Two Limonovs

Several hundred media outlets have already written extensively about yesterday’s action on Triumfalnaya. therefore, I will not report what happened and how, I will limit myself to reporting that the activists of the “Other Russia” Konstantin Makarov and Vladimir Koverdyaev are still, according to our information, in the Meshchansky police station. They were booked under Article 19.3 of the Code of Administrative Offenses and kept overnight until the trial. They face up to 15 days of arrest under this article. I have a trial on September 12th.

And I’ll tell you this story, which, out of shyness, the police won’t tell.
The fact is that they captured two Eduard Limonovs and brought both of them to the Tverskoye police station. Where was Konstantin Kosyakin already located? He can confirm. In addition, there is a RIA Novosti report about a man who became ill on a police bus, and several photographs on the Internet of this man, who is similar in general appearance to me, how the cops are screwing him. Find it yourself.

So this is how it was. We disembarked on Tverskaya from two cars and went to Triumfalnaya. We've arrived. The press hinders progress. The police appear. It seems to be the composition of the 2nd operational regiment, but they are somewhat inept and half-wooden. Reserve squad, perhaps, or youth team? There are no familiar faces among them. At the head of the flock, a major unfamiliar to me makes his way to me and, barking something about an unauthorized rally, does not even finish his address, and dives back into the crowd of his cops. And they attacked me. I’m as usual, glasses in my pocket, barely have time, cap in my fist. They grabbed me and dragged me unceremoniously. They threw me on the bus. Sitting. I'm alone on the bus
.
After a while, with crunching and screaming, a man with a gray beard and glasses is dragged into my bus. The man rubs his bruises, protests, complains, mutters that he has a broken rib, shouts that he feels bad, has diabetes and that his head is being squeezed.
I try to talk to him, I ask, “Who are you?”
“Nobody,” the man answers, apparently he has no time for me. He's breathing heavily.

We spend the next forty minutes waiting on the bus for an ambulance. The bus is parked right opposite the Mayakovsky monument. Protesters are running outside, police officers lined up in chains are advancing on the protesters, and journalists are striking awkward poses.
An ambulance arrives, brigade 26, three men in blue overalls, one huge one, greets me warmly. With difficulty, the bearded man frees himself from his sweater and shirt, they give him an insulin injection and palpate his rib. They measure the pressure.
They are leaving.

And they transfer me to “my” lemon car, an iron, an armored gas van, they always carry me in it. I make myself comfortable in this coffin. But then they give me a fellow traveler. This same guy.
Then he tells me. I didn’t want to ask you in front of the police, but are you Eduard Limonov?
-Yes, I agree.
“Let me shake your hand,” he says. We shake hands.
-What are you for?, I ask.
“I don’t know,” he says. This is my first time here, my friends advised me to go, they said you’ll like it. The cops pounced, for no reason at all, I generally stood aside.

They bring you to the police station. I say hello to a policeman with a machine gun standing at the door, we’ve known each other for a long time. I walk in and say hello to a dozen more policemen. -To the top?
Up, up, they say, you know the way. I'm coming, the guy with the beard is following me. And behind him are the operational, youth staff or reserves.
Upstairs in the hall sits a lonely Kosyakin. The fact is that only applicants are usually brought to the Tverskoye police station. Kosyakin, me, just a few people...Why is this so? Don't know. The police chose this way, they know better, this is their territory.

Kosyakin's registration has already been completed. After some time, he went downstairs with the district police officer who wrote his report. And the man with the beard and I sat and waited for another half an hour. Occasionally exchanging insignificant phrases.
Then two district police officers came and the man and I sat opposite the two district police officers.
They didn’t even draw up a report on him, they just questioned him. A local policeman I know asked him a couple of questions, among other things: Are you a member of any organization?
“Well, no,” the bearded man frowned.
I heard that he was 55 years old, I thought he looked ten years older. I didn’t hear his last name well, I think Klimov...
“Let’s go,” the district police officer sighed and, taking the protocol he had started, stood up.
-Where are you taking me? asked the bearded man.
-You'll go home.

As he left, the bearded man shook my hand. “Next time I’ll definitely come,” he said, and I’ll bring friends.
He said it loudly so the police could hear.

Then it finally dawned on me.
-He was mistaken for Eduard Limonov, right? I asked the senior lieutenant, bending over my protocol.
“We’re not detaining you,” he muttered embarrassedly. “They’re bringing us...

Well, of course. They took me in one corner of the square, and they took him in the other. The reserve or youth staff of the operational regiment have photos of me on a photocopier, I once saw them, but they may be seeing them in person for the first time. Those veterans who usually hire me know me by sight. And so it turned out today that they took and brought two Limonovs in a lemon car. Leaving the cops from the police department to sort it out. But they studied every hair on me.

I foresee the question: Don’t they know how to read, haven’t they looked at your documents?
Answer: In my case, the police of the operational regiment never demanded my documents on Triumfalnaya Square and never searched me. Apparently they were given such an order.

It was a parable, a true story, a grimace of our police time, but there was a lesson in it. That’s why this story fits into the sermon genre. Sermon from September 1.

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