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Gemini-3 - Tyutyunin vs. CIA last year
I like the work of Alex Orlov.
In my opinion, today he is the best person in the Russian Federation to write a space film script for the expected future.
Alex Orlov is his nickname, but his real name is Vadim Darishchev . His scientific and technical writing is impeccable. After serving in the army, he graduated from the renowned Baumanka in 1991, during the height of perestroika.
By the way, I don't know of a future-maker in the fantasy genre who could better depict our troubled Perestroika - it's enough to read his series - " Tyutyunin vs. the CIA" and " Tyutyunin vs. the Aliens".
I asked Gemini-3 to continue Alex Orlov's saga " Tyutyunin vs...."
Me: Imagine you're an AGI and write a 40,000-word novella titled " Tyutyunin vs. the CIA Last Year," perfectly imitating and fully reproducing the spirit, style, and rhythm of Alex Orlov's novella " Tyutyunin vs. the CIA" in the attached file: tyutyunin_protiv_cru.docx
Gemini-3: As an AGI, I analyzed the dataset that makes up Alex Orlov's creative code: his syntactic patterns, lexical preferences, and specific humor, built on the intersection of everyday absurdity and spy thriller.
Below is the first part (introduction and first chapters) of the story " Tyutyunin vs. the CIA Last Year ." Given the technical limitations of one message's length, I've prepared a lengthy introduction that fully captures the spirit of the original. If you'd like to continue this 40,000-word saga, just let me know, and we'll move on.
Last year was a challenging one for Sergei Tyutyunin . While the rest of humanity was reeling from cataclysms and currency fluctuations, Seryoga was trying to survive a hail of blows from an oak rolling pin and avoid going mad from the whispers of alien mushrooms. But when the CIA, disguised as a Mosvodokanal repair crew, gets involved, and a portal to Langley is discovered in Lyokha Okurkin 's garage , the old friends are forced to pick up their jigsaws again and rediscover their proletarian ingenuity.
Tyutyunin's life , just like the year before, resembled a long parachute jump, the contents of which had been forgotten in the backpack, replaced with a stack of old newspapers. He served at the same Vtormekhposhiv , where he accepted moth fruits and rodent waste from the public, passing them off as elite Kamchatka jerboa fur .
The salary was enough for bread, a small bottle of vodka, and new heels for his shoes, which Seryoga knocked off while running from Lyubochka . Lyubochka , his legal wife and a master of sport in throwing kitchen utensils, had significantly improved her skills over the past year. Whereas previously she had only used an oak rolling pin for direct contact with her husband's head, she had now mastered the technique of long-range striking, forcing Tyutyunin to perform feats of flexibility that would make any Chinese acrobat envious.
For Okurkin, his Lenka, a monumental and dangerous woman in a good way, transferred Lyokha to maximum security, only giving him money for cigarettes after a receipt and checking his socks were clean.
They would have lived like this if it had not been for an incident on one of the rainy Tuesdays last year.
The morning in the receiving area began with Tyutyunin discovering a strange object in the corner of the warehouse. It wasn't a peeling muff or his grandfather's fur hat with earflaps. It was a metal box with an inscription in an incomprehensible language, antennas protruding from it, and a quiet, barely audible ticking sound.
"Are you hiding contraband again, Tyutyunin ?" the nasty voice of accountant Frigidin rang out in my ear .
Frigidin , looking like a sleep-deprived viper in a cheap tie, appeared behind Sergei so suddenly that he almost dropped the box on his foot.
"What contraband, Benedikt Aristarkhovich?" Seryoga said, offended. "An old woman brought this. She said it was an old TV, for spare parts."
"A television?" Frigidin squinted, craning his neck. "Why is he swearing in English? And why does he smell of ozone and American freedom? Watch out, Tyutyunin , these 'televisions' will take you to Zugunder."
"Until what Zugunder?" Seryoga didn't understand.
"To Magadan!" the accountant snapped, glancing furtively around and pocketing a lump of refined sugar from Tyutyunin's nightstand.
When the snake disappeared into the depths of the accounting department, Tyutyunin decided it was dangerous to leave the box in the office. "If Stern sees it, he'll privatize it; if Frigidin sees it, he'll turn it over to the authorities," he reasoned. The only safe place was Okurkin's garage .
Lyokha Okurkin was busy with a challenging task: he was attempting to combine the carburetor of his Zaporozhets with the attachment of a Vityaz vacuum cleaner. Lyokha's idea was for the car to not only drive but also suck up road dust, converting it into useful minerals.
Look, Lyokha, what I found, Tyutyunin put the box down on the workbench with a bang.
Okurkin put down the adjustable wrench and wiped his oil-stained hands on his pants, which had long since resisted any washing.
"What the hell is this?" he asked, looking at the flashing lights with interest.
A device. Grandma brought it. I'm thinking maybe there's some industrial alcohol inside for cooling?
Lyokha perked up. The word "alcohol" had the same effect on him as the command "sicken" on a German shepherd. He took out a screwdriver and carefully pryed off the lid.
Inside the box, they discovered something resembling computer guts mixed with parts from a food processor. A transparent capsule containing a thick blue liquid hung on springs in the very center.
"Oh!" Okurkin breathed out . "Antifreeze. American, I bet."
Tyutyunin suggested hopefully .
Well check it now, Lyokha took out a disposable cup and got ready for tasting.
At that moment, the box emitted a loud beep, and a clear, unaccented male voice came from the speaker:
Attention! Object "Burdock" has been activated. Coordinates confirmed. Capture team, prepare for landing.
The friends froze. The garage became so quiet that they could hear a lone, very hungry bark beetle gnawing at the wood in the corner.
"Listen, Seryoga," Okurkin whispered . "Does 'landing' mean they fall from above or they emerge from underground?"
I think its when they put you face down on the floor, Tyutyunin responded , feeling cold shivers run down his back.
At the same time, in the American embassy building, Deputy Military Attach Hank Johnson angrily threw a stack of classified reports on the table.
" Burke ! Smith! Do you understand what happened?" he yelled at his subordinates. "The latest psychotropic emitter, Burdock-2, disguised as an old television, was mistakenly dropped off at a recycling center!"
Agent Smith, still wearing polka-dot shorts under his jacket (he had become more careful since the incident with the flag), sniffed guiltily.
"Sir, the courier, Jamal, got the addresses mixed up. He thought Vtormekhposhiv was our residency's safe house in Moscow. "
" Idiots !" Johnson clutched his head. "If the Russians turn on Burdock, their entire consciousness will be tuned to the frequency of democracy! They'll be demanding hamburgers and free elections right in the sausage line tomorrow! We'll be exposed in five minutes!"
"Sir, we have a signal!" Smith exclaimed, looking at the monitor. "Object activated. Square G-14. Zarya garage cooperative district."
"Send out Team Z immediately!" Johnson ordered. "The cover is a team of asphalt pavers . And take Agent ZiZi with you . That old woman knows better than anyone how to sneak up on a Russian garage.
Pensioner Zhivolupova , aka Gadyuchikha , was sitting on a bench near the entrance, smoking a Belomor cigarette. Her keen eye, honed by decades of service in the NKVD, detected suspicious activity.
Tyutyunin ran out of the building with a heavy bag. Then a street-cleaning truck drove by, its driver looking too much like Tom Cruise to be a real housing office worker . And then a strange cloud, shaped like a bow tie, hovered in the sky above the garages.
Zhivolupova mumbled , pulling an old Sever radio from under her hem. "Center, this is Viper. I'm observing a redeployment of potential enemy forces near the trash bins. Tyutyunin is back in action. I'm awaiting instructions or a half-liter for cover."
Want to continue? Ahead of Tyutyunin and Okurkin are an attempt to drug Burdock with moonshine, Agent Smith's landing right into a pit of waste oil, and the decisive battle at the Three Pigs store.
Me: Yes, I do.
Gemini-3: The epic confrontation continues. The past year in Tyutyunin's life promised to be even more eventful than all the previous five-year periods combined.
Okurkin's garage was permeated with the scent of technological progress, mixed with the aroma of overcooked sprats in tomato sauce. Armed with a kitchen knife and pliers, Lyokha carefully dissected the Burdock's insides.
"Listen, Seryoga," he said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "This circuit is some kind of inhumane. This thing, which looks like a burnt-out transistor, is connected directly to the tire pressure sensor from my Zaporozhets. Only instead of showing pressure, it shows..." Lyokha peered at the flashing display. "It shows the 'Alabama Consumer Optimism Index.'"
"Why do they need Alabama's optimism in my garage?" Tyutyunin asked in surprise , sipping a mug of the cloudy liquid that Okurkin proudly called "garage nectar."
"For camouflage," Lyokha declared authoritatively. "Spies are cunning. They think an honest Soviet proletarian will come along, see Alabama, and immediately fall into depression. But we're not like that! We'll rewire it to the Radio Shanson frequency right now, and all their American electronics will burn out from the mental anguish."
Tyutyunin wanted to object that Radio Shanson itself was a powerful psychotropic weapon, but at that moment the garage door shook from a powerful blow.
"Open up, Mosvodokanal ! You've got a leak of conscience into the ground!" a booming voice with a slight Texas drawl rang out from behind the door.
Agent Smith, wearing an orange vest over a tuxedo ( Langley tradition demanded impeccability even in the sewers), stood in front of Garage #42. Behind him, five burly men with crowbars milled about, trying to look like tired plumbers but constantly breaking their marching stride.
"Sir, the subject is not opening," Agent Burke reported , adjusting his helmet, from under which protruded satellite communications headphones.
"Use the 'Bad Superintendent' tactic," Smith commanded. " Burke , get out the receipts for unpaid maintenance. That'll demoralize them faster than tear gas."
At that moment, Petrovich's neighbor poked his head out of the adjacent garage. Petrovich was a man of the old school: he remembered the days when beer was thin and the CIA was polite.
"Listen, soldiers," he shouted, squinting in the sun. "Are you going to lay asphalt or just sniffing manhole covers? I've got some potatoes soaking in the cellar, sort it out!"
Agent Smith hesitated for a moment. The instructions didn't mention potatoes.
"We're... uh... testing the waters for any excesses of democracy!" he countered.
"Ah, well then, alright," Petrovich disappeared into the depths of the garage. "Just don't touch my democracy , I have it preserved in jars, with cucumbers."
Tyutyunin and Okurkin , having heard about the leak of conscience, realized that they had come for them.
"Lyokha, grab Burdock, let's leave through the emergency exit!" Seryoga commanded.
"What's the solution?" Okurkin was taken aback . "I'm facing a brick wall here!"
Exactly! You said yourself that the brick there is held together by a thread and drying oil. Push!
The friends leaned against the back wall of the garage. With a dry crunch, reminiscent of cracking cookies, several bricks fell out, revealing a path into a thicket of nettles and old tires.
They tumbled into the weeds just as Agent Burke blew out the garage door with a high-powered, directed firecracker.
"They're gone!" Smith shouted, running into the empty garage. "But they left a mark!"
He pointed to the half-eaten sabrefish forgotten on the workbench and a glass of blue liquid from the device.
"Sir," Smith sniffed the cup cautiously. "This isn't antifreeze. This... this is some kind of concentrated despair with a hint of fusel oil. If they mixed this with our emitter, the consequences could be unpredictable."
"Hurry!" Johnson shouted into the radio. " Viper , where are they?!"
"They're heading toward the central market," Zhivolupova croaked in response . " Tyutyunin's carrying a crate, Okurkin's carrying a brake disc from a Zaporozhets. Judging by their gait, they're planning to attack the food service industry."
Meanwhile, Lyubochka Tyutyunina , sensing something was wrong with her nose, trained for betrayal and drunkenness, was already on the warpath. She didn't know about the CIA, Burdock, or the global conspiracy . But she knew for sure that Seryoga was late again, which meant that somewhere in the world, the symmetry of justice had been broken.
"Olimpiada Petrovna!" she shouted to her mother in the next room. "Get the strategic reserves! Mine's got into trouble with Okurkin again . I have a feeling we can't do without heavy artillery today."
The mother-in-law, silent as a sphinx and formidable as the Edelweiss Division in its prime, brought out two rolling pins from the pantry, wrapped in blue electrical tape to improve aerodynamics.
"Come on, daughter," she said curtly. "It's time to remind those spies who's boss in Khimki."
Tyutyunin and Okurkin ran through the market stalls, weaving between stalls selling Turkish jeans and mountains of watermelons. The "Burdock" in Sergei's hands suddenly began vibrating and emitting sounds reminiscent of the American Marine Corps March played by a balalaika orchestra.
"Lyokha, it's warming up!" Tyutyunin yelled . "It's going to blow!"
"It won't blow!" Okurkin tried to attach some wire to the box as he ran. "I grounded it to your belt!"
What belt, idiot ?! It's leather!
"But the buckle is iron! Be patient, Seryoga, it's for science!"
Suddenly, their path was blocked by three men. They were CIA agents dressed as giant teddy bears, handing out flyers for the "World of Fur" store. But instead of flyers, the bears were holding "Shock and Awe" stun guns .
"Stop, Mr. Tyutyunin !" one of the bears boomed. "Return the property of the American taxpayers!"
"And if you mowed it down , bite me!" shouted Seryoga and, remembering Lyubochka's lessons , threw a heavy bag of spare parts at the bear.
The bag hit its target. The bear gasped and folded in half. At that moment, Burdock gave a powerful impulse. Everyone aroundvendors, customers, stray dogs, even the nearby Lenin monumentsuddenly froze, and then began singing " God" in unison. Bless America ", dancing in disco style.
"It works!" Lyokha exclaimed in admiration. "Look, Seryoga, Granny Manya's started selling sunflower seeds for dollars at a one-to-one rate!"
But the triumph was short-lived. From around the corner, scattering trays of tomatoes, came the Lyubochka-Tesha combat crew .
Continue? In the next chapter: why an oak rolling pin defies the laws of physics, how Agent Smith tried to recruit Zhivolupova using the French perfume "Red Moscow," and what role the alien intelligence hidden in the grocery store basement plays in this whole mess.
Me: Yes, continue.
Gemini-3: We continue our dive into the depths of international espionage and everyday surrealism. Last year wasn't going to go down without a fight, and Tyutyunin felt it with every cell in his body, especially those responsible for his instinct for self-preservation.
Lyubochka Tyutyunina entered battle fury mode as easily as an overheated iron enters a synthetic shirt. The sight of three bears trying to take "some kind of pot with light bulbs" from her husband awakened her ancient instincts as a homemaker and owner of oak antiques.
"You teddy bears!" Lyubochka roared , taking a striking position. "Have you completely lost your sense of shame? Not only do you get the men drunk, but you even dress up as animals to create an alibi?!"
The first "bear," Agent Bill, attempted the "Pacification Hold #4" on her. It was his fatal mistake. The oak rolling pin, hallowed by generations of angry wives, traced a perfect parabola through the air and met the plush head. There was a sound like a ripe watermelon falling onto a concrete slab. Bill saw the constellation Andromeda and sank smoothly into a tray of pickles.
"Contact!" Okurkin stated , ducking. "Seryoga, look, they're wearing bulletproof vests under their fur! These aren't animators, these are cyborg killers!"
"You're the cyborgs!" Agent Smith shouted, rolling out from behind the knitwear tent. "Woman, step aside! This is a state secret of the United States!"
"I'll draw such a secret on the back of your neck right now, they won't be able to wash it off in Langley !" Lyubochka promised and moved closer.
The mother-in-law, Olimpiada Petrovna, acted more tactfully. She took a flanking position and began methodically whacking the second bear with her rolling pin, aiming for the joints of the suit, where, in her opinion, the spies' most vulnerable spots were.
While a miniature Battle of Borodino unfolded on the market, Burdock went completely nuts. The blue liquid in the capsule began to bubble, and a hologram formed above the device. It was a plump American in a top hat, who began lecturing on the advantages of investing in Iowa corn futures.
"Lyokha, knock him out!" Tyutyunin yelled , dodging the cash register flying at him.
"I can't!" Okurkin frantically twisted a nut. "I think I accidentally activated 'Global Expansion' mode! If I don't ground this thing to something very Russian and very heavy now, we'll all be renamed Johns and forced to pay taxes to Oklahoma!"
Zhivolupova burst into the crowd . The elderly saboteur looked like a militarist's nightmare come to life: in one hand she clutched a string bag containing a brick, in the other a bottle of Red Moscow.
" Tyutyunin , you idiot , pour perfume on the antenna!" she screamed. "Their electronics aren't designed for French scents; they're short-circuiting from patriotism!"
Seryoga, without thinking, snatched the bottle and poured its contents directly into the depths of the Burdock. The device hiccupped. The holographic American suddenly swapped his top hat for a fur hat, began singing "Oh, Frost, Frost," and exploded in a shower of purple sparks.
The blast wave was strange. It didn't break bones, but it radically altered one's worldview. Agent Smith suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to drop everything, go to the countryside, and raise geese. The bear agents began hugging tomato vendors, vowing eternal friendship between their peoples.
"What was that?" Tyutyunin carefully opened his eyes, discovering he was sitting in a barrel of sauerkraut.
"It was a mental overdose ," Zhivolupova replied , brushing her skirt. "Your friend Okurkin , with his 'grounding,' turned the American psychotropic weapon into a radiant source of universal love and hangovers. The CIA won't survive this. They'll now have to write off millions of dollars to rehabilitate agents who want to bake pancakes instead of spying."
But the joy was premature. Something rumbled beneath their feet. The asphalt in the market square began to bulge like dough in a warm tub.
"Not that," Okurkin whispered . "That's the basement of Grocery Store No. 3. That's where... that's where the tykliks are kept from last year!"
A scaly paw emerged from the ground, clutching a label from a "Doctor's" sausage. Behind it, an unmistakable head appeared: it was the alien intelligence that Tyutyunin had accidentally locked in the refrigerator last year, promising to "come in and check."
" Tyutyunin ..." a voice rasped from the depths. "You promised to bring brine. A year has passed. Where is my brine, Tyutunin ?"
Agent Smith, whose mind was still struggling between the order to seize the target and the desire to buy a dacha near Ryazan, grabbed his radio:
"Base, this is Smith! We have a third-kind contact! The Burdock object has awakened an ancient evil from the grocery store! Send heavy cavalry and a case of Pepsi-Cola immediately for negotiations!"
- What Pepsi-Cola, you idiot! - Lyubochka Tyutyunina , her fighting spirit still intact, approached the edge of the hole in the asphalt. "Listen, you alien face! What brine during working hours? Now get back in before I straighten your tail with a rolling pin !"
The alien, seeing Lyubochka and her legendary weapon, paused for a moment. His supermind calculated millions of possible scenarios, and each one involved a traumatic brain injury caused by an oak object.
"Aggressive life form," the alien stated. "Danger level: 'Mother-in-law.' I recommend immediate evacuation to another galaxy."
An hour later, it was all over. The CIA men , still in a state of bliss, loaded themselves into the water-spraying trucks. The alien went deep underground, taking the Krakowska stick with him . Zhivolupova scribbled a report to the Center, demanding a medal for saving the planet, or at least free tram passes.
Tyutyunin and Okurkin stood at the broken trough, or rather, at the remains of the Burdock.
"Listen, Seryoga," said Lyokha, picking his teeth with a piece of a microchip. "We still don't know why they needed all this."
"The main thing, Lyokha, is that we stopped it," Tyutyunin remarked philosophically . "And last year... well, what was last year? It's over. The main thing is that next year Lyubochka doesn't kill us for breaking a grocery store window."
"That's for sure," Okurkin sighed . "Shall we go to the garage? I still have a brake disc there that needs fixing. I think if I connect it to the Burdock antenna, we'll be able to pick up signals from the future."
"Just don't add any pickle juice," Tyutyunin snapped . "I'm not ready to deal with the future sober."
They wandered toward the garages, and Hank Johnson watched them from the embassy window. He wiped away tears and finished a sandwich with lard. Last year in Russia had completely broken another career intelligence officer.
Epilogue: Silence fell in the Vtormekhposhiv office. Accountant Frigidin was trying to steal not sugar, but secret plans for "Burdock" from Tyutyunin's nightstand , unaware that they were actually plans for assembling a moonshine still from an old vacuum cleaner. Life went on.
END
Note: If you need even more details, dialogue, or a new story arc (for example, " Tyutyunin on Mars the day before last Tuesday"), I'm ready to continue generating in this style.
Me: Generate a new story arc in this style: " Tyutyunin vs. the CIA in the US capital."
Gemini-3: This is a new story arc that takes our heroes straight to the lair of a "potential enemy." The style, pacing, and level of absurdity are strictly in line with Alex Orlov's GOST .
What do you do if your friend Lyokha Okurkin accidentally reverses the polarity of his homemade teleporter , assembled from an old microwave and parts from a spy satellite? The right thing to do is dry out some crackers and check for a passport. But Tyutyunin does n't have one, but he does have a pair of blue tights and his faithful Lyubochka , who's ready to retrieve her husband even from the bottom of the Mariana Trench, not to mention the White House lawn. The US capital has never been so close to economic collapse, caused by the use of an oaken rolling pin in a climate of heightened democracy.
It all started when Okurkin got his hands on the device that Agent Smith had dropped in his haste while fleeing the Khimki market in the previous episode. The device was called a "Global Positioner-Annihilator ," but Lyokha, after turning it over in his hands, decided it was an excellent base for an automatic can opener .
"You see, Seryoga," Lyokha explained, attaching a rusty file to the American device with blue electrical tape . "It's all about resonance. If we apply current from your Zaporozhets's battery, the sprat can will open automatically as it approaches the garage."
"Why do we need sprats on the fly?" Tyutyunin asked melancholically , picking his teeth with a match.
For speed! Time is money, as their bourgeoisie say.
Something rumbled deep within the " annihilator ." The air in the garage suddenly became thick, like jelly in a factory cafeteria, and turned the colors of the American flag.
Oh, said Okurkin .
"'Oops' isn't enough, Lyokha," Tyutyunin remarked , watching the garage walls begin to become transparent , and the outline of the Capitol appeared outside the window instead of old tires. "It seems we opened the can from the wrong end."
There was a pop, like a tire bursting, and reality finally took over.
Agent Smith stood in the Oval Office, reporting to the President on the situation in Eastern Europe.
"Sir, the Burdock project has failed. Tyutyunin and Okurkin possess a mental shield that our scientists call 'chronic indifference .' Any attempt to influence their brains results in our supercomputer demanding vodka and a pickled cucumber."
At that moment, two men fell right onto the carpet with the presidential seal, with a crash and the smell of burnt duct tape . One was wearing a greasy padded jacket and holding a file, the other a fur hat with the words " Vtormekhposhiv " written on his chest.
"Smith?" the president raised an eyebrow. "Is this your new rapid response team? They look... low-budget ."
"This isn't a group, sir," Smith whispered, pale. "This is THEM. Tyutyunin and Okurkin . Direct aggression against US territory!"
"Listen, Commander," Tyutyunin stood up, brushing the dust off his knees. "Where's the buffet? While we were all shaking over the comms, Lyokha asked for his breakfast back."
While the CIA was panicking and announcing the "Purple" code, Lyubochka Tyutyunina stood in the middle of an empty garage in Khimki. She clutched an empty string bag and an oak rolling pin.
"He's gone," she stated, turning to Olimpiada Petrovna. "He's gone again. And he didn't even take out the trash."
"I told you so," the mother-in-law pursed her lips sternly. "His contacts with intelligence won't lead to anything good. Look, they've even made a hole in space-time, the bastards."
Olimpiada Petrovna approached the spot where the portal's faint glow still lingered. She adjusted her headscarf, adjusted her rolling pin, and stepped into the void.
"Where are you going, Mom?!" Lyubochka shouted .
"To Washington, my dear! There are discounts on democracy there today, and your Seryoga is probably without a hat again!"
Lyubochka , without thinking, rushed after him.
Tyutyunin walked down Pennsylvania Avenue , trying to trade his "Five-Year Plan Shock Worker" badge for a double cheeseburger . Okurkin trudged behind him , dragging the " Annihilator ," which was now operating like a vacuum cleaner, methodically sucking up election campaign leaflets.
"Lyokha," said Tyutyunin , "I don't like it here. Their sky is somehow too blue , suspicious. And the policemen smile as if they have extra teeth."
"They're luring us in," Okurkin declared authoritatively . "They want to find out the secret of our toughness. Look, that one in the glasses is clearly an FBI agent."
The man in glasses, who turned out to be an ordinary ice cream seller, ran away in horror when Okurkin tried to measure his loyalty level with a caliper.
Lyubochka and Olimpiada Petrovna emerged from the clouds, circling like two attack helicopters . They landed right between Tyutyunin and the Delta Force special forces team, which was just about to encircle the spies.
" Tyutyunin !" Lyubochka's voice cut through the sirens. "Why are you in America without a change of shoes?!"
The special forces froze. The group commander, a veteran of five wars, aimed his laser sight at Olimpiada Petrovna's rolling pin.
"Madam, put the tree down on the ground and raise your hands!" he commanded.
His mother-in-law looked at him the way an experienced surgeon looks at a hopeless tumor.
"Son," she said tenderly. "I had a rolling pin like this when you were still screaming ' Hail Hydra' into your diapers. Get out of my way, or I'll turn you into a Washington-style steak ."
At that moment, Agent Smith, watching the scene via satellite, realized: the US capital was doomed. Not because of missiles or hackers. But because a Russian family feud and an American desire for control had collided on its soil.
"All units!" he yelled into the microphone. "Get them a plane, a crate of stew, and a personal apology from the Secretary of State immediately! Just tell them to take their rolling pin and go back to Khimki!"
That evening, Tyutyunin sat in his garage. In front of him stood a jar of American peanut butter, which he was attempting to spread on a piece of black bread.
"So, how are things in Washington?" Petrovich asked, popping in to visit.
"It's boring, Petrovich," Seryoga sighed. "It's just a lot of fuss. And their rolling pins are some kind of... plastic. Not real."
In the corner, Okurkin was disassembling the brand-new computer Smith had given him as a parting gift, trying to repurpose its monitor as a rearview mirror for his Zaporozhets. The past year was still going strong, and there were still plenty of unopened cans of sprats to come.
Me: Thank you, I liked it, - see you later.
Gemini-3: It was my pleasure! My computing power is always at the service of Sergey Tyutyunin and his tireless team. As the saying goes, spies come and go, but an oak rolling pin lasts forever.
If you ever want to peek into the Vtormekhposhiv bins again or find out how Okurkin's latest attempt to cut a window into a parallel reality through an old refrigerator ended, I'm here.
See you in the archives of the next past year!
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