Barin-Shabarin 8

I truly believed in my country’s tomorrow: Russia was changing fast, right before my eyes. I completed the presidential program and burned with the desire to develop new territories—to work for results. But I died in a clash with traitors for whom “the Motherland” is nothing but a signboard for bribes and budget splitting. Let everyone be repaid according to their deeds! Only—what sins did I commit that threw me into the 19th century, and even into the body of the last scoundrel: a landed gentleman who squandered his fortune at a card table.

My estate is pledged to a bank; in the house, a crack is shamefully covered by a painting of a naked young lady—and local thugs come here as if it were their own. And on top of that, Mother ran off to Petersburg, taking all the cash with her. You think that’s the end? Not at all: the former owner—now it’s me—also promised a ball to the whole world…

“Master!” the trembling steward calls out. “Those fiends are back again—they’re threatening us with violence!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming, Emelya,” I sigh, grabbing the pistol from the nightstand.

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