The masterpiece of scientific thought was complete! Vasyl and Innokentiy rolled out their "Hyper-Flyer"—an ancient 50-gallon metal drum rigged with a hyper-engine—to the local village stadium. There, a launchpad hastily cobbled together from old railroad ties already awaited them. The heroes had planned a secret launch, but within half an hour, nearly the entire village had gathered at the stadium, holding their breath.
?After carefully hoisting their "Hyper-Flyer" onto the platform, the heroes immediately set about stuffing the "Hyper-Engine" with an incredible fuel mix worthy of breaking the speed of light. They loaded in two sacks of saltpeter, which Innokentiy had bartered from the local agronomist in exchange for a bottle of his signature moonshine. Next, they tightly rammed in a quilted "fufaika" jacket, soaked through with diesel. The remaining space in the drum was densely packed with a mixture of ash, silver paint, and sulfur. At the very center, they placed a jar of hunting gunpowder, provided, of course, by Old Man Petya, the night watchman. Two wires, ripped from the nearest radio poles, stretched from the jar to a tractor starter. Finishing the preparations, they cinched the drum lid tight with heavy bolts.
?Vasyl Butylkin began donning his futuristic spacesuit: a quilted cotton blanket stitched over with faux leather, complemented by high rubber hunting boots. For communication, he hooked up a headset masterfully crafted from his wife’s old bra, into which headphones had been mounted. Inside, the drum-cabin was caringly lined with a featherbed and pillows—for some semblance of godforsaken comfort. To ensure he wouldn't run out of oxygen, Vasyl placed four inflated inner tubes from the same notorious "Zaporozhets" car inside.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
?Clad in his blanket-suit and slow-cooker helmet, Vasyl squeezed into his drum-cabin with incredible difficulty under the admiring roar of the crowd. Innokentiy, draining the last of the legendary moonshine for courage, grabbed the tractor starter. The crowd went silent, frozen. The moment of truth had arrived, watched by the entire village.
?Suddenly, a loud cry broke the tension: "Wait! Stop right there!" Everyone turned. Running down the dusty road toward the stadium was Agrafia Derdamedonovna, rushing from her night shift at the pig farm. In her hands, she carried a bag of food. Reaching the craft, she handed the provisions directly into the cabin to her husband. Resting in the bag were a slab of "salo" pork fat, a loaf of fresh bread, a quart jar of milk, and two onions. "How could you fly away without saying goodbye, Vasyl?!" she asked indignantly. Vasyl, hiding his eyes under the slow-cooker helmet, replied: "I don't like these moments of parting, you know that." He wanted to kiss his wife, but the ubiquitous slow-cooker wouldn't allow it. He only managed to stick out his tongue. Agrafia had no choice but to merge with him in a touching "French kiss," despite the faux leather and the horse manure.
