The long-awaited continuation of the brutal action novel "Bulgarian Psychar" - " Chronicles of the Unit".
The place of action is modern Bulgaria, the plot overflows with battle scenes, treachery and intrigue, and the mind-blowing finale turns the reader into an unwitting accomplice of the action. Even more dizzying, obsessive and raw, the sequel to "Bulgarian Psycho" is about to blow up all notions of the genre.
Andrei Velkov was born in Sofia and often resides in his dubious Mordor residence. He graduated in political science and marketing, and as an author he legitimized himself with his third "speci alty" - street law from the Great University of Life. His interests are as varied as his language is colorful, but his secret passion is literature.
Presenting a monstrously realistic story in the language of the street, the novel "Bulgarian Psychologist" became a real phenomenon in Bulgaria. The sequel is expected to be similarly received and reap market success and media interest.
Andrei Velkov's books are addressed to fans of more solid and dynamic literature, and the plot is inspired by the author's native reality and personal experience. With a genuine sense of humor, he describes the vicissitudes of the main character in the barracks, student life and his "rise" in the world of organized crime.
Ever since its release, "Bulgarian Psychologist" provoked heated discussions and scandalized the expectations of the "more pious" audience. At the same time, the author is flooded with rave reviews and questions about the prototypes of the characters and a possible continuation of the "fairy tale". Credit for this curiosity goes to the spectacular ending of the book. Encouraged by the explosive reactions, Velkov decides to unravel the Unit's past, choosing a different angle to the events of the second novel. The result is more than convincing:
“More blood. More violence. Even more street language. Simply wonderful!”
“A gory tale of the rise of four neighborhood boys who make their own rules on their way to the top. Or what happens to idealism and high hopes when they meet the harshness, pathlessness and absurdity of local reality."
“Pure pleasure! Without any pretense or posturing, we get another serving of the same, plus the answers to some questions touched on in "Bulgarian Psychar".
The action is relentless from the first page to the last. Brutal scenes and brutal schemes – a favorite combination!”
Hostile Reader Review
Varela was sitting on a stool in the narrow kitchen of the apartment, his gray eyes fixed on the sobbing woman, and periodically biting the piece of sausage he was holding. As he chewed, he crunched. His right cuban, he was very fond of walking with cubans, tapped rhythmically on the back of the man sprawled on the floor. Varela had parried him when the man had tried to slander him. He just got to "Sh'ti eba pichk…" and fell because the samba player's fist was reminiscent of Mike Tyson's, which is why it was never clear which of his relatives he was going to address - his aunt or his mother. Baaam! - and under the table.
The reason he ended up in this apartment, which was located in a gray and featureless eight-story block behind the river, near the orc hamlet - only a few train tracks separated the Quarter from the ghetto - were the Rat's notebooks, which Pesho after several days of fruitless torture he had finally managed to get out. So that day, just as he had thrown them open on the office table, Mincho Chimika emerged from his underground realm and, passing by the table on his way to the restaurant, where he intended to eat another portion of drob sarma - his favorite food, he loved it so much, that he could eat it all the time, - he looked at the open notebook and after a few minutes of staring he exclaimed in amazement:
– Hey, I haven't seen that dumb cipher in years. I had completely forgotten about it.
Pesho, who was thirstily drinking water after having hammered a series of gyaku tsukita on the Swedish wall-mounted makiwara, turned and asked:
– What did you just say, Mincho, you bastard?
– I say that something is written here, it is written in a code… – mumbled Mincho embarrassed.
– What's written dude, can you read that? Because I didn't come up with anything, it's not that I didn't try…
– Well, it's easy, you can read it with a key, I remember it because one of our math teachers showed it to us in the circle as an example, it's quite popular, but you have to know the key, otherwise it's complicated…
– Aaah, with a key, it’s a shame, because I struggled like a sinful devil for a hundred hours and didn’t come up with anything – grinned Pesseau. - Well then, grab those notebooks and translate for me what you can into Bulgarian, if you like.
– But… I had gone to eat something, and then I have to prepare some pills… - Mincho timidly tried to object.
– Eat, eat, and then you take the notebooks and translate, the pills will wait. If someone gives you a glimpse, say that I have given you a higher priority task - Peter responded with understanding to the situation, happy that they have a real, courtier, their living genius in the dungeon.
And so Mincho decoded what he could from the Rat's notebooks; there were many names, many numbers, on the last page - and an address, and the address was the one where Varela was currently eating a sausage, stepping on the passed out opening.
– Stop chirping, duck, blow my head! – Varela stopped chewing and lit a cigarette. He looked around for an ashtray, didn't find one, and pulled out a dingy saucer to rummage in. It turned out that in addition to being sloppy, the plate was also sticky. He wiped himself sullenly on the tablecloth. - Stop yelling, woman, take it easy, your man will be fine now, I smacked him a little, he's to blame, look how ugly he was cursing… Pour me a glass of water, pour yourself a glass and drink it to get better you calm down…
The woman continued to roar and Varela sharply shouted at her:
– Get up and give water duckoooooooo…
Revlata startled, got up and went to the sink, where rather unsuccessfully, with trembling hands, she began to pour the water. She handed the first glass to Varela, but he stopped her with a gesture and commanded:
– You drink first, drink two glasses even! Drink them on your ex! Calm down and stop yelling, because you're starting to annoy me, and it's not nice, I'm telling you honestly.
The chick drank one glass and timidly handed the other to Varela. Her roar had phased into a muffled cry with elements of a sniffle. He took the dingy glass, placed it on the table next to the ashtray, smiled at her, trying to look sincere, and blew out a puff of smoke at the half-open window.
– Do you see how much prettier you are when you don't roar? – He was lying to her, the girl looked tragic with that smeared make-up.
She tried to smile, but it didn't work very well. It rather gritted its teeth, but at least it stopped roaring.
Varela found the sight of her crooked fence more acceptable than the sounds she had been making so far, and she snapped back in turn.
– Let's make a coffee each, I came to visit after all…
Having almost stopped sniffling, she timidly asked:
– Can I have a cigarette?
Varela handed her the box and then cavalierly lit it for her. With a smoking cigarette in her mouth, she began rummaging through the cupboards and soon had the biggest and dirtiest coffee maker he had ever seen on the stove. And it was really big. Downright gigantic. He lit a cigarette for himself as well, pulled his leg from the back of the "sleeping" element, took the glass of water and poured it over his head. It worked perfectly, because the guy woke up and tried to move, but Varela pressed him again with his cub, this time stepping on the back of his head.
– Dude, take it easy and don't screw it up. You have two options right now… Don't move, I said! The lying one tried to get up again, but ate a strong kick to the back of the head with the heel of the Cuban woman. He groaned and froze.
– Don't move, you must be thinking about something, stay down now. Well, as I said, you have two options. One is to adjust you again and take you for a walk to the basement at Headquarters, and you won't like that at all, you can be sure. Your other option is me, you and your bambina… What's your name, beautiful extraterrestrial?
– Natalya, my name is Natalya… – the “beauty” gritted her crooked teeth again.
“How many whistles is this vampire doing,” crossed Varela's mind, but he quickly pushed the horrible thought away and continued:
– So let's have a meek coffee together now, look, it's almost ready, and let's have such a nice talk with you about some notebooks of our friend the Rat and why your address is written in one of them on the last page huh? – These words were accompanied by another slap in the back of the head.
– We will drink coffee, coffee, coffee, brother, stop kicking me – groaned the man on the ground.
– Ok dude, ok, that's how I want you. It's good that you are understanding and reasonable. Come on, get up, sit down and start singing. There, the coffee is ready. Pour, Nataliike, on me with one idea milk, without sugar… Come on, dude, and make sure you don't make a mistake and run into me, because you pity your mother…
The dude got up with a groan and sat down in an ugly chair. He looked bad, but it was obvious that he didn't dare to pretend to be a man anymore. These things were felt. Natalya poured the coffees into three different glasses of questionable purity, poured a little milk into one and handed it to Varela. He nodded for her to place it on the table. She put four spoonfuls of sugar in the other glass, stirred it, and handed it to her friend. Then he leaned against the washing machine "Perla 05" - a classic device for the neighborhood, and it was a classic for the whole country rather - he reached in, opened a drawer and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He lit one and sipped his coffee. She had stopped crying, and apart from the smudged makeup and red eyes, she looked almost like a normal, slightly worn-out housewife – young but carelessly used. With slightly bigger teeth. Like Biser Kirov. Varela also lit a cigarette, narrowed his eyes at the beaten dude and said:
– I want you now, without much prompting, to start singing what, what, who and how much. But I really recommend that you don't make me ask you a lot of questions, because I'll get nervous and make your damn soft. Am I clear?
– Well, you're clear - snorted the fool, - but the Rat, when he finds out that I played his tricks, I'll be sad…
– Forget about the Rat, kitty, there's no more Rat… There's us, there's me… Start singing… What's your name tell me first?
– My name is Racho, I'm from Simitli.
Varela laughed and started chanting:No.
Racho didn't realize that he was affected, apparently he was used to having this masterpiece of Zapalyankov's work sung to him. He swallowed his coffee and mumbled:
– But are you sure the Rat is out, bro… Because if you're not…
He couldn't continue because Varela reached out in a flash and broke his nose with a left straight. Racho groaned and clutched his face, blood running between his fingers, which began to drip in large drops onto the table and onto the dirty floor.
– Duck, get your fool some cloth so he doesn't get blood on the floor. - He reached over and lightly slapped Racho on the head, ruffling his greasy hair. - Kalitka, when I talk, I don't talk, do you understand? When I say that harpoon is out, I mean it is out. And now I want you to tell me very quickly what these names and these numbers are in the Rat-like's notebooks? I advise you to start telling me in the next ten seconds, because then this towel Natalika is handing you will not fix you, you dumb bastard…
Racho wiped himself from the blood that didn't stop flowing, but he started to speak, apparently he had realized otherwise what would happen to him:
– Dad, I'm the Rat's cashier, we're cousins, he trusts me, we're related, and I've been paying the bills since I was a child, I collect the money from whores, machines and loans… They t' in the notebook are the names with the numbers. I put in a bit of code… - spat blood on the floor.
– What whores, what machines, dude? – Varela started.
– Give me the notebook and I'll explain something to you, it's easy. Just don't shake me anymore.
Varela motioned for him to shut up, reached into his pocket and dialed Ivo, who seemed to him to be a direct superior in the hierarchy of the "Unit". Ivo replied almost immediately:
– Say, Varel. What's up? Are you going there?
– Well, Ivo, go, but the work seems to be thicker than we thought, why don't you take one of the brothers and the notebooks themselves and come here, I guess we'll have to go around.
– How much thicker work, Varel?
– Well, a lot.
Ivo didn't answer for almost half a minute, he was clearly thinking:
– Coming soon, which block was it in exactly?
Varela saw through the window the gray astra stop in front of the block and grinned when he heard the flowery curses of Sylvester who was trying to get out of the car, but the man who had designed the Opel had definitely not thought that in his creation will one day be ridden by such mutants. Leaning slightly, Ivo patiently waited for Sylvester to finish his gymnastics and then the two entered the entrance together. Varela nodded to Natalia:
– Go open for the boys, duck. Quick, quick…
Zablata shot into the corridor to open, and Varela scored a prophylactic backdoor on Racho, whose nose had just stopped bleeding.
– Now, dude, you're going to grab these notebooks and read them to us in their entirety, that we can't figure out something - what, why, how much and when…
Racho, pressing the bloody towel to his face, only grunted, but that didn't stop Varela from driving another one behind his neck. At that moment Ivo entered, followed by Sylvester, who casually held Natalia by the hair with one hand and pushed her in front of him with the other. The woman was pale and her eyes were rolling in panic. The giant, as if sensing that she was about to pass out, whispered in her ear:
– Calm down boy, we ain't 'apem. Take her to that big refrigerator and give me something to fold, that I have scraped… - and he supposedly slightly accelerated her in the direction of the refrigerator.
However, Natalya almost missed the goal, barely keeping her balance at the last moment. The cousin, as always, did not know his strength.
Ivo sat down at the table next to Racho and looked questioningly at Varela. In the days that had passed since the scene with the Rat and the seizure of his territory, the guys from the "Link" worked more and more like a well-oiled machine and began to understand each other just by sight. Peter's scheme worked flawlessly, and the action only accelerated the processes of soldering the collective. As one song goes, "A true man in war is born." Ivo and the other captains followed Peter's democratic principle of not posing as bosses, but emphasizing efficiency, and so Varela directly pushed in essence:
– Turns out Racho is sort of the treasurer of Rat's organization. He keeps the accounts, he writes in these notebooks. Only he hadn't realized until now that there was already a new leadership…
Racho tried to say something, but he still earned a serious backlash that almost rammed his head into the table.
– So the dude said that everything was clear to him, the whole scheme by the way, and he mentioned whores, machines, some loans, some interest…
Ivo looked questioningly into Varela's eyes, reached over and lit a cigarette. His look was telling enough, “Wasn't that Rat all about drugs?” Varela grinned and shrugged.
– Come on Racho, start now from the first page of notebook one to explain to us what is going on. Here, Natalya will take a piece of paper and a pen and write down your notes in the notebook - who, what, what and where, beautifully and legibly. Can you write legibly, Natalio? You better be able to…
Natalia nodded understandingly, reached into a drawer, took out a pencil and a notebook, and fearfully bypassing Sylvester, who, ignoring them, was intently spooning some manja from a pot (the food was his church), sat down at the table next to Ivo and got ready to write.
Varela blasted another slur at Racho and told him almost tenderly:
– Start singing, Simitli.
And Simitli began to sing:
– Well, here on the front pages are the names of the free buzzing whores in the Quarter and the surrounding area, they screw us weekly. Wait, let me get my notebook, the addresses are also written there…
Racho spoke for about an hour, while Natalya recorded. It turned out that the Gram Rat was not as sloppy as it seemed, and Ivo and Varela got hold of the names, addresses and numbers of all his "business partners"…
Ivo got up and nodded to Varela to go to the other room, which represented the classic cross between a living room and a bedroom for the undersized panels. It was dingy and run down, reeking of cigarettes, sweat and spoiled food. Ivo sat down on a long couch the color of baby vomit and lit a cigarette.
– Yasene, this turned out to be thicker than we thought. Fuck the Rat, fuck the hidden lemon…
Varela, who was rarely called Yasen, also lit a cigarette and sat on the dusty edge of the library, on whose shelves instead of books were arranged jars of pickles and sauerkraut.
– Well, Ivak, it's not bad, I think. We must ask Peter what he will say and act.
– There is nothing to ask Peter, it is clear what he will say. You know what he's like - if he says to get better, then let's get better on our own. Alone. In terms of thinking and organization, very clearly, if it gets hot somewhere and someone needs help, he will be the first to run, you know that.- He looked around for an ashtray, did not find one and trotted into the glass that was left on the floor next to the bed and which, judging by the smell, must have been full of brandy. - I will tell you how we will act. Now you catch Sly, in a little while I will send the other two brothers with Mitaka to help you; so you take this item, Racho, and start going around all the objects and people from this list one by one, and let that tonsil give you all their spin. The scheme should be as follows: inform - respect - take over and then - inspect. Are you chatting?