The president was arrested. He spent five whole days locked up and then took great pride in his veteran status. This was especially true since the arrests were made by foreign intelligence, and as a result, the president's name appeared in the media several times a day. Paradoxically, he considered this excellent, free publicity – for long afterward, it was announced that a mistake had been made and the man was innocent. He, in turn, began to joyfully embrace the role of martyr.
And it happened like this:
At the beginning of the year, the president was invited to a very important economic conference in London. The organizers provided various attractions, buffet tables, and luxurious apartments for the president and his entourage. The president decided that the delegation would include Mr. Sawicki and two young, beautiful interpreters; despite his multifaceted talents, the president had not yet mastered the difficult art of speaking languages.
Having taken care of all the organizational details, all that remained was to wait for the day of departure. And the entire trip was dogged by exceptional bad luck from the very beginning. Due to terrible weather conditions, the plane's takeoff was delayed – the entire group spent several hours in the waiting room, bored to death and playing tic-tac-toe.
Then, over the English Channel, Mr. Sawicki got stuck in a toilet – at least half the passengers and two flight attendants armed with crowbars were involved in freeing him.
At Heathrow, their luggage was gutted because, apparently, customs dogs had sensed something.
By forgoing the tube trip, the president had ruined himself by taking a taxi. The taxi driver turned out to be a very kind man; he took them a roundabout route due to the supposedly ubiquitous traffic jams.
As a result, the exhausted conference participants, against their will, toured a significant part of the city, paying a heavy price for this pleasure.
Hungry and furious, they arrived at the hotel, where they learned that due to the late hour, the kitchen would no longer serve them anything, but if they wanted, they could make do with leftovers from the buffet.
And then it turned out that the interpreters were completely useless. Mr. Sawicki went to invite them "for coffee" in the president's suite, but the women barricaded themselves in their room and completely ignored the desperate pounding on the door. The president and Mr. Sawicki then emptied the bottle alone and went to bed in a foul mood.
And the next day was no better.
The president yawned loudly as he listened to the pompous and boring speeches of various economists. Mr. Sawicki played with his phone and polished his fingernails. The interpreters were formal and dry. And worst of all, they proved indispensable in every situation, even the most extreme ones—though the president would gladly have them chased away.
The organizers provided them with cultural entertainment for the afternoon.
Cursing at living stones, the president searched for a long time for a way out of the British Museum. When he finally managed to get out, sweating with fear, he categorically refused to visit the National Gallery and rushed back to the hotel.
In the evening, he and Mr. Sawicki were forced to watch a play, of which, despite their best intentions, they couldn't understand a single comma. However, they tried very hard to show their loud laughter at the same moments as the rest of the audience. After the intermission, they were almost perfectly successful.
At the hotel, Mr. Sawicki once again stormed the interpreters' room door and, after an unsuccessful siege, returned with a grim expression.
And the third day began utterly disastrous.
The interpreters resigned, packed their bags, and left the hotel. The conference papers were even more boring than the previous ones. The President struggled to stay awake, looking around the room – the rest of the delegates also wore dull expressions.
Mr. Sawicki, on the other hand, was unusually lively – he seemed unable to find his place. He fidgeted and groaned – and his face, usually unnaturally pale, began to shimmer with various colors, from subtle green to vivid violet to deep crimson.
Finally, he let out a loud "Ah!", jumped out of his chair, and ran frantically toward the corridor. He spent the next few days in bed, vowing never to touch oysters or similar abominations again.
And the President was left completely alone, bored as a pug, trampling the path between his room and the hotel bar. Finally, one afternoon, he couldn't take it anymore and, armed with a camera, map, and dictionary, set off into the city.
He was delighted to discover that communicating with the locals wasn't difficult. It turned out that practically three words were enough to get anything done: "yes," "no," and "ok." Sometimes, it was also polite to add "thank you." So he wandered the streets, photographing everything he could, and practicing verbal communication in a foreign language.
As we've said before, the president was a man who enjoyed active recreation and competition in all its forms. He practiced a multitude of sports, and visits to the gym and the joyful agonies of working up a sweat became a ritual. The hotel did have such a facility, but due to the visit of the Thai weightlifting team, it was practically inaccessible to the rest of the guests.
The president was genuinely distressed by this fact, and it occurred to him that there was nothing stopping him from looking around for a place where he could exercise in peace. He licked his finger, leafed through the dictionary, and found the right phrase: power station. He repeated it to himself a few times, practiced his pronunciation, and set out to get a feel for the language.
The first informant came along rather quickly. He was a distinguished-looking, gray-haired gentleman contemplating the display window of a butcher's shop.
"Excuse me. I'm laughing for a paler steiszyn."
The gentleman responded in fluent English, but judging from the questioner's expression that he understood nothing, he began to pantomime. The chairman closely followed his interlocutor's movements – the answer was truly astonishing. It implied that if there was a gym anywhere in London, it was probably outside the city. The
"terrible sclerotic" chairman shook his head, bared his teeth in a grateful smile, and caught another passerby. And then a third, a fourth, and so on. He didn't progress a step in his investigation, as everyone gave strange answers.
*
Mr. Sawicki was feeling a little better now, and the green of his face was slowly giving way to a noble pallor. Still, he preferred not to risk any meals just yet, and he was even rather wary of water. He was making his way from the bathroom to bed when a loud knock sounded.
He opened the apartment door slightly, and before he could see anyone, he felt a strong push. What happened next unfolded rapidly.
Several armed men burst into the room, and before he regained consciousness, he was already handcuffed and sprawled on the floor. The attackers looked quite menacing – one of them held Mr. Sawicki at gunpoint, while the others methodically searched the apartment, wreaking terrible havoc in the process.
*
Imagine the CEO's surprise when someone from the Polish Embassy in Great Britain called her late that evening. Her surprise turned to terror when she heard what they had to say.
The CEO, her husband, was arrested on suspicion of plotting a large-scale terrorist attack. He allegedly attempted to gain access to an electrical power plant and cause a blackout that would have paralyzed virtually all of London. She was also informed that her husband's business partner, a certain Sawicki, had been arrested and that investigations were ongoing. Finally, the speaker asked for understanding for the British side's actions, especially in light of recent events around the world and on the continent. He also expressed hope that the CEO and his business partner would ultimately prove innocent. The CEO's wife was unable to demonstrate understanding and immediately began to spasm
.
The company's employees were delighted when, watching television, they saw the handcuffed president and a shackled Sawicki. The offices were buzzing with gossip, productivity plummeted, and the relaxed staff spent more and more time in the smoking room and maxed out their breakfast breaks. On the other hand, the more cautious insiders were secretly developing a program for the president's welcome ceremony, just in case the allegations of his terrorist tendencies weren't confirmed. A group of overzealous workers sewed an impressive banner in the evenings, with a large central slogan: "Welcome, Hero!" The texts for spontaneous speeches were already prepared, and someone had even pledged a deposit for a huge bouquet, champagne, and a souvenir album. All that remained was to follow developments and browse the newspapers.
Four days passed. And on the fifth, word broke that the president was returning. The scumbags gained confidence, emerged from the conspiracy, and at lightning speed began decorating the company building.
It paid off.
The president's first day in office began by issuing several reprimands and firing three people. He was informed that they had flatly refused to knit the banner.
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