Танцы с бубном -Привет,- сказал демиург Шамбамбукли демиургу...

Dancing with a tambourine

“Hello,” said the demiurge Shambambukli to the demiurge Mazukta, who was fiercely picking a screwdriver in the universe. “What are you doing?”
“Can't you see yourself?” Said Mazukta. “I work.”
“Ah, I understand,” Shambambukli came closer and began to watch the work with interest. “What are you doing here?”
“I am not doing anything,” snapped Mazukta. “I haven’t done anything for a long time, I have a creative crisis.”
“How can this be?” Shambambukli was surprised. “There is no crisis in a creator!”
-That is with the creators and there is a creative crisis. A-priory. That's why they are creators.
-And what are you doing then?
-Fix errors.
-Errors ?!
-Well yes. Bugs, lags, call it what you want.
Shambambukli shook his head in surprise.
-And I did not know that you have errors.
“I didn't know either,” muttered Mazukta.
He picked the last time with a screwdriver, put it aside and adjusted the cover of the universe to its place.
“Well, it’s kind of done,” he said a little uncertainly. “I think that he corrected everything that was.”
“What happened?” Shambambukli asked.
“All nonsense,” sighed Mazukta. “You see, people have such an unpleasant property: they are always looking for ways to circumvent the laws of nature or, at worst, to use them for other purposes. And not only laws! Everything is decided, just give people free rein, they will certainly come up with a new application for anything! For example ... - he thought, remembering, - I gave people such a useful cereal as barley. And even personally taught how to cook barbate from it. And what? Almost immediately, some experimenter was found, messed up something in the recipe, and instead of a wonderful barbate he got a vile swill, only the color and it looked like. And now, only some two hundred years have passed, no one even remembers the name of this - “Barbat” - but they continue to produce and drink beer, and it even spread to other worlds!
- You should not be so. Beer is a good thing ...
-Better than my barbat ?!
-Well ...- Shambambukli hesitated.
“Or,” said Mazukta. “Tell me, why does it rain?”
“Well, it's simple!” Shambambukli snorted. “When saturated air masses rise into the upper cold layers of the atmosphere, they condense ...
“Enough!” Interrupted Mazukta. “I see what you know.” Warm air currents, cold flows, cyclones, anticyclones, pressure drops - well, the mechanics are standard, time-tested. Everything works, not without interruptions, of course, but these are trifles. Ideal systems do not exist. It works and produces rain. So?
-So...
-Well, who would have thought that dancing with a tambourine around a fire leads to the same result ?!
“And they bring?” Said Shambambukli.
-No longer. I just fixed it. Want to take a look?
-Want.
Mazukta pushed the universe to Shambambukli and pointed with his finger: "look here."

For the second hour the shaman was dancing on the trampled ground, under the disapproving glances of his fellow tribesmen. Rain did not think to begin.
“Ha,” Mazukta snorted, “what, have you eaten?” Nothing works, and don’t try, I’ve already plugged this hole.
The shaman, of course, could not hear the demiurge's voice, but began to suspect the evil. He stopped, put down the tambourine and stared at the cloudless sky. The fellow tribesmen frowned and impatiently shifted from one foot to the other.
“Now they will kill him,” said Mazukta. “As someone who does not cope with his duties.”
Meanwhile, several armed men approached the shaman, crowded around and began to discuss animatedly, waving their arms impassively. Someone called women standing at a distance and gave brief orders, after which the women quickly rushed off to the village.
The shaman squatted down and began to draw something on the sand, the warriors scattered across the site, measuring it with steps and constantly echoing each other. The leader took out a wax tablet from somewhere and now wrote down the data.
Women soon returned with full baskets of requested things: drums, rattles, a primitive barometer, a folding meter and other useful rubbish. The shaman took a pea-filled pumpkin for a test and shook it. The leader checked the barometer and shook his head. The shaman put down the pumpkin and took the reed pipe, then the squeaker, then the harmonica, and so on, until at last the leader smirked triumphantly and showed his thumb.
The excess instruments were removed, new firewood was thrown into the fire, the shaman grabbed the drum more comfortably and began his dance, beating the rhythm with one hand, faster and faster.
“A drum?” Mazukta blinked. “Well, yes, of course ... Well, that might work ... And how can I immediately ... Damn the hackers!”
And over the head of the shaman, thunderclouds have already begun to slowly gather ...