We played at funerals and weddings.

The guitarist was an alcoholic. He smoked forbidden plants. I was fascinated by sad women, which is worse than drinking and smoking. The most impeccable was the vocalist, the only Latvian Negro Monika in the world. The daughter of an Olympic fool from Kenya. Her only unwilling sin was the tempter. Strongly melted, in the shape of a heart, incredible beauty. He broke fate and destroyed the psyche. Little black, he danced separately from his mistress. Because of him, the bassist did not sleep at night, once a month he offered Monica to create a family, at least for the evening. Monica whirled, left alone and took all the beauty with her.

Monica needed money, she was expelled from the apartment. For her, our black friend.We agreed to play on the outskirts, in a working area where seeds are more expensive than oxygen and someone is beating his mouth all day long. And we thought that hooligans are also people. And many of the beautiful are not alien to them, maybe even us.

One of my friends plays rock and roll. They have the front-man champion of the region in hand-fighting. Therefore, they even play in rural clubs for evil mechanizers. They are always paid and they have never sung Walls-Boston.

Although Monica never killed the lions with a duck and did not tear off the elephant’s hoops, we decided to come along too. Played for ticket revenues. People come straight, to say very little. Two people. With chains, with crosses, with crusaders. Sitting in the center of the hall. Elegant as the piano.

We re-calculated the revenue, we got two dollars for everyone. Basil said he can’t give up. A stupid note. Again, Monica needs money.
And a ball.

Disturbed by the ignorance of the public, abundantly comforted by the guitarist, Monica suddenly got drunk. In the second section, she didn’t just forget the words. He stopped recognizing songs. We played the entrance three times, singing the couplet ourselves. She looked and said, “Fuck, what a familiar melody.” He fell into anabolic again. Only the dancing ass in the shape of a black heart gave in it a professional and an artist.

The audience looked at the counterbus. very carefully. They didn’t sing, they didn’t knock. And Igor, the bassist, suddenly stood up side by side, leaned and so played. Then he said:
Oh my God! What a long, long song!
And he looked at us with pupils rented from Philine.

People with crosses turned out to be straw traders. In the entrance they learned in Igor the incarnation of Bob Marley and offered to blow up. And a kind of hellish decoction, almost rocket fuel. And the whole third department was waiting for Gosha to fall into a flower bed and it would be funny. He did not fall. Our Igorok stood, I don’t know what, like a fucking son. A few sides, but standing.

We played side by side and danced in the back of the department. The visitors, both of them, approached Igor, took his hand and said that he was a beast. He was the first who could not fall into the salad. And a counterball in his hands, and he played, did not fail. The Beast. (And it was the opposite, he hanged on the counter bass and so won)
And here these two get the shoulder and count 500 (five hundred!!!) and backs. The real presidents in the middle. At that time, the plane was about as expensive. And they offered to take us to a Mercedes.

The counterbus did not enter the luggage compartment, the griff was torching, I had to go to the counterway. It was the longest race since the conquest of Mercedes. I am still proud of the participation and that I have not wasted the pampers. The flight took place at a low altitude for 40 minutes without a break. The Crusaders sat in front, peeling seeds. We from behind tried not to open our eyes, hugged for goodbye and said what to pass on to relatives if someone accidentally survived.

All the way, Monica sat at Igor’s knees. Drink right here. Neither he nor she remembered it. Therefore, it is assumed that nothing happened between them.

c) Glory to you