Association game.

Here's a story from the life of an old rastaman. So, this old rastaman wakes up in his pad and has two thoughts. First thought: oh, sweet. Well, that's just an abstract thought; he always thinks that way as soon as he wakes up, regardless of the season: oh, sweet. Because it really is sweet. Body light as a feather, head like a sieve, stomach empty. But then comes the second thought, and he thinks: wouldn't be bad to get up and munch on some of yesterday's sweets. Because there were plenty of sweets left—like a can of stewed meat, a loaf of bread, half a cauldron of potatoes; basically, he had a hell of a lot of sweets left. So he gets up and goes to munch on them.

But turns out, there are no sweets. Just an empty cauldron standing there, that's it. Not even any bread left. Absolutely nothing, basically. And so the rastaman thinks loudly: who the hell ate all my sweets? And from under the wardrobe, a creepy otherworldly voice replies: I ATE YOUR SWEETS!!! The rastaman is actually surprised: what do you mean "I ate your sweets"? That's just not possible, generally, for me to have eaten your sweets. And anyway, you know, don't try and play me, because there's no question about your sweets. Where the hell did your sweets come from in my pad? You're tripping, man, oh, you're really tripping... But the voice tells him: Idiot! I'll say it one more time: I ate YOUR sweets! And the rastaman says to him: who the hell are you anyway, calling me an idiot in my own flat. Come on, if you're so tough, crawl out from under the wardrobe and I'll show you who's boss in this house. And the voice answers him: YES, I AM TOUGH! HOLD ONTO YOUR CHAIR, YOU GOAT, BECAUSE I'M COMING OUT NOW!

So, the rastaman grabs onto the chair. He stands there watching, but nobody crawls out from under the wardrobe. Well, he just spaced out for about half an hour and went to get some bread. He came back and sat down to eat. Suddenly he hears from under the wardrobe: Dude, stop tripping! Give me a bit of bread!

The rastaman looks over there, and out comes a green mouse with red eyes, walking with a characteristic stride. And it says: Come on, give me some bread! And the rastaman tells it: no way! You shouldn't have called me an idiot. Now get your ass back under the wardrobe and don't bother me while I'm eating. So the mouse crawls back under the wardrobe and grumbles from there (I'll skip the swearing): A piece of bread for a poor little mouse, and he still holds out! Just you wait: I'll come out at night and eat everything again.

And it bailed. And the rastaman got totally paranoid. Because at night he's either asleep or just zoning out. He doesn't have control over the situation, basically. And the mouse—first of all, it doesn't sleep at night, it sees everything in the dark; now he has to stress about hiding his grub so the mouse doesn't munch on it. It's such a drag, basically like being at war; you can't even smoke properly anymore, you have to be thinking about that mouse all the time so it doesn't eat anything. He rolled a joint, smoked it—and he didn't feel a thing! That's the kind of mouse—it came along and killed the vibe forever.

Then the rastaman thinks: I probably need to find a rastaman cat now and sign her up to deal with the mice. Finding a rastaman cat isn't a problem. Because she drank some rastaman milk back in the evening and has been lying in the middle of the pad ever since, like a sack of rags. So the rastaman starts shaking her—by the ears, by the whiskers, by the tail, and so on. Eventually, she opens her left eye and says: oh, sweet! It would be cool to munch on some sweets right now. Then the rastaman patiently and clearly fills her in on the situation with the sweets and the foul mouse that needs to be eaten immediately. The cat listens attentively, then says: well, dude, from what I gather, there's no breakfast today, right? Well, then I'll space out some more, okay? And she closes her left eye again.

Then his rastaman friends arrive and find their buddy on the floor next to a completely wasted cat in a state of terrible paranoia. And they say: bro, don't trip! We'll smoke now and pinch this mouse so it stops acting out here. And the mouse tells them from under the wardrobe: where are you gonna pinch me, you red-eyed horses! It's just talking trash, basically. But it doesn't crawl out from under the wardrobe.

Then the rastamans get fierce and develop a brutal plan to drive this mouse out from under the wardrobe and punish it severely. Basically, it goes like this: two rastamans have to stand on chairs and shake the wardrobe from above, another rastaman has to bang on the wardrobe with his fist, another one will rustle under the wardrobe with a broom, and one more will stand by the wardrobe with two bottles so that as soon as the mouse comes out, he can hurl them at it immediately. Then they light up a joint and proceed to execute their plan. So, two rastamans get on chairs and start shaking the wardrobe, another one rhythmically bangs on the wardrobe with his fist, another one rustles under the wardrobe with a broom strictly to the beat. And the old rastaman also bangs the bottles to this rhythm. And so they gradually find the groove and start jamming full-out; it turns out to be kind of industrial, like Einstürzende Neubauten.

Anyway, they're sessioning for about fifteen minutes or even half an hour, and suddenly they hear someone starting to play along on a guitar. And the sound is something completely unfamiliar, clearly not from around here, but still really cool, soft and, most importantly, very fitting. They look—and there stands some guy, totally mysterious, where he's from and what for. The rastamans ask him: dude, where are you from? And he says: I'm from Ivano-Frankivsk, was just walking by, heard people sessioning on percussion, so I decided to join in with the guitar. And the rastamans say: nah, we're not sessioning. We're driving a mouse out from under the wardrobe.

Then the guy from Ivano-Frankivsk looks under the wardrobe and says: well, dudes, you'll be driving it out until the end of the season at this rate. Because it's been sitting under the floor for a long time now. You've got a hole in your baseboard, so it skipped in there right at the start of the session.

The rastamans look: and there really is an awesome hole, wind is practically whistling through it. And they say: wow! You're one sharp dude, for real! And here we are with a broom and bottles. And you just got it right away that it skipped. Listen, dude, maybe you know how to pinch the bitch so it stops acting out. Because it's been hanging out here for one day and has already annoyed everyone. And the Ivano-Frankivsk guy says: that depends on what kind of mouse you have. Then the old rastaman says: well, she's... basically, you know, all creepy and green, with eyes like little tomatoes. And the Ivano-Frankivsk guy answers him: well, that's no problem. You just don't smoke for a week, and it'll resolve itself.

Then all the rastamans start making noise: man, you're tripping! Just like a psychiatrist, for real. How can anyone not smoke for a whole week? You could actually lose your mind. And the Ivano-Frankivsk guy tells them: then let's try another way, less stressful. Let's cook up some porridge, put about a hundred grams on a saucer and place it in the middle of the room. The mouse will come out at night, munch on the porridge and get high, and then we just—snap!—and immediately pack it into a parcel and send it off to Israel, because outsiders have no place here. That's how we'll send it straight to Israel. Only we also need to move the wardrobe to another corner. The rastamans thought about it and said: dude, maybe we don't need to shift the wardrobe? Because it's so heavy, just like a monument, over four tons. And the Ivano-Frankivsk guy says: we have to, dudes! I don't know exactly why, but I have a gut feeling that we must. And without any long talk, he gets up and leans his shoulder into the wardrobe. Then all the rastamans go toward him and quite quickly, almost without swearing and completely without smoke breaks, they shift the wardrobe to another corner.

Then they quickly harvest some grass in the front yard, cook the porridge, take three spoonfuls each, and half an hour later they're already zoning out full-on. And their theme is basically this: they're all sitting on the floor staring at the saucer of porridge, waiting for when this mouse will come and eat. And there's such bubbling and stirring happening on the saucer—flowers are growing, birds are singing, universes are rising and collapsing, and all that. And then the green mouse appears, dives into this porridge, starts rolling around in it, splashing, running, jumping, and eats, eats, eats—and so, basically, it ate all the porridge and froze in the middle of the saucer. Then all the rastamans realize they need to catch it and start trying to catch it. But it starts crawling away from them. And so they crawl after the mouse, and it crawls away from them. They're crawling and crawling, and suddenly the mouse dives back under the wardrobe. And the rastamans hit their heads on the wardrobe and think in unison: damn! What a fast bitch!

And about fifteen minutes later, there's a crash under the wardrobe, dull thuds of a head hitting the wall, and loud swearing. It's the mouse in a state of total paranoia looking for its hole in the baseboard and unable to find it. Because they moved the wardrobe. And so it runs under the wardrobe, rams the baseboard and screams: I'm walled in, demons! Then the Ivano-Frankivsk guy sticks his hand under the wardrobe, pulls out the mouse and says to it: well, greenie? Had enough jumping?

The mouse assesses the situation and realizes that it really has had enough. And it says: dude, well, I'm not at fault. It's just, you know, yesterday I had such a craving for grub, so am I not allowed to eat anymore? And the Ivano-Frankivsk guy says: you'll always be given something to eat if you ask normally. Just don't get cocky, clear? And the mouse says: but he was the first one to trip at me, and he wouldn't give me bread. And the Ivano-Frankivsk guy says: well, I see you're actually stupid, you understand nothing, you need to be educated. Then the mouse sees that the guy is not a pacifist at all and is very determined, and says: okay, okay, okay. I get it, basically, I'm wrong on all counts, no need to educate me. I already understand everything. And I won't act out anymore. Just don't educate me.

Then the Ivano-Frankivsk guy puts the mouse on the floor and says: now look. If the dudes complain about you one more time—you can go hang yourself immediately. Clear?

Then the mouse quickly answers: clear, citizen chief! And dives back under the wardrobe. And then half an hour later it pops up from under the wardrobe again and says: dudes, well, I didn't quite get it, where is my little hole?

But the rastamans had all passed out; they'd been through a lot during the day, of course. They were tired, and all that. And then the porridge weighed them down too. Everyone doesn't give a damn about these mouse problems, even the rastaman cat isn't buying it. Well, the mouse hung around until morning, didn't find any hole, got disappointed and bailed from the pad. And they never saw it here again.