Return To Sender

Gerald pitched his voice in a soothing tone, using placating words and, though he could not be seen by the man he was currently speaking with on the telephone, he even had what he thought to be his friendly "Forget it, water under the bridge." expression. Though truth be told, most people found it rather patronizing, so it was just as well that the man on the other line could not see it.

"Alright, look." he said, trying his best not to seem like a beggar. "I understand you wanted to shop around, make sure you were getting good legal representation. I don't mind working in conjunction with this other firm. Hey, with the money you're suing for, you can afford two firms."

"Eh, what?" Abruptly Gerald lost his compassionate expression. "Look, whatever their offer is I can top it."

"Two thousand dollars a month?! There's no way they can offer that much money!" In another unconscious and unconvayable attempt in showing emotion the expression on his face became one of hurt and dismay, not surprisingly it resembled that of a child caught holding the cookie.

"The minimum time it would take to settle your case would be six months. They would not be able to afford what they promised." he reasoned. "You can't trust these guys." his face became one of honesty and friendliness, one buddy to another. "Tell you what, come back to my firm, friend, I won't lie to you, that price just can't be met."

Abruptly his face lost all emotion, Gerald sat absolutely still in his chair and listened to the phone. Then, just as quickly, his face erupted in rage. He screamed into the phone "Fine, see where they get you! But don't come back to me when they fall short

of their promises!"

He slammed down the phone, relishing the release of some of his anger. In rapid succession he picked the phone up and slammed it back down three more times. Rising from his chair, Gerald stalked about the room looking for unsuspecting, defenseless office supplies, he knocked some things to the floor, kicked things that were already on the floor and even went so far as to jump with both feet onto his keeled over miniature garbage can. However, before Gerald could complete his downward journey a miniscule unevenness of the floor, or maybe an unfelt breeze or possibly the can's own secret free

will, whatever the case, caused the garbage can to move ever so slightly off alignment with Gerald's feet. Whatever the cause the result was the same, he was catapulted onto his back in an undignified, unceremonious and certainly painful manner.

Despite getting the wind knocked out of him, Gerald retained his rage, and a suspicion he could not dismiss that he was being silently laughed at.

Collecting himself from the floor, Gerald had a very unpleasant idea, completely fitting with his character. He suddenly knew how to vent his anger of being dismissed from such a promising settlement suit without the risk of further injury and possible silent, mocking laughter.

Gerald walked over to his desk, pressed the intercom button with excess force and said with a voice devoid of emotion, better to catch her off guard, he thinks. "Miss. Denlauw, come into my office. I'd like to have a word with you."

Ms. Sarah Denlauw was no fool. After putting up with Mindil's antics for three years, she recognized that detecting the emotions in his voice was key for her job. For instance now, she recognized that his absence of emotion actually indicated anger, more probably fury. The fact that he chose not to let her know that he was angry meant that he was trying to ambush her. Instead of having her come in and unloading his anger by telling her why he was angry, he intended to take it out on her. Forewarned is forearmed.

Rising from her desk and walking over to the door, taking as much time as was possible in such a short distance, Sarah began searching in her memory of something, anything, that he could bring up and use against her. Then she began preparing a defense for each thing she could think of.

Slowly, reluctantly, the door opened and she stepped into the room. What she saw caught her completely by surprise. The office was a mess. This was bad, very bad. The king of neat freaks actually trashed his own office. All of her defenses went out the window, forgotten in her surprise, and anger.

He began to yell at her, actually spitting in seeming emphasis to some words. The excuse he used for this excellent example of employee abuse was important files and documents that had yet to be delivered.

He began yelling questions at her, not waiting for answers, because that was not what this was about. "Why aren't you doing your job?!" he yelled, "Why weren't you on the phone, demanding delivery?! Don't you want to work here?!" Apparently forgetting it was his idea to switch couriers for this cheaper, less dependable one.

The whole time he yelled he waved his hands in the air, making nonsensical gestures to emphasize nonsensical points to expel his nonsensical anger.

There was no real defense to this absolute and ridiculous personal attack. The only responses she could give while maintaining her job were apologies and promises to do better next time. And the more apologies and promises she made, the madder she got, until she was in just about as great a fury as he except she did not have an employee to take out her anger on. Then suddenly she remembered. The courier service, they'll pay! She thought about this the rest of his tirade, a mental shield she held up against the verbal brutality of his attack. And the more she thought about it the more she savored it, her eagerness to unleash this fury on those poor, unsuspecting incompetents for whom she was being punished.

"What are you waiting for?! A raise?! Go do your job!" He concluded, snapping her out of her reverie.

She turned on her heel and stomped out, not allowing herself a satisfying door slam, better to save it all for the couriers, she thought.

Harry was the A typical slovenly boss. He wore a stained shirt, fresh as of yesterday, over a beer belly he was extremely dedicated to, tight jeans (on him), and a pair of dirty, hole riddled socks to match his dirty, fall apart sneakers. And to top it all off, he was bald. Harry was never a brave guy. Certainly a bully, but by no stretch of the word was he brave. So when he was called, as overseer of that delivery driver, to explain the reason it had yet to make its delivery, he only had excuses to offer.

"The guy's new. Ah, he called in, says he's lost. He delivered the papers yesterday. No, wait, he doesn't deliver them till tomorrow." Perhaps if he just admitted to error, the mean woman on the phone would have left him alone, but the mood she was in, his dodging and squirming only fueled her batter of verbal abuse.

Harry had never, in all his years, had such a stubborn, bitter person call to complain. Not even all the tricks he had learned in all his fifty years to delegate responsibility could get him off the hook. Eventually, to his sadness and dismay, he found himself giving his real name and ID number to this woman so she could lodge a formal complaint against him. The force and determination of her onslaught had actually made him so eager to get her off his back that he broke his golden rules. Number one-admit nothing. Number two (the most important)-never give your name and ID number.

At first he was relieved when she hung up, even with her promise of further retribution ringing in his ears. But after a while, when the full implications of what he had done, i.e. `fess up to his mistake, hit him, he began to get angry. Being both a coward and a bully made his method of emotion release all the more obvious. He was going to yell at his underlings. Not just the one who didn't make the delivery, but mostly him. Yes, mostly him.

This was Eddie's first week on the job. And what a crappy job it was, he thought. His first week at this third rate courier service was one long nightmare. Starting with his boss, Scary Harry, he was called. Not much of a nickname but then these guys work as couriers, not rocket scientists. Scary Harry was, to put it mildly, a complete nincompoop. He had been unable to tell Eddie what exactly his deliveries were, where they were, or when they had to be made. The man had been working at this place for thirty years and he still didn't know what he was doing. And the guy actually gets promoted. Eddie suspected that this was probably due to his incredible ability to not be held responsible for anything.

Because of the amazing Scary Harry's skill in avoiding trouble, Eddie got blamed for just about everything, right down to paying for long distance phone calls he supposedly made while out driving his delivery truck.

There was very little Eddie could do to defend himself, even he recognized that he was at the bottom of the food chain. So as Scary Harry sat in a chair, squeezed behind his desk, yelling at Eddie, there was really nothing he could do but stand there and take it.

That and get angry.

It was true, Madeline did not go to work, but it was true that she had a job, a very stressful job. She had a little boy, a very demanding little boy. He cried when he was hungry, he cried when he was hurt, he cried and whined all the time in fact. She did love him but she just wished that the little boy she married would grow up. She also had a son to look after as well.

All day Madeline worked, she cooked and cleaned, cleaned and cooked, and did it all over again. It's very difficult to keep the house clean when you have a growing four year old son who delights in the ancient art of wall drawing. Since the cave man days women have had to deal with this obsession boys had to draw on walls.

When her husband, Eddie, returned from work, Madeline was a little distracted by their son. So it was understandable that she did not pick up on the signals. The slamming of the car door, the slamming of the front door, the tripping, swearing, and lastly the tone of voice as he asked the age old question "Where's my dinner?"

And so it began. After a hard days work, putting up with every disaster a four year old can throw at you, she had to listen to this. Unlike others, a wife is definitely not powerless. She had natural born advantages, which no man is prepared to fight. That is when it’s a fair fight.

But Eddie had no intention of having a fair fight. He yelled his anger of being the small guy, the bottom feeder, the one to whom everyone else points the finger at when crap happens, and then wisely got the hell out.

Little Joey paid no attention to the yelling or screaming he could hear. There was much more important things afoot. Careful, careful, there! I did it! Won't mom be pleased! he thought. Little Joey, after much, much practice, had finally mastered the amazing art of individual eye blinkage. Or winking, as its sometimes called.

Overjoyed at his new ability and eager to show it off, he ran to his mother and began tugging her pant leg.

"Look mommy! See what I can do!" he shouted happily, sending several winks her way. No reaction, she just continued staring ahead.

No problem, if there's one thing little boys can do its get the attention of their mother.

Little Joey began circling his mother, slapping her legs as he passed them and winking like there was no tomorrow.

"What are you doing?!" she screamed at him, reaching down and catching him by the shoulder in a painful grasp, bending right into his face. He winked. He winked to save his life.

"Is there something in your eye?"

"No mommy." he said, ever so meekly.

"Then stop doing that!"

Needless to say, little Joey was crushed.

Bruno peered around. He perked his ears. Nothing. He heard, saw no one. So he jumped up on the bed. Bruno was worried, he had heard shouting earlier, then a door slam, then more shouting, then foot stomping up the stairs. At the sound of the footsteps he hopped off the bed and got into his bed, the lumpy bed that no one washed. But no one had shown up, and after he waited what he thought to be a reasonable amount of time the coast seemed clear and up he went.

Bruno circled the bed, searching for the ideal spot to settle down. There, that's it! Bruno thought, settling down. He began to snuggle, shift, trying to get the maximum comfort from the softest spot on the bed. And then he had it.

Bruno began to sleep, to dream, happily twitching his legs as he remembered chasing the mailman. He was totally unaware that he was being watched. And that was when little Joey struck.

Little Joey burst into the room, making as much noise as possible for a four year old boy, quite enough to scare the daylights out of Bruno. Bruno yipped in fright, leaping off the bed and scurrying out of the room, little Joey hot on his heels. Bruno ran all the way down the stairs to the front door, diving through his doggy door.

The words "And stay off my bed!" hounded Bruno as he ran behind the house.

All he wanted to do was lie on a nice clean bed like everyone else, but no, instead he's chased from the house. It just wasn't right.

As Bruno laid there, in the cold grass on the rough ground in his foul mood, a familiar scent came to him. It was the mailman. Normally Bruno would only chase when the mailman was doing his route, but today was special.

As the Angel of Darkness took his afternoon walk, he reviewed his plans. Clean guns, buy more ammunition, and pick up some milk on the way home. For as long as he could remember, that was how he thought of himself, the Angel of Darkness. Of course he believed he was working for god and goodness and that some day, when he walked into the post office and shot and killed, he would actually be killing evil ones. But still he thought of himself as the Angel of Darkness. It certainly sounded better than the Angel of Brightness. All of his life was spent just killing time, waiting for the sign, when god tells him "Its time to kill the wicked, my son!" Truth be told, the Angel of Darkness was getting tired of waiting for the sign, his twisted mind had come up with the idea that maybe no sign was the sign. But until he completely worked his way through that theory he had to operate on the "Wait for Sign" theory.

A dog's mouth clamped over the Angel of Darkness’s hand. The nerves in his hand reported that he was hurt, a lot, but the Angel of Darkness did not believe he could be hurt so he dismissed the sense of pain.

Suddenly he realized the oddity of the situation. He was a mailman on earth, and mailmen get bit by dogs. But he wasn't doing his route, it was completed in the morning while this was the evening.

Realization flooded the Angel of Darkness’s diseased brain. “THIS IS THE SIGN!” bounced around in his head, growing louder and louder, until he could hear nothing else.

He put his head back and released a frightening laugh, one devoid of thought. Unbeknownst to the Angel of Darkness, the dog let go at the sound of his laugh.

The angel of Darkness ran the rest of the way home, milk forgotten, to prepare for tomorrow, for Armageddon.

When Gerald Mindil walked into the post office that morning he never expected this to happen. Of all the times for a postman to go, well, postal, why did he, Gerald Mindil, have to be there? He just could not understand. He was a good man, he paid his taxes, treated his secretary right, always had a kind word for people. Why him?

Gerald just did not know what the world was coming to. And then the crazy man began shooting.

Gerald was one of the first ones to go down, and as he lay dying, he heard the madman's words in his head. "Punish the wicked!" Bull, Gerald thought, he just wants revenge for a crappy life! But I never did anything to him. Why me?

By Andrew Bomberry