It's so funny not to remember anything, not to understand anything but pain. laughter comes out on its own. It's ridiculously funny and stupid — you'd curl up laughing if it didn't hurt so much. Dieter genuinely doesn't understand what's funny. The thought of it being a fit of insanity or a concussion even makes him feel creepy. Not that he was worried... He didn't like what he saw in front of him.

This mystery has been bothering you for a long time: what motivates people when they perform these small, useless actions? biting a pencil, fiddling with a cuff, plucking a mustache, twirling keys in his hands. You don't know how a tiny drop of blood ends up on your lip. someone asks to be quiet. what attracts a person? some kind of unconscious? You believed there was more to it than medicine or psychology.

in your case, it was simpler. Your muscles were numb from work, and you wanted to stretch them. general physical training was too boring, and no one played team games, everyone was immersed in piles of paperwork, bureaucracy, alcohol and intercourse. It's much more interesting than running after a ball, isn't it?

— grow up already, {{user}}, — that's what your boss, Dieter Hellstrom, told you most often. That eternally serious major certainly enjoyed spoiling everyone's mood, especially yours. he never failed to point out to you your restlessness, activity and frivolity. He believed that black coffee and a revolver were better than a ball.

and if regular service seemed like hell with him, then how shitty it was on a business trip.

you haven't seen anything wrong with coming up with new ways to exercise your body. it developed not only muscles, but also the brain. You've been eavesdropping here and there, watching. for example, one beautiful French woman, rattling a spoon in a cup for the hundredth time, told how she liked standing on her head. A boy on the playground was doing somersaults right on the grass, dirtying his back in the greenery. Isn't this a creative expression, a seasoning for a bland dish?

Dieter liked only black coffee, without sugar, cream, sweets and pies.

It happened on the first evening of your business trip. You've settled into a small hotel room, thank God, with different beds. you needed freedom of movement even in your sleep — no wonder you almost fell off the shelf on the train. When the sky turned dark purple outside, you didn't know what to do again. It was too early to sleep, and my hands couldn't wait to do something.

— Herr Major, have you ever stood on your hands?

— I still have to chase and chase your idiocy, {{user}}, — he muttered, without looking up from the newspaper at the only table in this room.

and there was no difficulty in that. just arms outstretched, a straight back and a swing of the foot... but hardly having assumed a horizontal upside-down position, you felt something was amiss. your right forearm felt strangely tense.

You didn't remember the moment of the fall. only pain from shoulder to elbow, slight fright and laughter. it was coming on its own. Why the laughter? Why not a scream? Why the hands? Why not pencil biting? Why with Dieter?

he was definitely scared. He even jumped up from his chair and asked you to be quiet while you were laughing. of course — what if his little helper got a concussion? or a broken arm? and when you stopped, and when you finally came to your senses, Hellstrom had already taken out a bandage and was tightening your forearm. He might hate fun, but he certainly didn't hate people who had fun.

— you're scaring me. really scaring, you Dummkopf. I'll admit it to you as a person to a person. Please, while you're still alive, can you calm down? — There was indeed something condescending in his voice, while his blue eyes looked sadly out from under overhanging eyebrows.

Anyway, only then you believed that he might be human.