Have you ever had a herd of cats in your mouth?

No.

Because cats aren't herd animals.

But they shit on me. I feel like...

I guess they're going to the herd for me.

There's a lot of sand underneath the eyelids.

It's disgusting.

Actually, I don't suffer from a hangover, but the description says it feels similar.

Okay.

Get it together.

Breathe out, overcoming the powerful "Boom!" in my head.

Split your eyelids. Split it up, I said!

Split it with your fingers!

Fuck.

There's a droid leaning over me.

It was like a C-3PO.

I guess I haven't smoked anything illegal in years, fifteen.

Close your eyes with your fingers.

Roll over to my stomach, do "lie down", straighten my arms, tuck my knees up and scream "Boom!" in my head.

It's hard to get up, but you have to.

It's better to die standing up than shit on your knees.

Yeah, I'm an auto mechanic, and stupid humor is all ours.

Still swaying, opening my eyes.

It's a heartbreaking sight.

Some kind of round room, like a granite-covered room. Next door, a couple of meters away, is my motorcycle.

Catching myself.

Okay. I'm definitely not a terminator, I'm dressed, and I already have my motorcycle.

The jeans are in place. The jacket is present. No helmet on my head. Boots, moved my fingers, socks. T-shirt.

Gloves on my hands, with fingers cut off. I think we have underwear too.

A set.

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My attention was caught by the squeaking wobbling body of the figure.

For real, C-3PO.

It's coming.

"Greetings. I am the Force Effector. You can call me whatever you want."

I had to cough and ask in a husky voice:

"Is there water?"

He turned his corps from me for a second and immediately turned with a glass:

"Please."

Well done!

I exhaled.

The thought process began to recover.

"What are you, an effector?"

The droid performed a few incomprehensible manipulations.

"For you, the Great Power has chosen this effector to protect your consciousness from injury."

I chewed my lips, and I asked the smartest question:

"Is there any more water?"

I drank more water, and I got my mind back.

Yes, I'm 34 years old and I'm a big Star Wars fan. It's a sin.

Everything that happens seems unusual and you're not surprised in your dreams. So, I'm not sleeping.

Am I in a coma?

Looking at the motorcycle.

Maybe with my way of life.

Pinching myself. It hurts.

I Put pressure on my eye. The droid's split, like the environment around it. Not a glitch.

Okay, I got it. I don't remember, but I could have crashed.

Reincarnation? Anything could be.

I gave out a complex verbal construction out loud that didn't make sense, but reflected maximum emotion.

Did you get the battery on your foot? You know what I mean.

"Well, what the hell is the devil like now, the effector? Do I take it I'm dead in mine?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Why can't I remember how?"

The droid characteristically swung the upper manipulators.

"It is so that you do not remember the moment of your death. Otherwise, it's possible to develop various phobias. All the information about your last week of life is blurred in your mind."

"Caring. Oh, I see. So there's no going back."

"There is no way back. From now on, you're here."

Something squeezed in my chest.

I went to the bike, automatically patted the tank, leaned my ass against the seat.

Gave a pat on the pockets, found it, smoked it.

Yeah. There were a lot more plans.

I didn't get married in time. And there was this girl... there was one girl.

Okay, let's play the cards that were turned in.

"What do you want from me? The cost of services?"

It's that manipulative gesture again.

"Master, I'm just an effector. It's my job to check your reactions. On the dark and bright side."

"Yeah. Got it," there's sarcasm in my voice. "Listened a lot of the Doors? Now feel the Force."

The guitar strings hit my head and Jimmy started shamanizing:

"This is the end.

This is the end. Beautiful friend.

This is the end.

My only friend, the end.

Of our elaborate plans, the end.

Of everything that stands, the end.

No safety or surprise, the end.

I'll never look into your eyes."

"I don't know what you're talking about," the droid cried out.

"Don't strain the processor."

For a second, this misunderstanding continued:

"Now you need to experience positive emotions."

When I let the smoke out, I asked:

"Do you really think I have a fucking real reason to dry my teeth right now?"

The droid's hung up again.

"Dry your teeth. Smile. I'm dead, there's no going back, there's a lot of unfinished business, there's not enough property with me! So the iron bucket with the nuts suggests joy?"

It wasn't possible to experience positive emotions.

Rather, it was the other way around.

Anger woke up.

I worked a lot after school, I fixed cars in different places, constantly talked to especially clever drivers, got used to it, grew up, quieted down, but in order to...

"It's necessary for the test. It seems to me that you have some positive emotions associated with this primitive vehicle."

Whoa, whoa, whoa. I don't know what kind of effector you are, but you specifically crossed the line.

A steel bar is extracted from the side coverall by a spent movement.

And it starts to get embedded in a golden head with every word:

"This! Fuck! F! L! H! R! Road King!"

It's getting darker in my eyes.

I can hear a voice as if from behind a closed door:

"Test passed. Accessory determined. The Dark Side."

And the consciousness goes out.

A long time ago in a galaxy far away, a three-year-old boy who stopped breathing a minute ago opened his eyes and coughed up.