Amnesty

- Who’s brought this trouble?
Foma was swaying, toe to heel, with his fingers tucked under his suspenders, and giving an evil smirk...

His face was the color of cast iron, cut up with strips of decaying flesh, devoid of human features; a tightly wrapped handkerchief framed it.
— You’ve been waiting too long, Tikhon—you’ve dragged on and worn yourselves out.
Tikhon said nothing. He stepped back toward the door. Foma caught him by the sleeve, leaned closer, and breathed rot into his face:
— You didn’t lose count, digger? Into which circle of Hell are you entering?
He cackled, and from under the handkerchief his flabby cheeks spilled out.
— Let go, you filthy creature,— Tikhon jerked his arm away.
— Talk, you trash! I’ll send you to the outskirts, you dead beast!