Day Three-Twenty-Three: Let us tell you what is wrong

My father is the most efficient drunk I have ever seen.

I have not mentioned, diary, that my father's imbibed alcohol every night of the week thus far. I did not think it a thing, because he's drunk more often than he's sober. The difference between the two states is also rather negligible. I know this because I am his son, and I spent many years suffering under his iron fist. Mom calls it tough love, I call it… dad.

Others here have not shared my childhood. To many in Pubton, Oswald the Farmer is a stranger. They attribute his brutal nature to a love of the drink. Especially the nobles whom he keeps forcing to work. They want me to rein him in, and it is impossible for me to convince them that controlling my father is IMPOSSIBLE, drunk or sober or dead or alive or whatever. IMPOSSIBLE.

But they try anyway. Hell, today they tried in force, sending Harold to me with a nicely-written petition in hand. He had a black eye, one he meekly attributed to my father shoving his face into a fence when he discovered a nail out of place. Brutality is the only way workers'll learn, he always liked to say.

I took the petition and read it over. It went like this:

'Mayor Dragomir,

We the undersigned humbly request that you take disciplinary action against Oswald the Farmer, aka Oswald the Reeve. Though we do not question your choice of officials, despite the fact that he was chosen without our consent or due process, we must question his poor treatment of his workers. We have compiled a list of grievances detailing his offences on our persons. Please let Oswald know that he cannot treat those of high blood in such a manner, and that he must stop drinking while on the job. His behaviour will not be tolerated any longer.

We also request houses. But, please, attend to your reeve first.

Yours,

The Nobles'

More than a dozen scrawled signatures hovered under the words, glaring up at me with all the intensity of their owners. 'Fix it', those names cried, 'fix it so he doesn't hurt us anymore.' Eesh. 

Also packaged was the aforementioned list of grievances, and believe me, it was a long list. I'll sum up a few of Oswald's more notable crimes, 'cause listing them all would take up two or three days of entries:

- He made one noble eat part of a pile of wood chips because the man had mouthed off in Oswald's presence

- He dunked another man's head in the river over a dozen times for refusing to get out of bed, then shoved him into the fabric of the cot while screaming 'HERE! HERE'S YOUR RUDDY BED!'

- He threw one woman into the air and just barely caught her on the way back down - if you've ever seen my dad hurl anything, you'd know how high she probably went

- He laced one nobleman's food with poison ivy, then openly mocked the guy when he started to scream about the burning sensation on his tongue

- And, notably, he addressed all of the nobles at once and called them 'snot-brained, incompetent fuck-guzzlers' who 'aren't even fit to line the insides of a latrine'. I don't know what most of that means. 

After I finished the petition and the list, I handed the whole thing back to Harold and shrugged. "What can I say? He'll do worse to me if I bug 'im, and it won't stop anything. And you can't argue that he's got results."

It was true, too. Two farms, including the ol' homestead, are up and operating at full capacity. Two more should be finished by the end of the week. Most of that efficiency stems from my father's regime of terror. I'm also well aware that his being sober would have changed nothing.

The nobles continued to pester me throughout the day after discovering that their petition had failed. I tried to explain the situation to each of them, but they persisted, bugging me all the way up to, and through, dinner. It wasn't until somebody called an impromptu War tournament that they gave up on me. I suspect their silence won't last. Hell, that skittery from yesterday guy was still at it WELL after the rest had halted their campaign. Who the devil is he, anyway? Kept knocking on the front door of the pub like he wasn't allowed in…

I dunno, diary. It might seem utterly spineless of me, but going up against my father won't achieve a damned thing. I know that. He's an unstoppable force of nature in that sense. I remember thinking the same about Captain Cedric long ago, rest his soul, and he 'n my dad certainly seem like two peas in a pod, but Cedric I could handle. In the end, Cedric was a good guy. Noble, even.

Dad… Oswald… he's just a bastard.

Sincerely,

Dragomir the Mayor