Please refer to my dispatch from Thursday before reading the following.
"You are?" I asked, stunned.
"Yes. I am the man who had Piotr evicted from his apartment after he caused me mental anguish many years ago in Los Angeles. Even though he was forced to flee back to his home country in shame, I felt he deserved further humiliation. So ever since then, I've been biding my time, waiting for a chance to pay him back for his insolence. Because of you, I have my chance. Work with me and I will make you richer than you can imagine."
"How?"
"There are many secrets that are encoded in junk mail that only I can understand. I want to give you the key to my power. But first I need you to do me a favor."
"What kind of favor?" I have to admit I was intrigued by the unctuous gentleman's offer, having long suspected myself that junk mail served some kind of higher purpose.
"There is a man that works for me. For the last fourteen years, I have sent him to Hawaii for a vacation, where he can indulge himself in all manner of sensory pleasures. His name is Stephen. I want you to give him this extension cord."
The man who loved junk mail reached into a large pocket of his overcoat and retrieved a bulky envelope and handed it to me. I lifted the flap and peered inside. It contained a fake Hawaii driver's license with my photo on it and a plane ticket to Honolulu. There was also a book of matches from a bar called Kokichi's Reef, two business cards for a surfboard rental shop, a surfboard wax kit, $5,000 in cash, and a Woods SlimLine Flat Plug Indoor Extension Cord.
"How did you get my photo on this driver's license?" I asked.
"When you are as rich as I am, you can make things happen faster than you might think," he said with a shrug and a pout.
"I don't understand how my traveling to Hawaii to give a man an extension cord will accomplish your goal of revenge against Piotr?"
"Enough questions. It is not necessary for you to know the details. Suffice it to say that your innocent action will trigger a cascade of events that will result in Piotr's death, marking the end of my years-long feud with the vile tailor, and it is all thanks to you."
Death? I wanted no part of this man's revenge fantasy.
"I'm not interested in helping you," I said. I stood up and started to walk away.
"That would be a mistake," said the man.
Against my better judgment, I stopped and turned to face him.
"And why is that?" I asked.
The man who loved junk mail said, "I have another gift for you."
He reached into his overcoat again and produced a small wooden box. He handed it to me.
"What is this?"
"Open it."
I did. It contained a long mass of curly human hair.
"Is this a beard?"
"It's a trophy. You see, in addition to collecting junk mail, I collect souvenirs from people who cross me."
"I don't understand," I said.
"Let me put it this way. The city of Płock is rid of one person who doesn't know how to give proper respect."
