The beginning of the 90s. A cool new Russian in a crimson jacket comes in a shop selling fabrics and stops at the counter. A salesman immediately runs up to him and casually says:
– Good afternoon! Do you need my help?
– Need. So you are this … Show me the red fabrics. Price does not matter.
“Of course, of course,” the seller nods. – And what shade of red do you need? And material: cotton, silk, brocade, velvet?
– You, in nature, show me everything, and I will choose. And the color … Well, in short, you need color to look like arterial blood, sprinkling on white sheets and already a little dried, but not much. The material should be quite heavy, but not too brilliant and slightly rough. Show come on.
The seller rushes to the shelves and lays out in front of a new Russian with a dozen of different rolls of red fabric. Then he takes them to unwind and show how the fabric plays in the sun, gives it a touch. So pass three hours, the entire store is already littered with red fabrics.
Finally, a new Russian draws a piece of cloth from somewhere from the rubble and says:
– In! What I was looking for! And the color, and the material – it is, in kind!
The disheveled seller starts writing on the receipt and asks:
– So, and how much fabric do you need? Two meters, three?
The new Russian sticks the seller under the nose and says:
– You see the nail on the little finger? So much and cut off. My daughter’s beloved daughter’s tongue tore off her tongue and now demands the same.