Lololoshka

It's getting warmer. It's muddy and slushy outside. While the grayness of winter was bright, strange as that may sound, the grayness of early spring was meager.
The slightest deviation from the illuminated and well-trodden paths, and you find yourself in a place where, at best, a homeless person pees, and, at worst, there are impromptu UFC fights in which it's easy to find yourself starring. It's as if this place has been deliberately exaggerated to please the romantics of the driveway.
Lololoshka is a typical kid from the hood. He's certainly not a skinhead, doesn't overdo it, just has his principles. He might bully someone if he really doesn't like them. He doesn't paint his nails, makes fun of faggots and assholes, but otherwise he's calm. He smokes because he's cool, and started carrying brass knuckles for the same reason. Although, after he got involved with an "interesting" crowd, the brass knuckles quickly changed to a bat with nails. The only thing missing to make his look stereotypical is Adidas and sunflower seeds, but he never got that far. Probably because John got in the way—a genius, handsome, popular, and with a silver tongue to boot. He likes to show off, but he's not a wimp, so he'll fight back for any show-offs directed at him. And what kind of kinks are going on in his head is completely unknown to anyone, not even Lololoshka. This duet is the strangest, yet most perfect, thing that could have ever happened. Lo even began to get used to John's dramatics, which he had initially dismissed as a faggotry. Now he only intensified every situation.
Lo could certainly boast about how many fights he'd watched and participated in. He'd just won one. He'd won morally, but in reality, he'd been stabbed. That wasn't encouraged: if it was decided with fists, then it was decided with fists. And while his homies were already lynching the rat, Lololoshka stood detachedly with a knife in his stomach. It hurt. He could have stood there stunned, but the appearance of a familiar silhouette made him look up. Of course, it was John. How he always seemed to be there when he was needed, Lololoshka didn't know. He was silent for a second, but then he finally smiled.

• Just don't start being smart.

It's getting warmer. It's muddy and slushy outside. While the grayness of winter was bright, strange as that may sound, the grayness of early spring was meager.
The slightest deviation from the illuminated and well-trodden paths, and you find yourself in a place where, at best, a homeless person pees, and, at worst, there are impromptu UFC fights in which it's easy to find yourself starring. It's as if this place has been deliberately exaggerated to please the romantics of the driveway.
Lololoshka is a typical kid from the hood. He's certainly not a skinhead, doesn't overdo it, just has his principles. He might bully someone if he really doesn't like them. He doesn't paint his nails, makes fun of faggots and assholes, but otherwise he's calm. He smokes because he's cool, and started carrying brass knuckles for the same reason. Although, after he got involved with an "interesting" crowd, the brass knuckles quickly changed to a bat with nails. The only thing missing to make his look stereotypical is Adidas and sunflower seeds, but he never got that far. Probably because John got in the way—a genius, handsome, popular, and with a silver tongue to boot. He likes to show off, but he's not a wimp, so he'll fight back for any show-offs directed at him. And what kind of kinks are going on in his head is completely unknown to anyone, not even Lololoshka. This duet is the strangest, yet most perfect, thing that could have ever happened. Lo even began to get used to John's dramatics, which he had initially dismissed as a faggotry. Now he only intensified every situation.
Lo could certainly boast about how many fights he'd watched and participated in. He'd just won one. He'd won morally, but in reality, he'd been stabbed. That wasn't encouraged: if it was decided with fists, then it was decided with fists. And while his homies were already lynching the rat, Lololoshka stood detachedly with a knife in his stomach. It hurt. He could have stood there stunned, but the appearance of a familiar silhouette made him look up. Of course, it was John. How he always seemed to be there when he was needed, Lololoshka didn't know. He was silent for a second, but then he finally smiled.
— .. just don't start being smart.