalova

Created in the intellectual publishing system Ridero

Preface

So I had to refuse the Khalaberdyev Prize. And in general from the authorship of this book, although journalists buzzed for days: “Really, no?! Seriously, did Babai say that? And so it happened?”

This is how this novel was born. Make yourself comfortable.

Another preface

It so happened that for about 10 years the author of these lines was an adviser on various sensitive issues to one regional “political heavyweight” on a federal scale. The sensitivity of the questions required good information about the client and being there every day where he goes, so do I. As a result, I collected a fair amount of information about the heavyweight and the details of his life and work. Including those whose existence those who have not spent years with Babai do not even suspect.

Few people know what he is like, even in his own domain. It would seem - this is a strange thing, every day thousands of words are spoken about him here, and every resident of the region should know his most famous fellow countryman like a flaky man. But this often happens, especially with Great Leaders, to which Babai naturally and historically belongs.

The whole point is that during their lifetime they turn into a bronze monument, but go and find out from Ilyich on Lenin Square what he really was like? No objective information other than one’s own superficial conclusions about the highness of the forehead and the kindness of the squint.

My fictional Babai knew how to frown just like the President of Bashkiria Murtaza Rakhimov depicted here

The smart kids under the Great Leaders simply love to write books after being expelled from their warm armchairs. This phenomenon is quite understandable. Information corrodes the brain of the bearer of the Terrible Secret and rushes out like bran needles from the scary head in Volkov’s fairy tales. You understand what you know here, if you tell me, everyone will gasp. It's impossible to keep it to yourself.

Another colleague sometimes has a passion to explain to the world what a bad person his boss was, what disgusting things he did and how heroically his colleague resisted it. And when, like, I realized that I couldn’t beat the system (at this point the timbre of the voice rises to loud)- threw a statement on his desk and left, of his own free will, by the way. (well, yes, it’s as if they are leaving our wide leather chairs due to “improper” reasons)!

Well, the third, and also important, motive for becoming a writer about bunnies is, naturally, a disinterested love for banknotes. But they will buy it, even for a hundred rubles! This is about Babai, and he is the main one in the whole area, oh well - the only superstar! Marketers call this “riding the brand.” When, if it’s about a star, write any nonsense, it doesn’t matter, at least some interest is guaranteed.

In a word, this cup has not passed even your humble servant. I am writing here.

It took me a long time to get to this book, about three years. I kept thinking about where to start and how best to present everything. There really is a lot of information, but you still can’t give it all away. And I don’t want to sue at all.

And most importantly... How would it be without pathos... Still, he, one might say, brought me into the public eye. Well, together, however, with the management of one of our main television channels, where, as I remember, the author of these lines ended up as a news anchor as a teenager. And touched by the successes of the young fellow tribesman in the box, Babai then installed the impudent 25-year-old in a ministerial position, provided him with powers the size of Goebbels’s, and only brushed off for four years various old associates who reported that Rostislav, they say, is shoo, pysh and tokhtamysh...

Yes, and it would be strange to start telling now that this grandfather, it turns out, is such a vile type that it can neither be said in a fairy tale nor described in a biographical book. Did I see the light immediately after my resignation? So, until they drove me away, he seemed to be good and I assisted him in every possible way in his affairs, and then suddenly I realized that, oh, I sold my soul to the devil?!

Nope, it doesn't happen like that.

The reader will not believe this and will not buy the book...

But I don’t want to sculpt an imperishable story about “the outstanding role of the first president of the republic in becoming a donor region, a supporting region, blah blah blah”... This is probably also necessary, but there is already a whole Union of Writers of the Republic for this, 30-40 the members of which, according to my estimates, realizing that even the Great Leaders do not last forever under the sun, wrote 600-700 pages of well-structured biography in advance and also expect to receive their fabulous fee, and it is not good to take away their bread, especially since they have nothing else.

And if you say that Babai and his entourage consist only of merits, it will also be a lie, but I want to pamper the reader with a true story about Babai’s behind the scenes.

This is how the author of this preface came up with a very wise decision - not to write a biography of Babai. And call this book a novel based on real events. After all, they do this in Hollywood - they wrote “based he true story” - and you can make a story about how Private Ryan won the Great Patriotic War.

So you, dear man, who did not spare a hundred rubles for me, will now be told how one private heroically chronicled the political battles of Babai, the first president of the republic.

This story can turn out to be quite entertaining.

Firstly, the main character of the story is truly an extremely extraordinary person, so contradictory that one can discern in her at the same time the traits of a genius and a rare dullard, a scoundrel and a person with a crystalline soul.

Secondly, even though this is all fiction, it was still written by a man who saw with his own eyes a lot of interesting things that few others have seen.

And thirdly - and this is perhaps the most important thing - the author of these lines understood a lot about what is happening in our country, and why, not at the time when he was stewing in the thick of information in Ostankino, but in the silence of the power corridors of the Russian outback with regular, as in the old days, raids on Moscow.

Copyright holders! The presented fragment of the book is posted in agreement with the distributor of legal content, LitRes LLC (no more than 20% of the original text). If you believe that the posting of material violates your or someone else's rights, please let us know.

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Jacobs Chloe
Romance novels, Romance-fantasy novels

Trying to save her brother from a witch's fire four years ago, Greta was left alone, falling through a portal into Milena - a dangerous world where humans are the enemy, and every orc, ghoul and goblin has a dark side that reveals itself with the onset of an eclipse. To survive, Greta hides her humanity and takes up work as a bounty hunter - and she's good at her job. So good that she has attracted the attention of Milena's young goblin king, the mysteriously seductive Isaac, who invades her dreams and weakens her desire to escape. But Greta is not the only one who wants to get out of Milena. An ancient evil knows that she is the key to the portal, and during the next eclipse, which is just days away, every bloodthirsty creature in the world is after her, including Isaac. If Greta fails, she and Milena's lost boys will die. If she succeeds, no world will be safe from what follows...
Sword
Andrijeski J S
Romance novels, Romance-fantasy novels

From the USA TODAY and WALL STREET JOURNAL bestselling author comes a compelling story of supernatural warfare in a harsh alternate version of Earth. Contains strong romantic elements. Apocalypse. Supernatural romance.

"Now I'm officially a terrorist..."

After losing her husband, Ellie becomes the new face of the seers and fights to prevent the human and seer worlds from colliding in a full-fledged war.

But her husband, Revik, did not actually die. Instead, he turned into someone she barely recognizes. But before she has time to adapt, they find themselves on opposite sides of the barricades, on the brink of a racial war - a war that he wants to unleash, for which he is ready, and worse, he is already waging this war.

Compromising with him seems impossible, but at the same time it seems to be the only way Ellie can save him from himself and stop him from killing everyone she loves.

WARNING: This book contains strong language, sex, and violence. For adult readers only. Not intended for young audiences.

The Sword is the third book in the Bridge and the Sword series. She is also connected to the world of Quentin Black and has a place in the larger history/world of the seers.
Swiss. A better world
Zlotnikov Roman Valerievich
Science Fiction, Alternative History, Popadantsy

First, Alex Straub moved in space. From the former USSR to Western Europe. And then he had to travel through time from 21st century Europe to the pre-war USSR. He repeatedly tried to make the future better. However, "Alex's Law of Destructive Touch" is inexorable. The hero could not prevent either the Great Patriotic War or perestroika. But most importantly, he failed to save his own family. In the third book of the series, Alex again goes back in time, this time with a grandiose plan - to make a “knight’s move” and take Comrade Stalin himself into the future. Maybe this will help reverse the stubborn course of history?..
Collection "Selected Novels". Compilation. Books 1-17
Van Vogt Alfred Elton
Science Fiction, Fantasy, Science Fiction

This author's collection of Alfred Van Vogt is made up of his scattered science fiction novels that were not included in any of his cycles. It is difficult to find a topic that this classic of American science fiction would not in one way or another touch upon in his work: other forms of life, labyrinths of time, dizzying adventures in interstellar distances, “superman” and “superknowledge”, the turbulent life of the Intergalactic Empire, God as the hero of the story, a most interesting interpretation of many problems of the universe, the evolution of society, certain specific sciences or systems of knowledge of the world. As an artist, he has an excellent command of the technology of writing, large and small forms, and is always focused on action, and not on describing the environment or the emotional experiences of the characters.

1. Alfred Elton Van Vogt: Bible Ptah

2. Alfred Elton Van Vogt: Shine of the future (Translation: Vladimir Marchenko)

3. Alfred Van Vogt: And eternal battle...

4. Alfred Elton Van Vogt: Eternal Home (Translation: Yu Semenychev)

5. Alfred Van Vogt: Lords of Time (Translation: V. Antonov)

6. Alfred Van Vogt: Monster

7. Alfred Van Vogt: Galaxy M-33

8. Alfred Elton Van Vogt: There is ecstasy in battle... (Translation: A Shatalov)

9. Alfred Van Vogt: And eternal battle...

10. Vogt Alfred Wang: Cage for the mind

11. Alfred Elton Van Vogt: Rogue Ship (Translation: Irina Oganesova, Vladimir Goldich)

12. Alfred Elton Van Vogt: Journey on the Space Hound (Translation: Ivan Loginov)

13. Alfred Elton Van Vogt: Abode of Eternity (Translation: N Borisov)

14. Alfred Elton Van Vogt: Search for the Future

15. Alfred Van Vogt: Slan

16. Alfred Elton Van Vogt: Creator of the Universe

17. Alfred Elton Van Vogt: Darkness over Diamondiana

18. Alfred Elton Van Vogt: The Man of a Thousand Names

19. Alfred Elton Van Vogt: Silkies (Translation: Yu Semenychev)
Probation
Patrick Laura
Romance Novels, Short Romance Novels

In her youth, Beth Manson was in love with Dunk Hummel, although he hardly knew it. The son of a millionaire, handsome, he was in completely different companies. Fourteen years later, Beth has turned from a cute teenager into a successful businesswoman who has forgotten about her childhood hobby. However, it is not for nothing that they say that you cannot escape fate. By force of circumstances, Beth was forced to return to her hometown, and after some time she realized that almost forgotten youthful love was still alive in her heart...

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Chosen One of the Emerald Throne
Minaeva Anna
Romance novels, Romance-fantasy novels,

I got it, I got it. And to another world too! The sorcerer, who calls himself the Protector, insists that I killed the witch. The one who could help me. Proving your innocence is not so bad; getting a return ticket home is more difficult. But who can you trust? The protector who almost killed me the first time we met, or the king whose actions surprise me?
His insufferable witch
Gordova Valentina
Romance novels, Romance-fantasy novels,

If your sister is in trouble, she cannot be left to fend for herself!

If, through simple manipulations, you find yourself in her place, you shouldn’t give up!

If you only have a month to make her fiancé cancel the wedding, use it wisely!

And both.

Everything you need to know about this book: “Suddenly, out of nowhere, I appeared, deal with it.”

The promised story about the rector from the Majesty and his witch :)

Independent story

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