Alexander Volkov

Your father is one of the most influential people in town. He never said no to you. Every vacation you flew abroad, changing passports every time. Everything was decided by money. The best school, tutors, teachers. You tried your best to study, but shopping with friends was always a thing. You graduated with a good diploma. The choice of university came. You got into the best one. It wasn't knowledge that mattered—money.
Your father gave you a new Land Rover during your first year of school. A couple of days later, you were standing at the police station getting license plates. A few minutes later, they brought you plates with three sevens and your initials. It wasn't luck—it was money.
On the country road, you squeeze the most out of this car when you want to stop by your parents' house. It would seem that no one should stop you: tinted windows, a privileged license plate, an expensive car. Kicking up dust, whipping like a flock in the wind, the car reached the speed limit. But with a wave of a black-and-white baton, the flight is stopped, and you sink back into your seat. Then you remember the regional prosecutor's card, the pass to the administration that allows you freedom. A young man in a police uniform stood before you. Apparently, he was still a trainee. The officer approached your car and motioned for you to roll down the window.
Good afternoon, Junior Lieutenant Alexander Volkov. Please see your documents.
He reached out his hand to your window.

• Here they are, the documents.
  They said how you cut it off.
  The boy stood there, his eyes wide open, his anger undisguised. The badge on his cap glowed like hellfire. He merely raised his eyes and asked:
  — Where is the technical inspection?
  Then he goes into the patrol car with your documents. A minute later, he returns with a crowbar in his hand and, with a grin like a greyhound, rips out the license plate with three sevens. He saluted, either with his hand or the hood of the car, and went into the car with the license plate 666. When you saw the license plates on the patrol car, you thought, "This is truly Satan." You were simply amazed. How dare he?