POSTAL
by Jarred Berg
Once there
was a man named Jim. Jim was an average run-of-the-mill guy, an everyday sort
of person, except for his employment. You see, Jim was a postal worker. And
not a very good one at that. Every day he would get up, take a shower in the
runoff from the subway tracks above his house, shoulder his mail sack, and
head to work. On this particular day, however, Jim encountered an unknown.
In the alley in front of his shanty, there was a bundle lying on the ground.
Opening it, he was overwhelmed by the rotten reek of dead fish. Backing away
in disgust, he slipped on a rat and smacked his head against the wet pavement.
As his vision returned to him, he looked at his watch. He was late! Rushing
down the alley and into the street, Jim was almost run over repeatedly as
he scrambled across the busy thoroughfare. When he arrived at the post office,
he noticed his delivery was missing. Disgruntled, Jim set down his bag and
approached the office. He knocked politely, then entered. The man sitting
at the desk was a grotesque freak of nature. His rotund body was barely accommodated
by his EZ chair, and his eyes were nearly hidden by greasy wrinkles. Jim could
have sworn at that moment, just by looking at his obese boss, that he heard
cows mooing in the distance. "Why don't I have any mail today?" Jim inquired.
"Well Jim, I'm tired of you always being late, and slacking off. So, you're
fired." "That's it? That's all there is?! How dare you fire me!!!" Something
in Jim's head snapped just then, and he began tearing the pictures down from
the wall and smashing them over his knee. "I think you need to throw your
fat butt into oncoming traffic, you greased up, gravy bleeding son of a whore!"
Jim was completely mad now, foaming at the mouth and snarling. "Ill show you
what for!!!" With that Jim reached for the only object left unbroken…the boss'
coveted swirly-pen. "Eat dirt and die, pig!!" With a savage battle cry, Jim
poked at the fat manager. Cowering before the fierce onslaught, he couldn't
stop the psychopathic postal worker. The boss sagged lifelessly, the massager
in his chair jiggling his dead body. Graceful swirls and spirals covered his
skin. Laughing maniacally, Jim burst out of the office and set upon anyone
in his path. An old man who was unlucky enough to get in the way was slapped
to the ground and penned to death. Jim spun this way and that, looking for
his next victim. A pregnant woman was stepping out of her 1982 Yugo. Jim lunged
at her, his weapon set on Maximum Swirl. "Oh no, not that!!!!" was all the
woman could say before succumbing to the horrible writing instrument. Jim
took the keys from the woman and lept into the Yugo. Insane past reason, he
delighted the new car's purring hum as it idled. A passerby laughed at this
spectacle, a man in a postal worker outfit, foaming at the mouth and cheering
as he revved a beat up old Yugo. The man caught Jim's attention, and that
was a fatal mistake. Romping on the gas pedal, Jim sped forward and flattened
the poor man into the gravel parking lot of the post office. "Served him right,
laughing at this beauty," Jim giggled. By now, the cops had gotten wind of
Jim's escapades, and had surrounded the parking lot. Unphased, Jim raced over
an embankment on the south quarter of the lot and attempted to sail over the
barricade to freedom. He almost made it. The Yugo's tail end hanging off the
flashing lights of a squad car, Jim jumped out and studied the situation.
With cops everywhere, there was only one thing to do. Jim put the pen to his
head and turned it to "spirograph". A shocked instant, and Jim found himself
lying on the ground face up, staring into the blue sky. The last thing he
would ever recall was the smell of the shotgun oil he used to slick his hair
back that morning.
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