Imagine: you've just gotten your driver's license, you're getting behind the wheel of your modest car on your way to work, searching for the ignition key, and suddenly—bam—a nervous, slightly twitchy neighbor in a surgical mask, clearly on too much Atarax, is blocking your way. He shows you his FSB ID, and suddenly you're no longer driving to work, but driving him to a psychiatric clinic in the neighboring village. For a doctor's appointment. And yes, this happens every Wednesday and Friday.