Leszek

"Life is bad. You never get what you want.

And even if you do, it's usually accompanied by something absolutely hopeless."

...every morning, as Leszek drove to work, his thoughts went more or less along these lines. Leszek was a powerful, muscular, bald man with the face of a murderer of Russian gangsters and a sadist who ripped dolls from children's hands and arms from their bodies. His heart, however, was filled with the ideals of humanism and love for every creature that contained protein. Leszek loved the entire world and expressed this in his countless poems, written passionately under the covers by candlelight. Leszek loved everything and everyone, except one thing: his job. He was a ticket inspector for the Municipal Transport Company (MPK).

He tried many times to get a job elsewhere. But, oh well, being a great man isn't easy. Any office work was out of the question because of the size of Leszek's fingers—he could press four to eight keys at a time with his thumb. Any profession that required friendly contact with any member of society was out of the question. Well, with one notable exception: the tax office was interested in working with Leszek, but here, Leszek's remarkably unpredictable mind stood in the way.

The situation wasn't helped by the fact that Leszek was unrivaled in his profession as a controller. Every month, he won the internal company competition for the title of Most Effective Canary by a landslide. How did this happen? Well, every person caught free-riding has a reflex (pardon the punitive remark) of self-defense, a primal instinct to fight back without paying the fine. However, this instinct vanished irrevocably the moment the free-rider made eye contact with Leszek. When the person looked at his face and posture, they were ready to pay 100, 200, or 500 złoty immediately, just to avoid waking up one morning in the trunk of a Volga heading to the forest near Minsk.

One night, our hero was working on his autobiographical poem, "I'm Sorry." The work stretched into the early morning hours, so Leszek felt even worse than usual when he left for work. Leszek boarded the bus, pulled out his ID, and approached the first passenger. The passenger was Janina, a retiree on her way to the ophthalmologist, a naturally nervous and forgetful person. Both of these traits proved fatal: Janina forgot to validate her ticket and became terribly upset upon seeing Leszek. She stopped breathing, her face turned an extroverted beetroot color, and her heart gave way—and burst.

The elderly woman slumped to the floor, and Leszek stood paralyzed. He didn't move, not when the other passengers drew the first aid expert title, not when the ambulance arrived, not when the bus pulled into the depot. The paralysis gripped him for the entire day. But when he finally moved, he knew what to do.

He devoted the entire next weekend to studying modern self-presentation techniques. He even temporarily suspended writing poetry to best prepare for his plan, which aimed to change the perception of Leszek among MPK passengers.

On Monday morning, commuters on one of the city buses witnessed a rather unusual sight. A large man, dressed in a long, colorful sweater with lopsided hearts sewn on, trundled onto the bus. Dozens of small bells were attached to his red trousers. Passengers' attention was drawn to a large, fluorescent peace sign painted on the sweater, with an MPK controller's ID badge in the center. This individual wore painted cheeks, a red ball stuck to his nose, and held a teddy bear in his hand, singing in a booming voice: "Give me your ticket, hey, it'll only take a moment, don't worry, I'm cool, yeah."

The passengers were speechless, and then someone started giggling quietly. The giggles proved contagious – within moments, everyone was laughing uproariously. For the first time in Leszek's life, someone was laughing at the sight of him! The effect of the action exceeded his wildest expectations. To celebrate, he took sparklers from his pocket, lit them, and stuck them in various parts of his wardrobe, then sang a song of thanksgiving.

For the next two weeks, Leszek experienced the most wonderful time of his life. Each day, he expanded his repertoire: he learned to play the banjo, dressed up as Donald Duck, borrowed Kiki the monkey from the zoo and checked tickets with her. Passengers were overjoyed. A group of Leszek fans quickly formed, sharing buses with him.

Word of Leszek's exploits quickly reached his bosses, who, upon learning of the situation, fired him. This decision shocked Leszek's fans. However, they decided not to give up. They crowdfunded and used the funds to rent an old bus, which cruised the city streets, serving both a transportation and artistic function. The idea proved highly profitable. To this day, the colorful bus roars through the city streets, its passengers howling with laughter at the sight of Leszek. Leszek himself loves working this way. His posture is still the same, but there's a gleam in his eyes that means that even when he's not wearing his costume and painting his cheeks, no one will think to be afraid of him anymore.