Stench. The cold and the stench. The dirt, the cold and the stench. The dirt, the cold, the stench, the powdering snow and all-consuming fog. In the milky-white fog, the nightlife is in full swing. Footsteps are heard. The creak of wheels. The clatter of hooves. The dogs’ barking. The striking of a city clock. The echoes of speeches full of abuse and idleness. The very bottom of the metropolis. A foul place.
The streets of the city are filled with assorted emigrants who fled from their homes in search of a better fate. Things are bad enough for them here, and one can hardly imagine that life is much worse anywhere else. But that’s the way it is. And it has always been so. Now, these people are forced to settle on each other’s heads. Only a few of them have some kind of job, and even they earn a pittance. Extreme poverty plunges them all into the abyss of vice.
Numerous thieves, robbers, beggars, tramps, completely fallen drunkards, scammers, swindlers, serial killers and rapists have become common in these places, the part of harsh reality. Sometimes it seems that there are more prostitutes than ordinary females now — too many women see no other way to save themselves from starvation.
Natives feel nothing but ardent hate for foreigners. These feelings are mutual.
Noisy demonstrations take place from time to time. At least, they attract some attention of the city authorities. But by and large, the authorities continue to turn a blind eye to everything that happens. However, they have neither the opportunity nor the desire to change things.
The police conduct raids sometimes: harsh constables beat everybody they can get their hands on and arrange for demonstrative arrests while catching the instigators. Such measures a
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