This is my open letter to you, @TheOnlyNom — to the last person deserving of trust in the BonkFun ecosystem. You and I, Nom, both grew up in cold latitudes. Snow greeted us every morning when we walked out the door to school. I don’t know how your childhood went, but most likely you stepped out of your house or the building where your apartment was — stood for a second after walking through the door, looked up at the sky, and thought: oh god, another day of school. Stuck out your tongue trying to catch a snowflake. And somewhere nearby, a school was waiting for you — full of sorrows and joys, friends or acquaintances, and maybe people who flat out didn’t understand you. And you got there either on foot or someone from your family drove you. Snowdrifts, snow and cold — your main memory of winter childhood days, right? I also walked out of my apartment building, but in a completely different part of the cold world — in the territory of the former Soviet Union. My grandmother would see me off with the words: today you almost got lucky. Why did she say that on the coldest days? Because if the temperature dropped below -27, I didn’t go to school. Every morning my grandmother listened to the radio, and when the frost signal sounded, you could stay home. She would come and turn off my alarm. But if it was a warm day, then at -25 I would dress like a cabbage and head to school, hearing from my grandmother — that I almost got lucky today. I would push through enormous piles of snow and approach my old school, built in 1960. Three stories, with several windows smashed by hooligans. 7 steps to climb before you could walk inside. I would go in, hang up my coat in the cloakroom, and climb floor by floor up to the third. And somewhere near the third floor, on that day which I remember very well, I took a massive fist to the face. From a guy who was a year or two older than me. His name was Dima. He was a Candidate Master of Sport in boxing and had been held back a year. I was 11 at the time. Then he kicked me and I simply flew down half a flight of stairs. It was the most humiliating and painful moment of my life up to that point. And there were two choices. Stay quiet, wipe yourself off. Because there was zero chance of winning. He was twice my size and far more physically prepared — he was an athlete. And the second choice — fight back. And die heroically. If you think kids at that age didn’t fight for real where I’m from, a fight I was in where people literally smashed heads against trees reminds me otherwise. So I stood up and said: Dima, I challenge you to a fight. Where I grew up, this was called a strelka. And when you call a strelka, it’s a matter of reputation for your entire school life — you simply cannot not show up. Otherwise what awaits you is reputational death and eternal contempt. Dima was a little surprised, of course, but gladly said he would come. There were many witnesses, and most of them looked at me like a dead man walking. 4:30 PM arrived. Behind the school, Dima and I stood across from each other in fighting stances. About 50 kids from our classes and others came to watch. Everyone was waiting to see what would be done to me. The only question was whether I’d leave in an ambulance or if my friends could carry me home. I remember only the punches to my head. My head. The world suddenly loses focus, then snaps back into place — and there’s Dima again, smirking in front of me, winding up his fist for the next blow. I don’t know how many there were. 5, 10, 15…
