THE EXTRAORDINARY LIFE OF OSWALD THE Squire"

Oswald Dziedzic was usually proud of himself. True, there were days when he was less so, but usually he was more so. He possessed a trait that marks great men—he could turn every failure into success. Nothing and no one could stand in the way of Oswald's bright future. In that future, he would become the greatest writer not only in his small town, but also in the country, and later, the world. A vacant spot awaited him on the top shelf of the bookshelf. All that was needed was to add the year to the note with the inscription "Nobel Prize in Literature for Oswald Dziedzic."

Meanwhile, Oswald was writing his first novel. He didn't have a title yet, but that wasn't the most important thing; what mattered was the content – ​​the incredible life of Oswald Dziedzic. The conscious chaos of the structure combined all possible literary styles and genres, from Greek dramas to contemporary postmodern works. Oswald Dziedzic, imitating no one, managed to encompass a thousand years of literary history in a single sentence. Or so he thought.

Ten thousand pages of extraordinary prose were about to overwhelm publishers with the weight of the author's thoughts and the weight of the paper.

He had been preparing for a hurricane of response for a long time. In addition to a landline, he had two cell phones. If necessary, he could make three calls at once. He had even rehearsed what it would look like. He also prepared for an onslaught of journalists. For several years, the house had been surrounded by a high hedge, and now, in addition, some not-so-nice dogs had appeared. He had bought a gun, although hunting, but as a last resort, he could knock down a few paparazzi.

Oswald decided on a comma in chapter 612 when the phone rang.

"Mr. Dziedzic?"

"Master Oswald Dziedzic - writer, how can I be of service?"

"I'm calling from the municipal cultural center in Cieciórka.

" "Yes. I can guess why you're calling. Thank you very much for the award; it is undoubtedly an important step in my career. I would like to thank the members of the distinguished jury for appreciating my prose. I would like to mention that the submitted stories are based on authentic facts. Of course, as an artist, I viewed the facts through the prism of my view of the world...

" "Mr. Dziedzic..."

"Allow me to finish my thought... through the prism that is my subjective view, although it is not devoid of universal values, and I suspect that convinced the jury."

"Mr. Dziedzic. Forty-five sets entered the competition.

" "You're welcome, the competition is not sleeping..." "

They were all yours. Even You didn't change the emblem. The jury decided not to award any prizes and cancel this year's competition.

- How can that be? It's a scandal, isn't it...

- Have a nice day.

Oswald lived in a beautifully situated estate on the outskirts of town. He had been alone since his mother's death. Mrs. Gienia would drop by twice a week to tidy up and cook enough food for a few days. Oswald would go for walks during these visits. He didn't like the fat, stupid woman. Like most people. He loved his mother, whom he still referred to as "Mommy." He devoted fifteen chapters to her in his novel, and one word to his father: "son of a bitch."

Oswald had recently turned forty, and the first gray hairs had appeared at his temples. He regularly plucked them out with tweezers and began to consider dyeing them. He thought that as a dark brunette, he would look better in the spotlight.

Oswald owed everything to his mother: talent, upbringing, diligence, and above all, hygiene. He bathed several times a day, shaved daily, and changed his underwear. He took care not only of his body but also of his spirit. Once every two weeks, he called a friendly escort agency. He personally checked the cleanliness of the women he sent, sometimes gesturing menacingly to the bathroom door. He didn't shout, he waited patiently, polishing his manuscript in the meantime. He added a word or restructured a sentence. When a girl arrived, he told her to lie down with her legs spread and her eyes closed. To be on the safe side, he put on three condoms and within minutes had expelled his pregnant semen. Almost immediately, he returned to work on one of the dozen or so chapters devoted to Oswald's erotic life.

Three months after the postal van had delivered the bulging packages containing Oswald's novel, the first reply arrived. He didn't open the envelope for a long time. He poured a glass of Scotch and lit a Havana cigar. He wanted to remember this moment as well as possible. This was the day his career would begin. He swallowed a sip of alcohol and inhaled from his cigar. Exhaling smoke through his nose, he began to read. "Dear Mr. Oswald. We appreciate the work you have put into the work you sent – ​​"The Extraordinary Life of Oswald Dziedzic." Unfortunately, we are not interested in publishing it. Yours sincerely, Marceli Drongowski, Publishing Director."

Oswald, not losing his good mood, finished his Scotch and, throwing the letter in the trash, said, "No, it's not."

For the next three months, Oswald Dziedzic waited patiently. He didn't write. He spent too much time searching for the postman through his binoculars. For this reason, he forbade Mrs. Gienia from cleaning. "What if the postman showed up at the gate with a registered letter while Mrs. Gienia was jamming the doorbell with a vacuum cleaner?" Mrs. Gienia took a step forward and said that if Oswald was so smart, he should let it grow dirty and cook his own food, because she wouldn't let herself be pushed around for pennies. Oswald wasn't bothered by the maid's departure. In the book, he found a company that did shopping by phone.

Oswald couldn't keep up with his gray hair. With each passing day, he felt worse and worse. He called publishing houses, hearing the same advice: to do something else, that not everyone could write, that not everyone should. One publisher consoled him by saying that misunderstood writers are often discovered only after their death. Oswald asked him if he suggested this solution. The man laughed for a moment, then added, quite seriously, "That would be a solution."

That evening, Oswald Dziedzic decided to take a significant step forward in his career. He ate a delicious dinner brought to him from the best restaurant. He drank several glasses of his favorite drink. He headed the envelope containing his will with a handwritten note: "The Last Will and Testament of the Writer Oswald Dziedzic." When he was sure he had everything sorted, he sat down in an armchair and placed the shotgun to his temple.

He missed.