"Well, what can I do with this crap?" Panteley bitterly thought, staring at the two silver roubles and fifty kopecks in change in the palm of his hand. "I'm hungry, I'm thirsty, and I need new soles for my boots -- the old ones are just one big hole... Oh, what a hellish life we lead!"
He dropped by a shoemaker of his acquaintance; the bastard charged him a rouble and a half for a pair of soles.
"Do you even bother to wear a cross?" Panteley sarcastically inquired.
The cross, to the robbed Panteley's surprise, was in place -- on the shoemaker's hairy chest, right under his shirt.
"Now, all I've got left is one rouble," thought Panteley with a sigh. "And what good will that do me? Hah!"
So he went and bought half a pound of ham, a can of anchovies, a loaf of French bread, half a bottle of vodka, a bottle of beer, and a dozen cigarettes -- and by the time he was done, his entire capital was down to four kopecks.
And when poor Panteley sat down to his frugal supper, he felt so bad that he almost started weeping.
"Why, why?" whispered his trembling lips.
"Why do the rich and the exploiters drink champagne and liqueurs, eat grouse and pineapples -- and all I ever get is plain vodka, canned fish, and ham? Why is life so unfair? Oh, if only we, the working class, gained our freedom! Then we would really live like human beings!"
One day in the spring of 1920, the worker Panteley Grymzin received his daily pay for Tuesday -- a mere 2,700 roubles.
"Well, what can I do with this?" Panteley bitterly thought, shuffling the multicolored pieces of paper in his hand. "I need new soles for my boots, and I'm dying for some food and drink!"
He went to the shoemaker, haggled him down to 2,300, and came back out into the street with four pitiful 100-rouble bills.
He bought a pound of semi-white bread, a bottle of soda pop, and was left with 14 roubles. He checked out the price of a dozen cigarettes, spat, and walked away.
At home, he sliced up the bread, opened the soda, and sat down for supper... And he felt so bad that he almost started weeping.
"But why," whispered his trembling lips, "Why do the rich get everything, while we get nothing? Why does the rich man eat tender pink ham, stuff himself with anchovies and real white bread, guzzle genuine vodka and foamy beer, smoke cigarettes -- while I, like some kind of dog, must chew this stale bread and drink this nauseating saccharin-based swill? Why is life so unfair?"
Ah, Panteley, Panteley... Can you say, "oops"?