Kareena Katroveena scrubbed the floor with all her life-force, the boar bristle brush making swooshing sounds against the wooden boards of the floor, but for the life of her, she couldn’t get rid of the blood stains.

It was just one major blood stain really, in the shape of the map of Mother Russia, with a few satellite drops surrounding it. The blood had pooled there last night when a fat bloke, by the name of Peytor Petronska Peterovich, in a fit of vodka induced rage, had broken the empty bottle of said vodka, on the head of a tall bloke, by the name of Feydor Romanov Romanovich.

Feydor Romanov Romanovich had been surprised by the sudden attack and stood standing long enough for everyone to register the look of surprise in his eyes. Then a trickle of blood ran down his forehead, between his eyes, down his nose, and into his big bushy beard. Then the fellow fell like a pine tree after the lumberjack makes his final strike. The fall and the subsequent hitting of head against floor, especially from the height of the tall man’s stature, might have been the reason for the majority of the blood loss, instead of the earlier bottle strike, as many who were present agreed.

After the incident, Peytor Peterovich explained that the reason he had struck Mr. Romanovich had been not because of an argument or any sort of personal animosity. Not at all, in fact. He explained, at great length, as the villagers dragged Mr. Romanovich’s dead body out of the drinking hall and left it in the snow, that he had been sitting there quietly nursing his bottle of vodka and minding his own business when Mr. Romanovich entered the establishment and, despite several empty tables, decided to sit down at the same table as him, and what’s more, even made eye contact with him, several times! He, of course, being a gentleman and a man of high repute, forgave this stranger his rudeness and avoided eye contact by either staring straight into his glass, or up at the ceiling. But Feydor Romanov Romanovich kept trying to initiate contact because he had something to get off his chest. Despite Petroska’s sincerest disinterest, Feydor Romanovich eventually managed to introduce himself and even enquired about Peytor Petronska Peterovich’s good name and what he did for a living and if he had a family or not. Mr. Peterovich, being a reasonable and honorable man, pretended his best that he hadn’t heard anything the man across from him was saying, but this didn’t slow down Mr. Romanovich, no sir, not even a little bit. The more he drank the friendlier he got; and started to tell his story to his reluctant captive audience. And despite Mr. Peterovich’s desperate attempt at avoiding all human contact that night, he found himself slowly getting caught and then completely engrossed in this man’s tale.

Then Peytor Petronsky Peterovich went on to relay the entire tale to his new found audience in the drinking hall. Even the babushkas in the corner stopped gossiping among themselves and started paying attention to this fat man who had just murdered the tall man.

Kareena Karinski Katroveena cursed herself for getting engrossed in the tale and not doing anything about the pool of blood last night itself, when it would have been much easier to mop away with a soapy mop. No, instead she got lost in the story and forgot all about the blood till this morning. And the worst thing was, she didn’t even remember the tale anymore. What was it? Something about a crime and then there was no punishment, but there indeed was? He was wondering if it was possible to get away with a heinous crime such as murder, wasn’t it? And what was it about the story that made old Peytor so mad that he killed the man? For the love of all that is holy and sacrosanct in the orthodox church, old Karinchka couldn’t remember!