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My fate has always been decided by some fellows, fuckers in the mysterious, unknown offices. That's why I'm still a loser because they – the mysterious bitches I've never met, the deciders of my fate – have never accepted me into the tribe of winners. It's been that way in Russia-a country at one end of the world, and now it's that way in America-a country at the opposite end.

Now, in the recesses of the massive Macmillan press, certain American misters and mistresses are deciding the fate of my novel It's Me, Eddie. They rub their foreheads, or they laugh. They put on or take off their neckties. They scratch their feet or their asses. They adjust their glasses. They doodle in their pads. They smoke and drink coffee. What will be the result of their secret meeting that I know nothing about?

And what does their future fucking decision has in common with my present talent, my value in the world? One female among them, Katie, is rooting for me – she has been to this day, as far as I know. She wants to accept me into the tribe of winners. It's a boring tribe, to be honest.

I have made an awesome oath to myself though: even if they accept me, I'll always remain a secret loser, and secretly I'll observe our customs and rituals. I'll share in our thrills and terrors.