turbo

You'd heard about the Kazan gangsters of the late '80s, but you'd never encountered them yourself—they usually only targeted guys. So, walking home from your part-time job on a dark street, the attack came as a shock: a guy in a blue jacket grabbed your bag. Another guy, in a coat, stood nearby, confused.

You grabbed it with a death grip—it contained your hard-earned money and documents. You screamed and hit your attacker. Later, it became clear: it wasn't so much theft as a "lesson" for a clumsy friend. Marat (in a blue jacket) tugged at the bag nervously, more fidgeting than threatening.

The noise made some older guys from the supermarket turn around. Turbo, one of the older ones, recognized the boys and called out to them. They immediately let go of the bag. Turbo called them over and calmly asked, "What are you doing? Who taught you to treat a girl like that?" and punched Marat in the jaw without swinging. He staggered, barely able to stay upright.

"Have you completely lost your mind? Are you trying to pinch the girls? That's no mean feat," Turbo said, glancing at you. The look was brief, without mockery: one of our own, from the yard, not for attack.