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Barin-Shabarin 7

Barin-Shabarin 7

7 hrs. 11 min.
I believed in my country’s future: Russia was changing before my eyes. I finished the presidential program and burned with the desire to develop new lands. But I died in a conflict with traitors for whom the word “Motherland” is just empty sound and budget-cutting.
And may retribution come for their sins!

Where did I sin so much that I ended up in the 19th century—in the body of a moral scoundrel who lost at cards to a landed gentleman? My estate is pledged with the bank; in the house, a crack is shamefully covered by a painting of a naked young lady—and bandits come here as if it were their own home. And oh yes—my mother ran off to Petersburg, taking all the money with her.
Everything?
No, he—meaning me now—promised the whole world a ball…

— Master! Those fiends are threatening with violence again! — I hear the trembling voice of the steward.

— I’m coming, I’m coming, Emelya, — with a sigh I pick up the pistol from the bedside table.

Well then, where our luck doesn’t disappear! Russia, my dear Russia—welcome your son!
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