Дверь пивной «МОСПИВОВОДЫ» глухо грохнула и по ступенькам...

The door of the MOSPIVOVODY beer hall thundered muffled and two went down the steps into a dim smoky stench, with reeds and headdresses.
“Well, dear doctor,” the decisive old man who came down first shook his hand around the establishment, “Here they are, so to speak, the habitat.”
“Yes, Philip Filippovich,” the second, youthful, shook the collar of his coat, “Exemplary, one might say, a hotbed of vice.”
Both took a couple of steps and stopped.
“Here he is, our klondike,” Professor of Medicine Philipp Filippovich Preobrazhensky drove a stub of a cigar in his mouth, “Nowhere else can you meet so many people of exceptional, just like horse health.”
“But excuse me, professor,” began Ivan Arnoldovich Bormental, a talented young doctor, but was torn off.
“No, no, my dear, don’t even think about objecting,” the professor made a decisive gesture with his hand. “So much thumping like these vertebrates, this is neither yours nor mine’s health at all!”
“You wouldn’t have sinned on yourself, if you were too old, you would not be able to devour you and the adversary,” thought Dr. Bormental, but, of course, said nothing.
The logical continuation of the conversation was the appearance on an empty spot of a genital with a tray in his hands. On a tray two categorical sizes of glasses were watering, and a couple of saffron mushrooms, worn on forks, were waiting.
The medicine has been quickened.
“Well, let’s go on a detour,” Preobrazhensky moved deep into the den, “We’ll examine the candidates.” Look, my dear, do not lag behind, but make sure that they do not fuck me with a bench from the back, as last time.
“Don’t be so kind as to worry, professor,” Bormental extracted a thick oilcloth notebook from his inside pocket, and intercepted his cane in the manner of a baton, “Our trump card is politeness.”
Doctors moved between the tables, carefully examining the audience. From time to time, Preobrazhensky stopped near the “candidate” that interested him and asked him about something. Nobody dared to transfer to the professor, and Bormental carefully recorded the data in the notebook.
“You see, Ivan Arnoldovich,” the professor took a flask from his coat pocket, took an impressive sip, and handed it to Bormental, “One or two regulars are carried forward weekly from this beer house.” Who is from the knife, whom the blow is enough. The best source of bodies for our experiments cannot be found.
- But let me, Philipp Philippovich! - the doctor screwed a hefty dose into himself, - After all, proceedings should be carried out with the bodies, some detective actions ...
- Here! - The professor raised a finger to the sky, - That's why we pass the list of candidates to the city morgue, Kabardinsky. If they deliver the blotch from our list, Kabardinsky puts him “death from influenza” and the client is completely ours!
- But what about the relatives of the deceased? A family?
- Yes, fuck the relatives. Well, doctor, explain this whirligig, who is that? Don’t be afraid, fuck him with a cane!
*
From the diary of Dr. Bormental
12.02
Yesterday with prof. Preobrazhensky made, as he put it, circumventing establishments. We visited the darkest, most vile and terrible holes in Moscow. The purpose of our visit was to select from the number of regular visitors the most suitable for us as corpses. You know, dear diary, how we need corpses for experiments to die. We have gutted these fucking corpses one way or another over the past six months, thirty, their mother is not so!
However, I was distracted. So, being interested in one of the “candidates”, we woke him up, and he, bastard, take and hit my eye. Moreover, the professor, the luminary of medicine and just an elderly man, the villain kicked his leg painfully when I began to strangle him with a cane. In a word, we got into a conversation, and Seryoga (that's his name) was invited to visit us. However, he is now here.

02/14
Yesenin turned out to be a wonderful person. He knows a large number of poems, which he reads instead of toasts. The professor and I decided not to let him go. Moreover, I bought alcohol a week ago twice as usual. I knew.

02.17
from such a guy Serge

02/19
Drunk Doctor Bormental
At the curtains spitting
And professor, if not sorry
In a tub with ficus shit

02.20
Sorry, dear diary, the last entry was made by Sergey Yesenin, the great Russian poet. By the way, he’s gone somewhere.

02.21
We rummaged through the house, Yesenin is nowhere to be found. Today decided not to accept. Your doctor Bor.