Outside Mailman

People said it was a dog, a large cat, a wolf, a small bear, or maybe a leopard. Okay maybe not a leopard, Mrs. Wilkins was obviously drunk, and any testimony from her may be suspect. Everyone did agree that on that morning last summer some sort of something was prowling outside a row of homes on a tree lined street that resembled an ad for middle class America. Whatever it was had rummaged through garbage cans, composters, Mrs. Wilkins tomato garden, and recycling bins. Except for the Thompson's, whose recycling bin had been stolen about a week ago and were mystified as to why someone would steal a recycling bin. Especially theirs as it was several years old and kind of grimy as they were the types who never really rinsed their recyclables letting nature take its course.

That particular morning had been rather uneventful, other than the mysterious beast, which someone at one of the local television stations has nicknamed the little big foot yeti of Pettibone Cul-de-sac. Then the mailman arrived, parked his van and beeped twice. Yes, the postman beeps twice.

The neighbors all agreed that he was not a very friendly fellow and had on occasion pepper sprayed the Wilson's Pomeranian, filed a grievance with the union that the cul-de-sac was not mailman friendly and once went to a local magistrate to have a restraining order issued against Bitsy. Yes, that was the little dog's name. Some people are just slaves to clichés.

That sunny summer morning several of the residents were home for one reason or another. Well, we all know why Mrs. Wilkins was home. She was always home since having had her driver’s license suspended for multiple DUI's. Rumor has it that she is under house arrest with one of those ankle bracelets. It was her tomato garden that had been ravaged by what she described as a beast resembling a small leopard, spots and all.

The row started at Mrs. Pettibone's home at the far end of the double back curve. Yes, the street was named for her family. You have to get something for being the first to build in the wilderness. Okay, not really a wilderness, but reclaimed land. The foundations having been built upon tons of clean fill packed down over an old landfill. Not a cemetery just an old garbage heap.

The mailman knocked and entered Mrs. Pettibone’s house, “US Postal Service, I have a letter for you.”

The shrills of her ancient voice could be heard up and down the street, “Outside mailman!” she creamed as she chased him out of the house. She continued screaming, “How dare you just come in to someone’s home. Are you an imbecile? Is that who works for the US Postal Service now a days? Imbeciles?”

Outside her house he began talking non stop on his cell phone about the losers he was currently delivering mail to. Next month after he retired, he would return. His plan was to drop his pants bare his ass and take a healthy shit in the median of the cul-de-sac, among the peonies and the topiary hedge resembling a standing begging dog.

While there are laws against talking and texting while driving none exist that make it illegal to make an ass of yourself while talking loud enough for the general population to overhear.

In spite he miss-delivered mail. Which caused heartbreak to the Wilson's who received some of the Thompson's mail. Everyone knows the two families had not spoken to one another since Christmas 2008 when the Thompson's by some fault, probably of the very same US Postal Service had not invited the Wilson's to the cul-de-sac annual Christmas Party. Mrs. Wilson upon seeing mail for the Thompson’s became so violently ill that she had to take a pill to settle her nerves. All washed down of course by a very large blood Mary.

Hiding in the shadows of the shrubs, the flower beds and darting underneath parked cars, the whatever it was, tracked the mailman back to his van. The neighbors, who had become use to whatever it was, really didn't pay much attention as it followed him down the street.

We don't know if it just picked out the mailman because he was loud and obnoxious, or was it playing out a spell of juvenile mischief. Outsiders believe the cul-de-sac has its very own protector, a guardian angel of wrath. People are cautioned to beware of causing problems with the residences of the neighborhood and it should be noted that crime in that part of city has dropped significantly. However, the number of missing pets has increased.

They couldn't show the footage taken of the mail van on television, due to the many scenes that were disturbing in nature. But this is the internet age and by ten o'clock you could find the full video tape on one of those web based video sites. The postman was ripped apart limb from limb, his dismembered head was stuck on the top of a three foot cardboard mailing tube and his cell phone jammed down his throat. Blood was everywhere. The thick red burgundy goo, looking like bad spaghetti sauce was thrown against the walls of the van and dripped nonchalantly from the trays of undelivered mail. Recipients of the that mail politely and unanimously told the inspector general of the Postal Service that he had permission to burn what was in the van.

That night out back of Mrs. Pettibone's ranch style deluxe home with the in ground pool she left some raw meat. In fact she left out the equivalent of half a cow in prepackaged beef from the market, along with a gallon bottle of some cheap whiskey. About three in the morning a weak voice sung some drinking song as sucked dry beef bones were tossed against the aluminum siding of the homes of Pettibone Cul-de-Sac. Oh yes, Mrs. Wilson's cat disappeared.