Mostly rambles, few brambles
January 13, 2021Posted by on
My dog said to kill the mailman. Well, really he just implied it. At least at first.
Maybe I was just hearing what I wanted to hear, albeit in my Westie’s shrill tones. Definitely a possibility, seeing as it all started after I’d found the mailman screwing my wife.
“Dead? Really, Harvey?” I asked my Westie, now dozing in front of the TV, his nihilistic nonchalance flaunting the insignificance of an entire human life. Our mailman, Harvey had deftly reasoned, was just another pre-corpse public servant, arguably the least significant flavor of person. Before falling asleep, I remembered now, he specifically added that and that it was “totally fine” for me to keep eating those prepackaged frosting gobs: the ones that my specialist has kept insisting were corroding my esophagus and heart.
The town would find a new mailman. Somebody else would be content to pass their time on Earth putting paper into various boxes. For my sake, I hoped we would find one with less deviant hobbies than existing half-nude and having sex with my wife.
It was a typical afternoon. I’d stopped home, again, to re-supply myself with more frosting-based food gobs. Harvey had greeted me and then, oddly, had barked near a closed door. I had crept closer and heard the ensuing rumpus for myself. “Package,” “slots,” “stamp me harder; return me to my sender,” it had been like a Three’s Company and a Mad-Lib had an irreverent baby.
Inside the mailman had the top of his uniform on, because I suppose that’s regulation, but the bottomless hobbyist was intercoursing my wife atop our guest bed on what seemed to be dozens of children’s letters to God. “Sick’em, Harvey,” I said, pointing at the unsheathed government-worker phallus. Harvey, though, was now back to napping in a sunbeam, probably too pooped from all of the day’s good deeds.
The mood of the room was tense, probably something to do with all the exposed infidelity and the threats of genital biting, but who could be sure. The mailman withdrew himself from the adulterous mass, and said something cheeky about envelope licking and stuffing boxes that I had to ask Harvey to explain to me later.
That evening, even with post-consumer Gob on my face, Harvey alluded that I was still a powerful and potent figure, and then only thing that could further enhance my image would be a large gun.
The kindly old salesman, the following day, said that just by coming here we could jump through six legal loopholes and “take in” this beautiful semiautomatic rifle. “Adopt don’t shop,” he said and then added that revenge is a dish best served repeatedly and without remorse. Uncanny, I thought, that was almost word-for-word one of the chapter titles in my manifesto diary.
“You heard what the gun show cretin said about revenge, right?” Harvey reminded me the next morning. “Remember, violence against upsetting ideas is warranted and justified.” I told him he should ask my permission before quoting my almost-palindromic manifesto, a manifesto so logical it could sway any unconvinced juror as to my awesome, unequivocally justified behavior.
The mailman was late the next day, probably off screwing more wives of attractive, justice-hungry husbands, but, finally, his truck rounded the corner. I asked Harvey if he wanted to take the shot, ever gracious though, he said it was my destiny that needed fulfilling, not his.
He always had all the answers. At least all the answers I wanted.
The mail truck crept past the second house and I coughed out a deep sigh though my tender esophagus. I steadied my weapon as I watched him accelerate down the street. The truck slowed and inched into position. I squeezed the trigger and the shot missed terribly, blasting through the side of the truck. Dozens of children’s letters to God started bleeding out. Frantic and likely anticipating sexual frustration, the mailman jammed on the gas and the truck lurched into a tree. Perfect, I thought, as I raised my weapon for another shot. I tried to pull the trigger, but it was stuck. The magazine was completely jammed with dog hair. “Harvey,” I screamed, but he was prematurely wolfing our celebratory frosting.
Harvey said nothing, not with his tiny mouth too full of gob. I ran out to bludgeon the mailman with the weapon, but the crafty playboy climbed back into his truck and barricaded himself and called the police.
My now-ex-wife took custody Harvey after I was arrested. I was denied bail and was later convicted, even in spite of my hyper-cogent manifesto written in frosting. I’m eligible for parole in 15 years and want to know everything, Harvey. If you’re reading this, please take good notes. Use the tape recorder I bought you when you were talking about doing comedy.