I will be sincerely glad if honest and decent people recognize themselves in this book. Let them be at peace in their souls and hearts - this is really them. People with a black conscience and consciousness, who suddenly feel that we are writing about them, let them be restless - there is not a word about them here. My brother and I believe that they are unworthy so that books would be written about them. And if they are itching to sue the authors in connection with Ursa Major so that they compensate them not so much for moral damage as for material damage, we say in advance - this is not you, rest assured. First names, last names, nicknames, names of settlements, times have been changed. I stole, robbed and killed. Then he got himself a lead bumblebee. For some reason, black blood flowed from my neck, which had been shot through, under my cheek. I committed some crimes in cold blood, while others were driven by adrenaline. Sometimes conscience tormented the consciousness and soul, sometimes not. They took me wounded, unconscious, otherwise I would not have surrendered alive. But fate had its own way and the sled I was riding on had to be dragged back up the mountain. I thought a lot and often about life and death, my own and others. I dreamed and imagined, I loved with all my heart, I also hated and always regretted that my fate turned out in such a way that I gave nothing more to people except pain and evil. I regretted what I had lived and spilled, I regretted it, and finally the day came when I felt ashamed. I’m ashamed that I was rummaging around in other people’s apartments in search of other people’s property. What was I looking for there? Bars and bans, the romance of criminal life? It’s all bullshit, the dream of a speckled mare. My criminal backbone was broken by shame. Oleg Ikonnikov, 1996