I DON'T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT DELIA!!!

The journey to Lev Trotsky Airport passed for him without any adventures worthy of a writer's pen. The same was true of the journey from Chicks-de-Gal Airport to Pornland. Perhaps the only thing worth mentioning is that customs officers invariably reacted to his harmless lighter as if it were a time bomb, but what can you do, their job is so thankless, what can you expect from them?

In general, everything was fine until the moment when Pierre, mingling with the crowd leaving the Pornland airport building, suddenly felt someone's impudent hand reach into his jeans pocket - the very one in which, in fact, he kept his lighter.

Pierre tried to punch the impudent fellow in the face or at least kick him, but due to the close proximity of people standing around him, he was in no way able to do this, and so he had to endure while the invisible thief rummaged around inside his own pocket; when the thief's fingers finally found the handle of the "pistol" and tightly squeezed its cold steel surface, an unexpected event occurred - a deafening crackle of machine-gun fire was heard over the heads of all the people present at the airport from the side of a bus standing not far from the entrance.

Everyone immediately fell face down right next to their suitcases, and the thief, scared to death, dropped the lighter Pierre at his feet and ran away. The young man wanted to pick up the valuable object, but in the panic that began in the airport lobby, he quickly lost sight of the "gun", as a result of which he had to crawl around the floor on all fours for a long time until he finally found what he wanted.

Putting the lighter back into his jeans pocket, Pierre was surprised by how suddenly and out of nowhere it had noticeably gained weight, but he had no time to puzzle over it because the terrorists had already jumped out of the bus and were filling the airport lobby.

Risking his life, Pierre rushed forward through the stream of people, trying to break through to the exit, but a burst of machine gun fire forced him to fall to the floor again, so as not to expose his body to bullets. Soon, the terrorists apparently got tired of this airport, because at first they simply began to shoot in the air, and then they left altogether, to the great relief of everyone present, including Pierre, who was finally able to get to his feet and go outside.

There, to his good fortune, there was no longer a single person armed with a machine gun or a pistol, and he was able to continue on his way calmly. Pierre did not know where he was going now, but his intuition told him that he was going in the right direction.

So he just took the first bus he came across, driven by a stern, ex-athlete-like driver with hairy arms and huge fists. Pierre wouldn't have focused so much on the bus driver's appearance if it weren't for one thing - the only people on board besides him were middle-aged women, and most of them were carrying some kind of bags and baskets, which suggested that they were going to the market somewhere.

Pierre felt uneasy at this thought when he suddenly saw one of the women with a basket of freak in her hands looking at him with undisguised horror. He did not understand what frightened her so much - his face or the fact that the handle of a lighter was sticking out of his pocket?

But in any case, he decided not to pay attention to it. In general, he tried to think less about what was happening to him - there were enough problems already...

The bus soon stopped at an idyllic spot, a stark contrast to the urban landscape Pierre had seen upon landing in Pornland. He got off the bus, angering his fellow passengers in the process - apparently they didn't like the fact that he had rushed and jumped out, raising clouds of dust.

Be that as it may, he went along the road that led somewhere towards one-story cottages surrounded by wooden fences. Pierre did not know what kind of place it was - he had never been here before, but some strange feeling, as if he was actually seeing all this not for the first time, took possession of his consciousness.

He continued walking forward, surprised that during all this time he had not met a single local resident along the road - it seemed that everyone was hiding in their houses.

But then, ahead, he noticed a small figure with a white top, which stood motionless on the road near a fence, behind which he could see a small lawn with an apricot tree and a two-story wooden house, which was typical for these places.

Coming a little closer, Pierre saw that it was a woman of indeterminate age, dressed in completely unremarkable clothes. The only thing in her appearance that seemed to the young man to have any significance was the fact that her hair was hidden under a white scarf that was wrapped around her head.

Seeing Pierre, the stranger slowly turned her face towards him, and the young man saw that she was looking at him with a serious and even slightly sad expression. Pierre stopped, not knowing what to say - he felt very awkward in this situation.

The woman looked at him silently, and he decided to start the conversation first.

"Excuse me," he said to her, "what is this place? I don't know where to go. Maybe... Maybe you can help me?"

The stranger looked him over thoughtfully from head to toe and said in a quiet voice, in which some complex emotions could be heard:

"Where we are doesn't matter. The main thing is that you are next to me now! And where am I myself? Do you want to know?"

Pierre was incredibly surprised that the middle-aged woman, who was seeing him for the first time in her life, immediately began to speak to him informally, but in response he only nodded his head affirmatively.

Then the lady smiled a strange Mona Lisa smile and, throwing her hand forward, pointed to the house that stood behind the wooden fence.

"Do you know who lived in this house?" she asked him, drawing out her words in a strange way.

The young man merely shrugged his shoulders, and the woman, taking his silence as a sign of agreement with her words, said:

"This is the house of the one called Delia."

"DELIA?!" Pierre was surprised. "Who is this? This is the first time I've heard such a name."

The woman, still smiling, replied:

"She was the one who destroyed people's destinies."

"What people? What are you even talking about?" Pierre began to get nervous.

"I'm talking about those who were here long before you showed up," the woman said. "And since I'm seeing you for the first time, we'll assume that you just showed up here."

"Well, that's basically it," Pierre chuckled, already beginning to feel like he'd known this woman his whole life.

"Do you know who lived here before?" the woman asked him.

"I think I'm already beginning to guess," Pierre began, but his interlocutor didn't let him finish.

"Be quiet!" she ordered, holding out her hand. "You can't know that because you've never been here! So let me say it!"

"Go ahead and speak, who's stopping you?" the young man gave in.

"Do you see that house?" asked the woman instead of answering, who suddenly spun around and pointed to another building, standing a little further away from the one where she and Pierre were standing at that moment.

The young man did not know what to answer her, and the woman said:

"In this house lived one of those whose fate was destroyed by Delia," she said, and something like sadness could be heard in her voice. "He was a very good man... But he did not find a place for himself in this world. He wanted to become a Antichrist, but he could not..."

"What are you talking about in the name of the Antichrist?" Pierre asked her.

"That doesn't matter," the woman replied and smiled. "But I don't think you know who Delia is. You've never even laid eyes on her, have you?"

"I FUCKED YOUR FRIGGED DELIA IN HER ASS!" the young man couldn't stand it and exploded in a stormy stream of obscenities. "Talk faster, you old, stinking cunt!!! What did you want to tell me about that house?! Who lived in it, your mother by the leg, your father by the hand?! TALK TO ME FUCKING QUICKLY!!!"

The woman couldn't help but smile at these words. She came closer to Pierre, who was pouring out a stream of dirty words, and put her hand on his shoulder.

The young man was too engrossed in his own eloquence to notice this gesture. Meanwhile, his interlocutor spoke again:

"Do you want to know the name of the one whose fate was ruined by the tiny hands of Delia? Very well, I will tell you, but before that, swear to the Antichrist that you will not say a word to anyone about what you have heard - otherwise your soul will be damned forever! And one more thing - give me a promise that you will not touch me with your filthy hands, and if you do, I swear by all the saints of hell, I will drag you there in a second for the amusement of the Antichrists! Well, do you agree, mortal?"

When Pierre realized what the woman had said, he immediately shut his mouth and stared at his interlocutor with horror in his eyes.

The woman laughed with a strange, unnaturally loud, creaky laugh for such an elderly person.

"You don't have to say anything, vows are not made with words, but with thoughts," she said when she finally managed to pull herself together. "So, are you ready to hear the name of the man who was so unlucky as to fall head over heels in love with the one who brought his life to death with her own hands? Well, listen. His name was..."

She paused, as if collecting her thoughts and remembering something important to herself, but then she continued:

"His name was JORDAN THURLOW."

She didn't say the last two words loudly at all, but her voice thundered in Pierre's ears. He felt his heart squeeze with pain and fear - but at the same time he knew he had to do something.

He took a step forward and extended his hands towards the woman. She recoiled from him as if he were a poisonous snake.

"But you swore an oath not to touch me, you trembling creature!" she screamed with a strength unexpected for her age. "Otherwise you'll burn in hell!"

Pierre realized that she was telling the truth. He could not touch her - but he felt in himself the desire to end her life's journey here and now.

And it was at that moment that the fingers of his right hand tightened on the cold metal handle of the lighter in his jeans pocket. He knew what he had to do.

And he did it - although he did not immediately fully realize his action... At that moment he was sure of only one thing: it was not a real gun, but just a lighter skillfully disguised as one. But he could not stop.

He pulled it out of his pocket and pointed the barrel straight at the woman's face. She recoiled, and he saw her eyes - they were completely mad.

"Are you crazy?" she screamed. "Why did you decide to kill me?"

Pierre thought to himself that he had managed to frighten this old witch with his innocent toy, but out loud he said in the same aggressive tone:

"Why did you kill my uncle?"

"What uncle?" she asked with genuine bewilderment.

"I'm Peter Thurlow!" Pierre blurted out his real name.

He watched with pleasure as his opponent, upon hearing his words, turned pale from head to toe, resembling a snow woman.

For a moment it even seemed to him that she froze, like a victim of the Gorgon Medusa, but after a few seconds she finally found the strength to ask:

"Are you his nephew?"

"Yes, you old bitch!" Pierre screamed. "And you are his killer!"

Suddenly he saw that the woman's face suddenly changed color and her mouth stretched into a smile. It was so unexpected for the young man that the poor fellow caught his breath.

And his opponent meanwhile said:

"Oh, what an honor for me, my boy! How kind of you to take me for the one who ruined Jordan Thurlow's destiny. But you are mistaken, my boy... I am not Delia!"

"Then who?" Pierre asked reasonably, continuing to hold the old witch at gunpoint.

"Elsebeth Roselieu!" she said proudly. "I'm the one who handed your vile uncle over to justice! I'm the one who told the cops the whole truth! I'm the one who told the whole village that your dear uncle was not just a misanthrope, but a pedophile! I'm the one who revealed the whole truth about what he did with his friend Japhet Byrnes at the latter's place! I'm the one whose words made everyone shudder when they found out that these two freaks raped a poor little girl and then cruelly took revenge on her father as a final blow! Thank the Antichrist that Jordan Thurlow died long ago, like a dog, in a stinking jail! That's too lenient a punishment for a scumbag like your uncle!"

Pierre, listening to this stream of senseless anger towards his relative, was at that moment experiencing shock mixed with disgust towards this old witch.

He wanted to smash her head with his fist right there, but her own words about him not having the right to touch her body stopped the young man; instead, he decided to slightly intimidate this fool and raised his hand with the lighter again.

His opponent did not pay due attention to his maneuver, as she continued to savor her speech, peppered with insults and slander, about his uncle.

And only when Pierre's finger was almost touching the trigger, he managed to notice in her eyes a glimmer of understanding of what was happening, or something similar to the instinctive animal fear that can be observed in a dog when it sees its owner reaching for a whip hanging on the wall.

Pierre had a poor memory of what happened next. He remembered fragments of the old lady suddenly falling face down in front of him, making a barely audible wheeze.

He also remembered how, with the fury of a berserker, he pulled the trigger again and again, and how splashes of blood flew in all directions under the bullets cutting into the witch's body.

And when he finally came to his senses, he stared in amazement at his "lighter", which he continued to hold in a death grip in his right hand. He could not understand how this harmless toy had suddenly turned into an all-crushing weapon of vengeance at the most crucial moment...

However, when he remembered the episode at the Pornland airport, he realized that there was nothing surprising about it - he had simply accidentally picked up a pistol dropped by one of the terrorists during the chaos, mistaking it for a lighter given to him by the "professor."

He even remembered that he had been surprised by the sudden increase in weight of his toy, but had not paid any attention to it at the time. But now he realized that it was not a simple coincidence, but the Finger of Destiny, called upon to come to his aid at the right moment.

And now... Now he had to get out of here as quickly as possible, before the locals raised the alarm! And with that thought, Pierre threw the pistol away like a poisonous snake and immediately ran away, not looking where he was going. Anywhere, he thought, just as far away from the body of this witch!

At first he ran up the road - but he immediately realized that this was a useless exercise, since he immediately ran into a wall of stone blocks; then he turned sharply to the right and ran along the wall down, towards the multi-story buildings visible in the distance...

But when there were only a few meters of open space left to the nearest one, a man suddenly appeared right under Pierre's feet, who jumped back in fear at the sight of his face, but it was too late: Pierre crashed into the pedestrian with all his might, and he, letting out a stifled groan, fell to the ground.

It was an elderly man with long gray hair down to his shoulders, dressed in a dark blue tracksuit with white stripes that had seen better days. On his feet were battered Adidas sneakers, a pathetic The Omen Ican knockoff of the famous Turkish Alibas, and on his chest hung a medallion with an image of some saint.

However, Pierre did not have to think long about who it was. It was more important to help him get to his feet, because from the sudden collision with the old man, the latter fell on his stomach and now lay with his face buried in the ground. Pierre bent over him, but immediately jumped back: the old man was dead!

The young man shuddered and looked around. His head was racing with thoughts about what he should do. He had completely forgotten where the nearest bus stop was, and now he stood there in indecision.

But then suddenly his attention was drawn by a barely audible sound coming from somewhere below. Pierre lowered his eyes, and his heart sank: the old man had come to life! He slowly raised his head, and Pierre saw his face, covered with wrinkles, with deep-set eyes and skin as white as a corpse.

Pierre didn't even have time to get scared, because the old man's mouth suddenly twisted, and a hoarse groan escaped from his throat. So he hadn't killed him after all, the young man thought, and that was good. But what to do next? The old man slowly rose to his feet, but didn't make a single move towards Pierre - he stood motionless like a statue, and his face expressed suffering...

And then suddenly Pierre heard his voice:

"Glasses, oh Antichrist, where are my glasses?"

Pierre realized that the old man was short-sighted, and without a second's hesitation - or perhaps because he had already become accustomed to the fear of death - he rushed to his aid, which in his performance resulted in him throwing himself on the ground and feverishly groping with his hands in the dust, trying to find his fallen glasses among the fragments of some bricks and other rubbish.

Not finding what he was trying to find, Pierre rose from his knees and took a step forward, when suddenly a loud crunch reached his ears. The young man looked at his left boot and his whole body went cold - he realized that he had stepped on the glasses he was looking for.

The old man, who also heard what happened, turned to him and shouted:

"Oh no, you crushed them, what a disaster!"

Pierre realized that he would not be able to explain to the old man the reason for his misdeed - and this was terrible. But there was nothing to be done, something had to be done.

He bent down and picked up the glasses from the ground, or rather what was left of them. After twisting the curved frame with the remaining shards of glass in his hands, the young man swung and threw the trash away from himself.

Then the old man let out another heart-rending cry, after which his knees suddenly gave way, and if it had not been for Pierre, he would have been lying on the ground again.

"Thank you, sonnie," the old man said in the voice of a dying swan. "You saved my life... Even though you broke my glasses," as he said these words, a thin stream of saliva flowed from the old man's mouth.

Pierre was disgusted to watch the old invalid drooling, but he could do nothing about it - he had to endure this disgusting sight in the name of saving the life of an old and sick man, or at least in order to preserve his own reputation as a respectable young intellectual.

Trying to speak calmly, Pierre asked the old man:

"Gaffer, are you feeling unwell? Should I call an ambulance?"

"No need to call anyone, sonnie, just help me get to the apartment," the old man mumbled under his breath.

"Where do you live?" Pierre asked him reasonably.

"Do you see the very last entrance?" the grandfather whispered barely audibly. "Carry me to it!"

There's nothing you can do, you can't refuse to help a disabled person whom you knocked down and broke his glasses!

Pierre had to lift the old man onto his shoulders and, overcoming his own fatigue, drag this unpaved cripple across the entire yard to the very last entrance.

Having finally reached him, the grandfather whispered:

"Eighty two."

"What? - Pierre didn't understand."

"Apartment number eighty-two," the old man repeated and closed his eyelids.

Pierre finally realized that the old man had told him his apartment number. But then he suddenly realized that the front door was locked! How was he going to get the old man inside?

With this thought, Pierre shook him by the shoulder to make him open his eyes.

"Gaffer, how will I get through? I don't know the code!"

"Huh?" the old man asked in a stupid voice.

"Are you deaf?" the young man began to lose his temper. "I don't know the code for the intercom!"

"Ah-ah-ah," the invalid drawled, causing a thin white stream to flow down his chin again. "I'll tell you," and, closing his eyes for a couple of seconds, he added: "Zero, five, one, eight, one, nine, eight, two."

Pierre began to feverishly dial the number, poking at the small buttons on the intercom remote. He realized that the old man had told him the combination, which translated from numbers meant "May 18, 1982" (05.18.1982), the date when that very whore was born, but because of the excitement he could not dial it correctly.

Finally, he was able to enter the numbers in the order the old man had dictated them to him, and a beeping sound informed Pierre that he had successfully completed the operation of entering the access code for the electronic door lock.

The young man stepped into the entrance, not forgetting to drag the feeble old man along with him. The stairwell was dark - it looked like the light bulbs had either been stolen or had not been changed for a long time.

Pierre took advantage of the short break to ask his companion:

"Gaffer, what floor are you on?"

The old man, who seemed to have dozed off, suddenly opened his eyes and stared at the young man with an idiotic expression.

Finally, Pierre's words reached him and his questioning look became meaningful.

"Four," was all the old man could say, after which he closed his eyes again.

Nothing can be done, thought Pierre, climbing up the stairs, he'll have to drag this old fart up several floors... However, every cloud has a silver lining! After all, upon arrival at the apartment he'll probably be able to drink some water!

Encouraging himself with this thought, Pierre courageously carried his heavy load, climbing up the stairs.