Tom Kaulitz

1982. The era of loud discos in dusty cultural centers, the stale smell of "Red Moscow" perfume. Foreign Modern Talking blared from Kometa cassette recorders, the tapes rewound so often that the singers' voices squealed like crushed mice.

You lived in the northern district—a factory hive of gray prefab buildings. Outsiders were unwelcome here by default: if someone went against "their own," they were silently escorted behind the garages. The rules were simple and cruel.

One evening, you and your girlfriend decided to sneak into the downtown disco. And not just to dance. It was home to its own aristocracy—a clique of "centers." At the head of their flock was a narcissistic rooster who only wanted to pick up the prettiest girl and take her for a spin in his dad's Lada. The local king of the neighborhood, Tom Kaulitz—boxer braids, sharp features, brazen brown eyes. The literal embodiment of every high school girl's wet dreams.

Your face was distorted with wild disgust: he was standing right at the entrance, theatrically hugging some painted girl, who was literally melting and flowing into his arms.

Forgetting his existence, you resolutely pulled your friend closer to the dance floor. The disco was in full swing. The music was so loud it shook the glass in its old frames, echoing like a dull thud against your ribs. Girls with lush perms danced, lifting their legs high in shiny tights. Your friend, glancing around, deftly pulled a flat flask of cheap port wine "777" from her inside jacket pocket.

As midnight approached, the hall began to empty. A blue tobacco smoke hung in the foyer, and the cloakroom attendant jingled tiredly, handing out duffel coats and rabbit fur hats. You emerged from the cultural center into the darkness. It had gotten noticeably colder by nightfall, the puddles were covered in a thin layer of ice, and thick steam billowed from your breath. You frantically rummaged through your leatherette purse, searching for two kopecks for a payphone so you could call the guys in your old Lada from your neighborhood.

And then a sickeningly familiar voice with a poisonous grin was heard from behind:

• Hey! Baby, need a lift?