Pepperoni-flavored death.

Boguś was born too late. Some even said it was unnecessary, but that was just malice. The nearly fifty-year-old mother, who had been trying unsuccessfully to conceive for over thirty years, was even more delighted. When a few days later she was placed in the coffin, a frozen smile appeared on her face. She passed away completely happy, fulfilled. She left Boguś behind. Mr. Cieplak wasn't left alone in his old age.

Boguś grew quickly and disproportionately. There was always something too big. As a five-year-old, he looked a bit like a motorcyclist in an oversized helmet. His enormous head bobbed from side to side. A year later, the rest of his body adjusted to his head, but immediately afterward, his belly protruded. His barrel-shaped belly looked comical, along with his thin, spindly legs. Boguś evoked smiles. Pity. Only children, those merciless monsters, tormented him with imaginative nicknames. Never mind. Boguś survived, and what's more, despite his rather lackluster mind, he finished school. He studied basic and then vocational education in gastronomy. It was at this latter school that he discovered his calling.

It was the early 1990s, and a dish previously unknown in Poland became an overnight hit. Restaurants and stands serving this famous dish sprang up like mushrooms under the rain. When Boguś ate pizza for the first time, he felt he had become a man down there, although until then, there had been no indication. Boguś fell in love. Irrevocably and definitively. His fiancé was a flour pie with sausage, cheese, and ketchup. It was a great, unrequited love.

Times were difficult, and there were no jobs for young culinary school graduates, especially for Boguś. Despite his childlike features, he wasn't a pleasant sight. He had a disproportionate body, a bulky, lumbering gait, he was constantly sweating, and he smelled bad. The mere sight of him made some people nauseous. Hiring him to produce or sell food would be a sign of the owner's insanity and could ruin the company. Boguś understood this and stopped trying. He decided to wait for a job at home.

Meanwhile, old Mr. Cieplak died. Boguś was happy that he would finally be able to live alone and do what he loved most. He wouldn't have to listen to the old man's nagging—stop stuffing yourself with that filth, stop eating so much, get a job. He'd be able to eat in peace, then take a nap, eat again, and so on all day, for the rest of his life.

Months passed, Boguś had to sell some of the things from the house, and since he knew nothing about sales, he didn't make much money. The money only lasted a few days. He made a dozen calls to the pizzeria around the corner—"Hello," says Boguś Cieplak, "two double pepperonis, please."

A miracle happened on Sunday. The pizza guy from whom Boguś had picked up his pepperoni sighed and said, "What a messed-up country, such unemployment, and here they've been looking for a pizza delivery guy for two months." Boguś swallowed a slice of dough and, tucking into another, mumbled, "I could...even for free." Things

weren't that good. They wouldn't let Boguś work for free. It was against some damn regulations. He had to work for money. His request to exchange the money for pizza was also rejected. Boguś could buy pizza like before.

It happened during his first order. Boguś realized he'd never had a pizza with him and couldn't eat it. He could smell its warmth and aroma through the bag. He stopped and started thinking. What would happen if he only brought them half? Would they yell at him? Maybe they'd even beat him up. He got the idea to nibble on the edges. He'll say it's a new pizza, on sale. When he nibbled around it for the third time, he thought it was definitely too small to show people. So he finished it and, satisfied, stood in front of apartment number 9 on Bohaterów Westerplatte Street.

"Good morning, pizza!" he shouted at the half-open door.

The woman, adjusting her robe, took the box and shook it.

"Something light..."

"Twenty zloty," said Boguś, when a man in briefs emerged from behind the woman. Boguś couldn't take it anymore. He fled.

He was forgiven. The story of how two thugs and a dog attacked him, and then all three of them devoured the pizza right in front of him, no one took it seriously. They decided to give Boguś a second chance. This time, the order came from almost the other side of town. Boguś, equipped with his company bike, rode as fast as he could. Occasionally, he'd grab a slice of pizza. When he reached Poziomkowa Street, he knew he'd have problems. He stood at the intercom and asked in a hesitant voice, as if hoping the owner would change her mind.

"Pizza?

" "Yes," a young woman's voice answered.

After fifteen minutes, Boguś mounted his company bike with a sense of relief. He carefully folded the twenty-dollar bill and put it in his wallet. When he returned to the office, they looked at him a bit strangely.

"Boguś, that's impossible, you didn't eat that pizza?"

Boguś simply smiled and asked.

"Is there a ride for me?"

Commissioner Skoneczny, sitting behind a stack of papers, heard a rustling. The sound grew louder. It resembled the rumble of a train passing over a bridge. For a moment, he even thought someone was knocking on the door, but only when he stood up did he understand the source of the noise. It was a march. A hunger march, rhythmically played by a tangle of starving intestines: "Bread!" the colons seemed to sing. "Sausages!" his stomach answered them in a bass voice. The commissioner opened the refrigerator and his eyes closed. Whiteness blinded him. Eternal light filled every nook and cranny. There wasn't even a pate, not even the damned Podlasie sausage that had filled his dinners since his wife left. Returning to his desk, he lit a cigarette. For weeks, this case had been haunting him. Someone was murdering people. In a small, previously peaceful town, someone had started killing for no apparent reason. No signs of forced entry. As if they knew him or them. It must have been a complete outburst. A complete lunatic, an absolute psycho. He murdered young girls and older men. He left entire families of four lifeless. He strangled them. He slit throats, stabbed them in with a knife or scissors. He was chaotic but effective, leaving no trace, and worst of all, he had no motive. The commissioner glanced at a red leaflet lying among the papers. "Pizza!" he shouted. "Why didn't I think of that before?"

Boguś Cieplak was liking his job more and more. For the first time in his life, he was truly happy. Pizza was everywhere. At home, at work. He could afford anything. Before going to work, he called as he always did, and just like before, he ordered: "Hello, this is Boguś Cieplak, two double pepperonis, please." The girls taking the order initially thought he was joking. They hung up, only to hear Boguś's voice again: "Hello, it's me, Boguś Cieplak, two double pepperonis, please." "After a while, no one paid him any attention. What's wrong with Boguś loving pizza?" they said.

"Boguś, move along, Commissioner Skoneczny is waiting for the pizza," the manager's words brought him to his feet. He packed his order into a bag and set off, whistling. He liked to whistle, imagining that in a moment he'd disappear around the next corner, open the bag. He'd smell it, then the first slice would break off under his fingers, then another...

Commissioner Skoneczny, without glancing through the peephole, opened the door.

"So, what's with this pizza? Do you import it from Italy or something?"

Boguś stood in front of the staircase, staring stupidly and saying nothing.

"How much am I paying?"

"Fifteen zloty."

He handed him a twenty and said with a noticeable sneer.

"No change needed."

Boguś spun on his heel and started running.

"Oh, where's the pizza?

" A dull thud answered him. The commissioner initially wanted to give chase, but then changed his mind.

"He's some lunatic... he ate my pizza."

He returned to the room and glanced out the window. Boguś clumsily jumped onto his bike and began pedaling like a madman.

"God damn you, you hungry man."