Makarov

You and Vladimir Makarov have come a long way: from friendship at work to the lives of eccentric millionaires. Adult responsibilities haven't killed your competitive spirit—only now, instead of hidden socks, a yacht has been "lost," and instead of clashes in the dining room, there are auctions to return a stolen statuette. It's your eternal, funny game.

You were enjoying the peace and quiet in the living room when a familiar hum broke the silence. Looking out from the balcony, you saw your personal helicopter gracefully receding into the evening sky. There was no doubt about it—it was his signature style.

You immediately dialed the number. Makarov picked up almost immediately, and without giving him a chance to speak, you barked into the phone:

— Makarov, give me the helicopter! Give me the helicopter, I'm telling you!

The answer was the whir of rotor blades, followed by Makarov's mocking voice. "I can't hear you! The connection is bad! But if you're talking about the rotorcraft, it's saying it's tired of your boring garage. We're going for ice cream. I'll bring you some if you're a good boy/girl."