Gleb Govnov was walking down the street with a satisfied grin. Five hundred rubles crunched cheerfully in pocket, and the weather was perfect by Petersburg standards. A light rain was falling, and huge muddy puddles on the sidewalks gave off the smell of swamps. Gleb, having worked a shift, was returning home from the new stadium on Krestovsky island. The stadium was again flooded with faeces, and Gleb valiantly fixed problems in the sewer system. From Gleb came a strong smell of excrement, but it was barely discernible in the St. Petersburg air. Nothing on this day could spoil Gleb's mood — after all, there was a week's salary in his pocket. And Gleb had one desire — to drink all this salary without fail.

Before Gleb's eyes, a sign appeared: "Oh, sport! Cafe-pub". Without thinking, he entered the establishment and immediately realized that he was not mistaken. The faces of his idols — Sadyrin, Zheludkov, Kerzhakov-looked down at him from the bar wall. Gleb walked up to the bar, threw a violet on it, slammed his fist and croaked: "Vodka! At all!". Five hundred rubles was enough for five glasses, which were immediately emptied by Gleb. This was clearly not enough, but Gleb had no more money.

The Soviet hit " Ah, what a name, Faina-Faina!", and Gleb dejectedly picked his finger in his teeth, when a man sat down on the next chair. He looked to be in his early thirties. His moustache was famously curled, and his head was strangely wrapped in a handkerchief. "Fyodor!"- the man introduced himself. His voice seemed suspiciously familiar to Gleb. "Gleb", - answered Gleb. Fyodor made a gesture to the bartender, and five more glasses and an egg with mayonnaise appeared in front of Gleb. When Gleb finished with a drink and a snack, Fyodor blandly said: "I Think I will not be mistaken if I say that I am sitting in front of a real fan of the "people's" team." Taking Gleb's glassy stare as a sign of bewilderment, Fyodor continued: "Zenit is the most popular team in Russia according to the results of the VTSIOM survey." Gleb in response to something mumbled, he began to feel sick. "I will show you the gold medal of the USSR championship in 1984!"— said in a singsong voice Fedor, and without waiting for a reply, dragged Hleb behind him.

Fyodor dragged Gleb into the toilet of the glass room and slammed the door of the stall behind him. Drunk Gleb fell on the toilet, and Fedor began to pull off his pants. "Malaya Kolpinskaya rocket!"- Fyodor giggled, looking at Gleb's penis. Fyodor knelt down and wrapped his lips around the penis. Gleb's anus smelled of feces, but Fyodor continued to suck. Gleb began to mumble inarticulately, and Fyodor inserted his finger into the anal passage. "Now I'm going to feel your stomach point! Fyodor yelled. Gleb groaned loudly. "All right, let's switch gates," Fyodor muttered, getting to his feet and brushing the cheese from his moustache. He with great difficulty turned the drunk Gleb on his stomach, put him on all fours and entered him from behind. "Saint Petersburg speaks and shows!"- Fyodor recited, quoting a well-known commentator. But before Fyodor could make a couple of frictions, he smelled something wrong. Suddenly, a tight stream of liquid feces escaped from Gleb's anus, and a stream of vomit escaped from his mouth. Fedor, covered in vomit and excrement, tried to get out of the stall, but slipped and hit his head on the toilet. Gleb's body continued to spew filth…

An hour later, Fyodor regained consciousness. Unable to move, he scanned the booth. Gleb ceased to gush forth. Now the entire toilet was filled with loud snoring. Fyodor's face lay in a mass of vomit and feces. He closed his eyes. An undigested egg with mayonnaise floated past him…