As a post-man living the life of a post-man for four years, I declare that mail turning into batons is not a normal thing and should have been talked about and discovered a solution for yesterday. YESTERDAY. Why are we not talking about it now? I don’t know, how would I know? All my co-workers are carrying the batons in their trucks like it’s totally fine to put thousands of batons in a mail truck. Oh and also they’ve suddenly gotten a tendency to run the truck like they were running a relay race, all of ‘em come back with a smile on their faces and a speeding ticket in their hands like they’ve won the lottery. I swear one day they’re gonna be like, “Oh yeah, mumbo jumbo, guess what, I got 1# in Speeding Ticket Hoarders.” I’m not okay. Why ISN’T ANYONE DOING ANYTHING ABOUT THIS? We’re gonna get, oh, SO MANY complaints. I’m not kidding. What has happened to my co-workers? Is anything real? Am I just hallucinating? Why would I be hallucinating? I’ve never had a hallucinating problem before. It’s like…like, it’s too much. Maybe I should just take a deep breath and talk to Brian, our supervisor. Yes, I’ll do that. Good idea. And so I walked towards Brian’s office, knocking on the door with a shaky hand. “Hello?” I asked. “Yes! Come in,” Came the reply. I walked inside with a forced smile. “Good morning, I wanted to ask about the batons—” “Hmm? Batons?” Brian said. “What batons?” Frustration burbled inside me, I fumbled to pat it down. “There are batons, instead of mail. And everyone is going above the speed limit and getting way too many speeding tickets to count. My co-workers are acting extremely weird, I can’t recognize them from them and their antics anymore and it’s all getting out of hand—” I explained, then getting cut off once again. Brian sighed, resting his chin on a hand. “Oh, I knew this would happen.” He looked out the window with a somber expression on his pudgy face. I swear I cracked a little from the inside then. “Sir.” I pronounced slowly, my tone a little higher. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Ah, all you young-ins—” I looked at him incredulously at that, wasn’t he just a few years older than me? “Always so naive.” He sighed again. “I should’ve never won a game against Lord Zarzon.” “Lord…lord—lord Zarzon?” I stammered, my eyebrows snurched up in hopeless confusion. “Ah, look at your young face and your naive, naive personality.” He said, still looking out the window. “Of course, it’s all Lord Zarzon’s fault. I won a game against him and he decided in his blinding rage to befall the curse upon us.” “The curse? I asked, my hands tightening around each other to keep them from punching Brian. “The curse all around us, of course, can you not see?” He said. “I can see, sir, I can see that you’re a—” I said, but was saved for the better or for the worse by my favorite co-worker bustling out through the door with a large grin plastered on his face. “Heeeloo there Brian and co-worker post-man Silvio!” Green said, we called him green because his face turned a bright visible green whenever he was a second away from vomiting. “I have gotten Lord Zarzon’s mail just like you asked sir!” He saluted at Brian. You see? I am now broken, broken forever, and I cannot be pieced back again. I choose to quit. Thank you. Sincerely, Silvio
