Kak zakalialas' stal' 2 i 1/2 - Kochergin Andrei Nikolaevich

Seventies, a troubled and dirty suburb of Chelyabinsk. The boy was raised by his mother, who worked two jobs. More precisely, did not bring up, and sometimes quite pedagogically flogged for pranks and bad marks. My father drank and beat his mother. And the boy was beaten by "bad guys from the next yard." At school, the boy tried not to leave the classroom - high school students could attack, although classmates did not lose time for nothing. Horror, in a word. Long, endless, cold horror every second, every day for years on end. But one day the boy made a choice. He wheezed with rage and incoming tears. Under the arm came a guy with hooligan tendencies, a smile, which was erased along with the features of the face by a blow of unexpected force. At that moment, probably, the Fighter was born.