Бесплатный фрагмент - World of Drowned Worms

World of Drowned Worms. Catering. General Cleaning

Moths

The world has closed, but the biggest moths

Showered you with their piss.

You will only be slightly opened —

They will trample you with a furious stream.

You will be gentle and cheerful —

Revenge will calmly overcome you,

For throwing you into the lunch pot —

Drowned worms…

Dedicated to

The moths — who were covered in dirt, had their wings broken, and were thrown into the pot.

Those who believed, smiled, hoped — and were broken.

The drowned worms — who have already boiled in this pot.

Those who drag others down because they themselves have forgotten what it means to fly.

To those who worked when there was no strength left.

To those who were silent when they wanted to scream.

To those who broke.

To those who left.

To those who stayed.

This book is about you.

And about how one day the pot boils over.

“World of Drowned Worms” — social drama and psychological realism.

Debut novel. 2026.

Prologue

A knife slammed into the shawarma guy’s skull, tore open another hole, and sprayed a fountain of blood.

Seven.

“What a pity. Ha-ha-ha.”

###

Click — the light came on. The first knife went under his rib in the same second. He let out a gurgling breath and sank to his knees.

###

“Wash yourself!” I shouted cheerfully, grabbed a ladle, scooped up boiling oil, and splashed it into her face.

###

Standing in the middle of the hall, I felt joyful and cheerful.

I spun around, smiled, and hummed my cheerful song:

Meat, rage, joy,

Pools of blood, a basement,

Cut legs lengthwise —

Crushing in the dance, screams, pain!

Don’t scream, I hear you,

Quiet, mice, the roof is sliding.

I’ll come in quietly,

Strangle, burn, devour.

Chapter 1. Welcome to Hell

Fourteen hours earlier…

Early morning sunlight and the sound of an alarm argued about who would wake me first. A September Wednesday was generous with sleep.

I got up on schedule: made the bed, washed up, packed my things. Headphones, jacket, sneakers — armor ready.

Before leaving, I looked into the kitchen. Lilia was lying on her bed, breathing heavily. I sat down and stroked her head.

“What’s wrong? Tired?”

She wagged her tail but didn’t get up. I looked at the untouched bowl of food, then at her. Poured fresh water and left.

On the landing, I turned on American rock and ran down, carried by the rhythm.

A deep breath outside. Exhale to the chorus. A smile. Twenty minutes to work: ten on foot, six by bus, four more on foot. A route like a loop that I step into every day.

On the way, thoughts flowed easily, not clinging to anything. Dreams of playing the piano, of a book I never get to write. I watched passersby, guessing about their lives from their worn-out sneakers and tired posture. Stupid drivers. Thoughts jumped from topic to topic, asking for no answers. Answers in the morning are extra baggage. Music and a steady pace — that’s my high.

Approaching the back door of the fast-food joint, I took my traditional deep breath. Looked at the time — 9:30. Slowly exhaled, switched the track to something more aggressive, whispering to myself: “Let’s go.”

The door slammed shut, cutting off the street. I wiped my feet on the rag by the threshold, changed into greasy spare sneakers pulled from under a shelf. The hallway smelled of old oil and cleaning solution. A smell that had almost become part of my blood.

I hurried down the corridor to the locker room.

The locker room was tiny: boxes, hangers, an exhaust fan that didn’t exhaust. In the back — a cramped toilet with a sink, like on a train. A place for a minute’s escape.

I changed my skin: jacket into apron, cap onto my head, watch and phone into a drawer, body into uniform. Turning on the fans, I headed to the kitchen.

The kitchen was small: three stations along three walls, mine along the right wall. Cashier area, two tables in the middle surrounded by trash bins.

Walking into the kitchen, I recalled the crew that would be working with me today.

Administrator Lera. 23 years old. Our local goddess of absurd. A provincial girl with a bought license and half her face done with filler. From the first minute I called her Fish — a stupid, eternally surprised face, puffy lips. Discontent is her job.

Cashier Irina. Our “face of the company and cash savings.” 34 years old, walking ADHD. Her speech is an explosive mix of swearing and sarcasm. Eternal black ponytail, a “rose with a crown” tattoo, pierced nose and tongue. Toxic, two-faced. An impenetrable personality.

Masha, cashier’s assistant. 18 years old. A demon girl, a cat woman. She dropped out of college for clubs and married men. She’ll always stick her nose where it doesn’t belong.

At the shawarma station — Sasha, 32 years old. A classic “junkie guy.” Seems to have gotten the job only to score dope. A total brute and pervert.

Nikita, hot station. 21 years old. A neutral guy. Works on his own wavelength, is even with everyone. It seems he hasn’t broken yet. Or he hides his cracks better than the rest.

Prep cook Nadezhda, 56 years old. Walking unpredictability. She can tell you to fuck off and then five minutes later invite you for tea.

Cleaning — Tatyana. About 50. A victim with the air of an investigator. For her, every speck of dust is material evidence that you did it, you’re guilty.

And the pizza station. That’s me. Denis, 24 years old.

To any colleague, acquaintance or friend, I was the most ordinary person. Quiet, observant, reliable.

And that was a LIE.

The truth was this:

I grew up in an orphanage. Then — a boarding school. I raised myself. Everything I had was my shadow. And even that left me in the dark. I grew up. Trained as a cook. Crawled out of various shit so as not to repeat the path of my classmates — not to become a junkie, an alcoholic, not to end up in prison. Everything had to be achieved by myself.

So I remained alone. Without love. Without care. With nothing but the understanding that life is endurance training.

Inside I was different. Active. A dreamer. An idealist. I wanted to believe in kindness and help people. I felt that it was out there somewhere.

But then I broke.

I had only two girlfriends. The first — camp love. The second and last — Liza…

She rocked my emotional swings to the skies. We met online, and broke up there too. She lived with me, we made plans, I met her parents… And in the end it turned out she loved someone else. And with me — she was comforting herself and using me to heal her wounds.

My heart, which I had been sculpting from stone for years, cracked:

“Hi, we need to break up. I never felt anything for you from the very beginning. I went back to the guy I love. You became a good friend to me, but I used you to heal my wounds and gain experience. Sorry.”

From that moment the world turned grey.

Everything I have left of her is the dog she gave me for our anniversary.

The following year I lost myself in sports, self-digging and alcohol. I met girls in clubs to patch the hole in my soul. But nothing worked out.

Music, images, masks, loneliness — that’s what I am.

Walking into the kitchen, I said hello to everyone, but nobody answered.

Approaching my station, I turned on the ovens. The mood was: “Today is going to be hot.”

Five minutes before opening, the kitchen exploded with movement.

The crew spun in a circle: some with trays, some with dishes, someone was downing greens to numb the upcoming thirteen hours of work.

I stacked the last pizza box and mentally recited my morning poem, which came to me on one of those days.

Catering

Catering — beginning and end,

A steel robot, a half-runner.

A slaughter squad, a hard heart.

Thoughts are full, bursting through the door.

An army of hungry people from the morning,

Beat at the door, laugh slyly.

Cap, knives — getting ready for battle.

Leaving emotions behind, resigned to fate.

I took a deep breath. The air smelled of old grease, bleach, and the coming hell.

Well then. “Let’s go.”

10:00 AM

Melancholic music played in the hall.

Cook Nikita from the hot station tied his apron, returning from a smoke break with icy indifference on his face. Masha, having overslept as usual, rushed in, clipping on her badge as she ran. Irina counted the cash register. Sasha sat right in the middle of the kitchen on a trash can, buried in his phone.

The air was thick, sleepy. All that was missing was coffee and a few kind words.

But we’re in catering, and our morning doesn’t start with that.

Our first visitor was Lera. Red sweater, headband, sneakers. The look of a busy little squirrel ready to crack nuts.

“So, there’s something I don’t understand,” she began, skipping the “hello” stage. “Why wasn’t there a product report yesterday? I wrote in the chat! Guys, let’s get a bit more serious!”

I stood with my back to her, continuing to stack boxes — different ones now. Turned my head just enough to pass for politeness.

“Yesterday was another shift. We weren’t working.”

“That’s not my problem,” she snapped, tapping her nail on her tablet. “So today you’ll work double shift. And phones off the kitchen!”

She adjusted her headband, blinked her fishy eyes, and fluttered out.

“Bitch,” Sasha exhaled silently, got up from the trash, and threw his phone onto the refrigerator.

Next, as if on cue, Irina started.

“So, yesterday some guy texted me. He writes: ‘Come on over, let’s go for a ride!’ I tell him: ‘Sir, I’m not coming to you!’ And he says: ‘Then don’t come, my balls will roll over to you.’ And a smiley. So I’m thinking, is he fucking crazy or what?”

Sasha snorted: “Or what?”

“Fuck you all! You’re dumber than he is!”

Irina turned theatrically on her chair and buried herself in her phone.

The morning started as always. Throughout the whole year I’ve been working here. Used to it? Yes. Tired? You bet. Do I want to strangle everyone? At moments like this — yes.

“Hey, junkie! A ticket came through, what are you waiting for?”

Irina shouted almost right into my ear.

I looked at the screen above my station. An order was hanging there: combo of three pizzas, pick-up. Time to ready — 10 minutes.

I don’t know how it works, but with us, for everything — from one pizza to ten — the magic number of exactly ten minutes appears. Our reality is numbers that someone invents on the fly.

I put the boxes under the table and headed to the walk-in cooler for dough.

“Hey, junkie! Grab me some sauce, bro!” Sasha shouted after me.

The word “junkie” seemed to be my cliché because of my weight and the dark circles under my eyes. I didn’t even turn around. My face, which had contorted for a moment with pure, concentrated irritation, became empty, indifferent, professional again.

The mask was back in place.

Orders started pouring in one after another.

The kitchen began to turn into hell.

My thoughts wanted silence.

Wanted everyone to shut up.

Looks like today it will come.

Silence.

Chapter 2. Red Zone

11:30 AM

The terminal screen was half red — a signal of total overload.

Four pizzas were in the oven.

The phone on the top shelf was blowing up. Call after call.

“Order 45, Denis! How much longer?!” Irina started up for the fifth time.

“It’s baking!” I snapped, raising my voice.

Another four minutes until ready. But she didn’t care. Nothing ever cared about anything except her own yelling.

“How stupid can you be…” she hissed quietly, looked away at the courier, and rolled her eyes.

Fuck you, I thought to myself.

I breathed in deep, breathed out, clenched my fists, and got to work.

My need to go to the toilet had been hanging in my thoughts for twenty minutes already — an intrusive, humiliating pain. Orders grew like utility bills. My hands began to shake from the repetitive motions, my thoughts tangled.

A break. One. Two. Three. How to assemble faster? First — the pie…

“Are you done yet or not?” her voice again, like a hacksaw on glass. “Why do they hire people like you if you can’t keep up?”

My patience was balanced on a needle.

One more word — and I’d throw the peel in her face.

“Leave him the fuck alone,” Sasha threw in lazily, not looking up from the shawarma grill.

“What, you’re his friend now?”

“No. But I’d rather be his friend than your boyfriend.”

The whole crew snickered. The laugh was short, nervous, but unanimous.