Midgetville Legends

"Legends of Midgetville"

Prologue

The apartment creaked as frost tried to creep through the walls. Drops of melted snow froze motionless on the windows. Most of them were frozen. But one, uncertain whether it was already an icicle or still liquid, clung to the left corner of the window. It fell a moment later as Ignacy slammed the door behind him. He looked outside, frowning. The sight of cars buried up to the side windows made him feel unpleasantly numb. He lit a cigarette and reached for a book from his desk drawer. The air swirled with hazy clouds of smoke, obscuring the book's title. Ignacy opened it, revealing the first page. Only the title of the first chapter was visible. He looked around and, with some confusion, began to read.

"I'm basically anonymous," the gentleman turned to Ignacy. "Anonymous against the backdrop of these pages." But you noticed me, so you deserve to read a story. This adventure happened to me and my friend, a trout named Henryk.

Chapter I:

Travelers on a Winter Night:

I regained my existence, Henryk was in good spirits, and Siwe Pole allowed us to regain our strength.

We wasted no time and wanted to stay informed. The newspapers reported on Britney and Banana's marital crisis and the end of the Big Olek era. Once we were wiser about international affairs, I decided to fulfill my dream and become a stock market shark. Whatever that epithet meant, I went to the Toilet Paper Exchange and bought a thousand shares of LPR (People's Agricultural Paradigm). Unfortunately, the company's president pulled some kind of scam and fled abroad, leaving me with nothing once again. Having said that, Henryk received a perfectly valid lecture on macroeconomics and the group that keeps soot under its mustache. After a healthy dose of political gibberish, we unanimously decided to hit the road. After a rather tedious cartographic exercise, Nevada was our destination. We packed our bags, stuffed a handful of soil from Siwe Pole into our pockets, watched the sunrise over the asbestos factory, and set off. The house remained sad, savoring the hope of a new adventure. Remnants of farewell songs lingered in the piano strings, and photos gazed at their reflections in the empty fern pots. Siwe Pole, now without us, rested alone on Little Tortilla, as the strip of coast from Porto Calvini to Cape Steinbeck was called.

Before leaving, we still had to check in with Uncle Szarejbajka. The purpose of the visit was twofold: first, I wanted Henryk to meet a lawyer famous throughout Little Tortilla, a specialist in unusual precedents; second, my friend had a mission. He wanted to participate in the famous fishing tournament in the Nevada desert. It was a way to avenge all the years Henry's relatives had fallen victim to the event.

We had to clarify both the legal and purely moral issues in this matter. So, first thing in the morning, we went to my uncle's hyacienda. It stood on the edge of the Grey Field, under the Twisted Tree. Standing before the veranda, we saw one of the assistants. He invited us in. We settled comfortably in the armchairs outside the office and awaited our turn.

We didn't wait long. As soon as my uncle heard I'd dropped by for a visit, he ordered the other contractors thrown out of the office. He brewed us traditional Mexican chili tea and demanded we explain the reason for the visit.

"This case concerns revenge, dear uncle." I handed him the rejection letters Henryk had previously received from the Higher Council of Reproach and Redress.

"Legal gibberish." My uncle nodded, then turned to Henryk. "Explain to me, son,

what's the deal?"

Henryk combed his scales.

"The matter is as follows. For generations, my relatives have been fished out of every river in America and taken to a brutal tournament in Nevada." My uncle couldn't hide his indignation, but he didn't want to interrupt. "What kind of art is it to catch fish struggling in the sand?" my ichthyo-friend continued. "Besides, if I wanted to avenge my entire family, a lifetime wouldn't suffice. I only want to avenge my cousin, Long John the Trout."

Szarabajka handed Henry a box of tissues and sank into contemplation for a moment. He summoned

his assistant and ordered them to find the "Book of Moral Laws." He immersed all his senses in the literature. Raising his head, he announced,

"That's a bummer, amigo.

" "What?" The thin thread separating dreams from disappointment snapped in Henry's heart.

"I'll check the internet just to be sure." His uncle's knee bounced nervously as he typed something into the search engine. "You want to avenge your cousin?

" "That's right," my friend confirmed.

"It'll be tough," my uncle noticed the smudges on the monitor and began wiping them hastily with his sleeve. "The first rule of good revenge is to attack without warning, unexpectedly. And the catch is that all the tournament participants are prepared for your revenge. Especially since two years ago, your uncle embarked on a similar crusade. In a heroic fight, he dragged three participants into the sand. Which creates another problem, because one would have been enough to take revenge on your uncle. Your uncle took extra revenge, which means you have no legal basis for it, and secondly, tactically, you're off the hook. I'm very sorry.

" "Nothing. I understand. Rules are rules," Henryk replied with the air of a failed crossword puzzler.

"I'm sorry I couldn't help." The large book landed on the floor. Szarabajka opened a cabinet and took out a small book. "Here's something for the road," he told us. "But don't open it until you see the sign," he warned, and his assistants agreed silently, making very clear faces.

Mounting our fishing bike, we set off along the first highway we found, which wasn't cataloged on any map. This was the only guarantee of our story's uniqueness.

"Imagine it's November somewhere in America," Henryk said.

"True," I agreed. "An overwhelming thought. And imagine a sky where a UFO is flying right now." My fingers traced oval shapes in the air, just so my eyes could bring them to life and my imagination could wander to all the places I wanted to be right now.

The sun was setting sluggishly.

"I guess he also suffers from high blood pressure?" I joked, but Henryk, as a former environmentalist, felt disgusted.

That didn't change the fact that it wasn't in a hurry to say goodbye. It slowly melted into the asphalt, somewhere at the end of the road. I immediately missed home. I imagined its rays from the fresher, morning side illuminating the outskirts of Siwe Pole, only to pierce through the clouds and treetops a moment later, covering Mała Tortilla like Parmesan cheese passed through a sieve.

"Sorry, I don't want to scratch my scales, but it seems your

worldview has been affected lately?

" "Do you ever have suicidal thoughts?" he spat saucily and mumbled under his breath.

"Okay, relax.

" "I'm sorry," he clearly only just heard his own words, "I'll remove the neuron responsible for this."

"Listen, Henryk, you're my friend, so I'll be honest. Don't bullshit!" he looked at me like a Christmas Eve carp. "When my bike hears things like that, it rides around my basement!"

"You're right," Henryk internally chided himself for the linear perception so characteristic of his species.

"Of course you are. It's a matter of mentality, not a damaged neuron. You have to find your 'unagi.'

" "What the hell is that?

" "The point in your consciousness where all paths are measured by the precision of your steps."

At that point he interrupted me.

"Oh, isn't that some kind of eel?"

"Okay, no, it's not." This conversation had significantly diminished our contribution to the bike's motion. "Let's pedal faster, because we won't get anywhere by talking."

The worn treads overcame resistance, and the tires howled with delight at the speed. As we passed the next nameless kilometers, we spotted an intriguing signpost.

"Midgetville – a city great in spirit

5 miles."

Exchanging glances, we immediately opened the book, a gift from my uncle. Soft cover, creased corners. The first page was marked with coffee semicircles, to which a moon had been drawn, a cigarette burn. The first sentence flowed of its own accord.

Chapter II:

The Legend of Midgetville

Ignacy entered Midgetville. His car broke down on the highway right next to a sign announcing a town in the middle of the desert. For a moment, he felt as if he'd found a Smurf village. The tiny houses were half the size of the standard ones found everywhere else. The residents seemed to sense the alien's presence and flocked into the streets. A little shyly at first, but soon they were touching him, tugging at his sleeves, and examining him like an alien. Their appearance perfectly explained the city's architecture. They were all dwarfs. Surrounded by a river of people, Ignacy flowed through the main street. He wasn't entirely sure if he was leading them or if the crowd was leading them. The people in front dispersed, making way for three men. Standing face to face, Ignacy felt slightly embarrassed.

"Ignacy," he extended his hand in greeting.

The men looked at him suspiciously.

"Maurycy," said the youngest, scratching his beard and simultaneously ignoring Ignacy's gesture.

"Rambald," replied the next one.

"Dobrosław," as he introduced himself, he kept sizing Ignacy up. And Ignacy, quite by accident, met his eyes. There was something off-putting about them. Combined with his face reminiscent of Frank Durante, they didn't make a good first impression. "What brings you to our city forgotten by time?"

"On the highway," he pointed behind him, "my car broke down. I saw a sign." Whispers broke out at the sound of these words. Dobrosław raised his hand, and silence fell on everyone's lips, "and I decided," he continued, "to seek help here."

"Did you see the sign?" Maurycy wanted to make sure.

"That's right.

" "Unusual," said Rambald. "Well, well." We'll take you to Mrs. Larkin. She'll find you a place to stay.

The petite red-haired woman led him to a two-story building, probably the largest in the area. The occasionally crooked letters announced it as a hotel.

"We haven't had any guests for a long time," his little feet excitedly shuffled the ground, "you'll have to forgive

the mess.

" "But it doesn't matter." Ignacy didn't know what to feel. On the one hand, the elders' reluctance and suspicion; on the other, the other residents' goodwill, mixed with a vague fear.

Mrs. Larkin led him to a tiny room. She wished him goodnight and informed him that she was sleeping downstairs if he needed anything. After he lay down, he couldn't sleep a wink. He lay in the dark, his feet sticking out a good half meter beyond the bed, and Mrs. Larkin was bustling about downstairs with a distracted haste.

She tidied up the kitchen cabinets, none of which had been dusted since the Reagan years, and whose cobwebs had outlived at least three presidents. A moment after that thought, she laughed, congratulating herself on her uncorroding sense of humor. As she entered the bathroom, she heard frying pans falling from the hooks above the counter. Her first thought was that they played, almost perfectly, a C major scale. When audiophile associations gave way to logic, she gripped the broom firmly and retraced her steps to the kitchen.

"Mr. Ignacy?" The air struggled against her vocal cords, stopping at the level of her throat. She realized that even she hadn't heard the words. "Mr. Ignacy?" This time it went better. But no one answered.

The bathroom light struggled to navigate the hallway and the turn leading to the kitchen. Mrs. Larkin resisted the semi-darkness armed only with a broom. Suddenly, she felt a cold pain in her stomach, which a moment later transformed into a sensual warmth. Intuitively, she placed her hand on the glowing spot. Blood and fragments of stomach surged through her fingers like a crowd pushing through the gates at the opening of a new supermarket. She felt her blood and bones weaken. Blood rushed to her mouth. She collapsed. Ignacy, hearing the noise, went downstairs. He turned on the light and saw her.

"Mrs. Larkin," he seemed paler than she was. "My God!"

She tried to speak, but every word had that awful, hemoglobin-like aftertaste. She looked at Ignacy, and he was the last sight of her. She passed away peacefully. Without unnecessary gestures, nor groans.

Ignacy ran out into the street in his blood-stained shirt. Lights flashed in the houses, turning the main street into a truly unusual Christmas tree.

Maurycy, acting as sheriff, led Ignacy to the town hall. The other residents stared at him in disgust. Dobrosław stood beside him while Maurycy held the newcomer at gunpoint. People shouted one after another. Dobrosław cleared his throat.

"I warned you. You didn't listen. I told you not to let a stranger into the city," he thundered like a popular tribune.

"Forgive me for interrupting, but what's the matter?" Ignacy felt quite uncomfortable.

Someone wanted to speak up, but Dobrosław couldn't resist the opportunity. He had a gift for oratory. You have to give him credit for that.

"Our city was founded by settlers, exiles. Verne Cox and Anthony Troyeur. They worked in circuses, performed in vaudeville, and were natural curiosities. They came here and built the town hall themselves. As word spread, other disadvantaged people began to flock here.

"A city of dwarfs?" – Ignacy felt himself being entangled in a very unusual urban legend. – But why?

– Why?! – thundered Dobrosław. – Let me tell you something. You 'normal' people treat us like lepers. Yes. We feel the weight of your gaze. In the store, at the cinema, in a restaurant, or on the train.

"You sound like you want to sleep with a steam engine." This joke sent a sharp pain through Ignacy's ribs. He hadn't realized that small people could have so much strength.

"Imagine this," Dobrosław continued, "you're sitting in one of your smoky, gypsy, pseudo-artistic pubs, and suddenly a homeless man walks in. He asks you for some money for food. You give him a few pennies and pray, choking on his scent, that he'll finish telling his life story and simply get the hell out."

Suddenly, the door creaked. Rambald arrived. Out of breath, his eyes unfocused.

He was about to sit in the chair next to Maurycy when a book fell out of his pocket, and from it a bloody scarf wrapped around something.

Maurycy bent down to grab the scarf, and Ignacy used the moment to reach the book.

He thought this was his only chance. Nervously, he opened the first pages. Each paragraph was beautifully decorated, but he had no time for aesthetic appeal. He read, gnawing away at some of the vowels.

Chapter III

Half-Hour Point

I woke up at the end of the second paragraph. Henryk was about three sentences behind me.

"What was that?" he asked.

"I don't know, and I don't want to know." His breath caught in the air, "let's get out of here. Time to go back.

" "It's hard to disagree," my friend replied. "I feel like I've been running for a thousand miles. And they were all green.

" "Maybe the water?" I took out my canteen.

"Fish fuck in the water." I must have offended him somehow.

"If you say so," I tried to turn it into a joke.

We set off back to Siwe Pole. About halfway to our destination, I felt my friend's thoughts flooding out of his ears.

"What's wrong with you?

" "Nothing," he replied dreamily. That voice meant trouble. "Remember that bartender in Salinas?

" "Oh.

" "I think I'm in love with her.

" "What?" Henryk was my friend. I'd do anything for him. But every five minutes he'd fall in love with some flounder, and we had to deviate from the route.

"I have this strange feeling in my stomach when I think about her.

A weight lifted from my chest.

"You're not in love.

" "No?" It was quite a surprise to him.

"Of course not. You just want to shit.

" "How do you know?" he refused to let it go.

"I have this book. They write a lot about it.

" "About flatulence?

" "About existentialism, cynology, but they also mention a few folk remedies for flatulence." I was tired of explaining. "Want to read it?

" "Give it to me, it won't hurt."

I handed him the book. I got it for my birthday from Uncle Szarejbajka. He loved books by troublemakers. And this was definitely one of them.

I took over most of the driving duties so Henryk could focus on reading. With each page, the story consumed him more and more. The dark atmosphere grew thicker.

Epilogue:

The writer decided the room was too stuffy. He decided to go out for some fresh air and visit his friend at the same time. His writing wasn't going well anyway, so some entertainment certainly wouldn't hurt.

The friend was sitting on the porch and without further ado, he initiated a conversation.

"How's writing this book coming along?"

The writer sighed, disappointed by his unfortunate fate.

"Sucks. All the characters have disappeared somewhere." He threw his cigarette butt on the ground as if trying to break through to China. "A brothel on wheels. I'm telling you. "

The friend nodded, which the writer considered exceptionally stupid, considering his total lack of understanding and insight into the subject.

"They probably went for a beer."

He dismissed his friend's comment with silence.

"So what are we doing?" He changed the subject, essentially staying in the same field.

"Maybe we should shoot some rats at the dump," suggested the Friend. "That always cheers you up."

The writer imagined blank pages stuck like bayonets into a typewriter.

"Okay," he replied with relief, but deep down he wished that last sentence had sounded better.