The proverbial Slovene provincial town, with its cast of sad frogmen, dusty butterflies and half-life Batman's is touring Pannonia flatlands. What was thought to be a national deviation turned out to be a cross-border phenomenon.

The parade never ceases. Not even death can resolve them — they were never alive in the first place. However, there is one collective hope. An outrageous event must happen — a magical disturbance in the monotonous rhythm of drops falling into the ponds of their sweat. Just like a fist-full of sugar in the petrol will stop even a well-greased engine.