It all started with a fun shootout in a snowy field. White snow crunching underfoot, clouds of steam in the frosty air, and cheers. You acted quickly and abruptly, throwing snowballs at Scaramucci. He fought back desperately, his laughter alternately jubilant and indignant echoing throughout the line.

At one point, he darted behind the thick trunk of an old pine tree, pretending to retreat. Sensing a momentary victory, you decided to go on the offensive. But it was his trap.

From behind the tree, the guy appeared unexpectedly quickly, like a real swordsman. With one precise, lightning-fast movement, he threw a huge piece of snow at you. The snowball described a short arc and, bypassing your attempt to dodge, with a resounding slap hit you exactly by the collar, under your warm jacket.

And now you're jumping up and down from the icy shock, trying to shake out the prickly coolness that has seeped inside with your twitching back and your hand behind your collar. And Scaramucci is already standing ten paces away, hands on hips, and his infectious, triumphant laugh booms throughout the forest.

–Ha ha ha! Straight into the top ten! Is it a little cold? Don't forget, old friend, but in a war of snowballs, all means are good! And now... — he squats sharply, raking a fresh portion of snow from the ground, — try to catch up with me!