The Postmen’s pants were crisply ironed, a tailored blend of polyester and cotton. Their breast pockets shone with zinc alloy pins as they stood in a circle for their morning greeting.
From the dusk of the doorway leading to the sorting room, the Head Postman emerged, the brim of his navy blue tricorne shadowing his eyes. He steadily walked into the middle of the circle.
“Good morning!”
The other Postmen replied in unison.
“Good morning!”
The Head Postman rotated, meeting each face as he spoke.
“Before we talk of any other affairs, I would like to cut straight to what you all must have heard. One of our finest, Postman Ernest P. Lester, suffered a terrible mustard attack yesterday and was put in critical condition.”
Each Postman could hear himself breathing through his nose.
“I’m pleased to report that, due to the fine service of the Heavenly Order Hospital, his condition is now stabilized, and late last night he was allowed to leave the hospital.”
Everyone was prepared with a serious demeanor.
“Despite the terrible pain he’s suffering on every inch of his body, his only request was that he be brought in to work today.”
The Head Postman visibly held back tears. Until now speaking with the cadence of duty, he now quacked a frightening, throat cutting falsetto.
“All, salute!”
The Postmen shuffled and shouted in unison, simultaneously delivering the Postman’s Salute. The Head Postman regained composure.
“We summon you, Ernest Lester!”
All repeat. “We summon you, Ernest Lester!”
The Heavenly Order Hospital Head Nurse, in her ceremonial cornette, wheeled Ernest out from the unlit sorting room. His Postman’s Hat was pinned to the bandages which covered his entire head, face and hands, the only parts of his body jutting out of his uniform. Hot steam rolled off his gabardine creases.
As he was wheeled to the center of the circle, the Postmen held their salutes.
A red, fat, moustachioed man sweat on his clean white shirt, shoulder pads, and body armor. A holstered glock lay on one side of his hips and a radio on the other. He spoke with a broken, dirty voice.
“The Court of the Second Judicial Circuit, Criminal Division, is now in session, the Honorable Judge Beatrice Princebear presiding.”
Judge Beatrice, a young woman with round cheekbones, squinty eyes, and a large, wavy hairstyle scowled at the defendant, a 7 year old boy with short spiky hair in an enormous white t-shirt, his lips and eyes large, moist, and wavering.
“Mr. Piecemeal, what is today’s case?” Beatrice snarled from her upper lip.
The moustachioed man, who seemed to have been about to doze off, snapped into attention and pulled a post-it note from his pocket.
“Your Honor, today’s case is Lester vs….”
The man squinted and brought the note within a centimeter of his face.
“That’s strange, the defendant’s name seems to be crossed out. It’s the case of Lester vs…. this young man here,” gesturing to the trembling boy in the shirt-dress.
Judge Princebear audibly huffed and cocked her mouth further, banging her gavet.
“What is this?? What’s your name, little boy?”
Denied an attorney due to the brutal nature of his crime, the boy sat alone. Clearly shocked by the sudden request to speak, he opened his mouth and started popping his lips, only stuttering fragments of syllables, his eyes wide and terrified.
Judicia slammed her gavet several times.
“I said, what’s your name, boy??”
Mr. Piecemeal, still trying to decipher his note, raised his hand.
“Your Honor, I apologize for the confusion. It looks like it says ‘Brandon.’ So, the name of the case is Lester vs. Brandon.”
Beatrice again impatiently huffed through her nose.
“The name of the case doesn’t matter. Let’s hear from the prosecution,” dramatically slamming her gavel before slouching with arms crossed.
A delegation of five Postmen, acting in place of an attorney for their comrade, walked to the podium, pausing when they passed in front of the judge to bow to her in unison. They stood two by three at the podium at parade rest. One of the Postmen saluted before relaxing his pose to speak into the mic. The other four held their poses while he spoke.
“Your Honor, thank you for the chance to present our testimony. While going about his duty, our brave comrade, Ernest P. Lester, was brutally and mercilessly splashed with a bucket of hot Chinese mustard by this despicable defendant, who hid for hours, hours! behind a bush at a home where the Postman delivers, silently and sneakily waiting for him alone, clearly showing the calculated and malicious nature of the crime. He had no reason to target Postman Lester other than his hatred for all that’s good and his desire to drag the world into the chaos and misery in which he himself surely dwells. We request prompt and harsh public punishment, so that this great and noble society may make clear that evil will not be tolerated and that unpunished sinners will burn in hell. We also would like once again to salute our brave comrade and urge all present to console him in his pain.”
Ernest sat limp in his wheelchair, his face a basketball of bandages. He showed no movement or reaction to the proceedings, head turned downward, until he could hear the other Postmen salute him, which he returned with a straightened back and bandage-mittened hand.
Brandon's downcast frown dug deep into the natural grains of the witness stand.
I sat several rows back, watching with a group of other 7 year olds who had come to support our friend, all of us in oversized T-shirts of various colors.
Beside me, teeth clenched and mouth square, face blood-red, frothing and crying, mumbling fragments of rage at the scene before her, was the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, who I loved on that day and still love now, the cause of all of the pain in my life, who has always been and remained my sole desire, towards whom or from whom I’ve always been running, every day, without any rest or consolation, a bright flame, an angel, a fool and witch, a crumpled, thrown-away piece of paper, a waste and my damnation, the incorrigible Lady Heist.
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Sliding doors floated open like curtains, revealing the steamy world of the thermal bath house.
Brandon, in his Junior Postman’s hat and suit, saluted upon entrance. The Bath Girls at the desk, wrapped in white towels, bowed as he approached. Accustomed to his daily visit, they beckoned him inside.
“Thank you for your visit today. The honorable Postman is waiting.”
Brandon nodded and walked through the tiled, white foggy room through the next sliding doors, into a further labyrinth of white, foggy rooms. In each main hub room he was greeted by a new batch of bath girls, who directed him toward the bath chamber where Ernest Lester was waiting.
After about thirty minutes in this maze of steamy whiteness, he reached a private chamber, where Ernest’s personal assistants, two newly ordained Postmen, waited in full uniform. Brandon halted erect, and yelled with earnest energy, shaping a vigorous Postman’s Salute.
“Honorable Postmen! I, a lowly Junior Postman, have come to clean the wounds of Master Postman Lester! Please grace this miserable Junior with entry!”
The whole thermal bathhouse was roughly 80 degrees Celsius, and the two Guardian Postmen returned the Salute dripping with sweat. Brandon was similarly garbed, though in a kid-size version, marked with red polka dots to signify that he was not yet an ordained Postman.
“Welcome Junior Postman! The Master Postman is waiting!”
Brandon released his salute, bowed deeply, and proceeded through the now opened, transparent sliding doors.
The small room on the other side was even hotter, dark save for two clear spotlights on a large lotus shaped structure in the center of the room. Swirling steam writhed over the wet, organic ground. Brandon announced himself.
“I disgrace you with my presence, Master!”
The mechanical lotus slowly bloomed, rotating to reveal a seated Ernest P. Lester, entire head and hands still covered in bandages, privates covered by a white, vinegared towel, skin a mix of leathery black, red, and grey.
A small square was cut over his mouth so he could speak from the cocoon around his head, on top of which was pinned his Master Postman’s bicorne.
“Brandon, thank you for coming. Please, tear away at this ruined skin.”
Brandon came every day to care for Ernest, who needed daily skin grafts.
“Yes sir!” Brandon responded as he kneeled next to Ernest and peeled off a layer of dead skin, depositing the refuse into a waste bag.
The process took around four hours every day. Most of the time passed in silence, save for the sounds of the squishy floor, the mechanical lotus emitting steam, and of Ernest’s peeling, oily skin. Despite the intense heat, Brandon refrained from water out of respect, sweating profusely in his Junior Postman’s suit. Every day his consciousness would start to waver by the end of the session, his vision would turn red, and he would continue applying putty using only his sense of touch. Today was no different.
As the grafting began to draw to a close, Ernest turned toward Brandon and removed his hat, placing his bandage mittens on Brandon’s cheeks.
“Brandon, I want you to know… you’re such a good boy…”
Ernest’s voice wavered under his bandages as he stroked Brandon’s hair through 7 layers of gauze.
“You’re going to be a wonderful Postman...”
“Yes sir!” Brandon yelled, stiffly delivering a salute.
August 18th, 19XX. The hottest day recorded in 107 years, and I, scythe in hand, was collecting wheat for threshing, strand after strand, which I added to a bundle I bore on my back. There was a strict no-hydration rule, including attempts to drink one’s own sweat, and perpetrators were promptly beaten after being flagged down with a whistle. We all wore our Junior Postman uniforms, ironed and folded to perfection, masterpieces of fashion, an exaltation of the flesh.
I looked through the rows of scythes, all perfectly in sync, slashing wheat to the rhythm with which we sang The Junior Postman’s Hymn.
Look up, young lad, away, away!
Forsake your old life, be a Postman today!
Who’s brave and noble, meek and wise,
Who never forgets to tie his ties.
Three rows away was Lady Heist, in her gorgeous Young Postlady’s uniform, similar to mine and the other boys’ save for its elegant cut which accentuated her delicate body, and her skirt which tastefully rested below her knees, forming an elegant angle with her black high heels, which now dug into the moist, warm loam. I fixed my gaze sideways towards her as the same breeze that blew the grass blew her hair. The Superior Postmen stationed to watch us didn’t notice me, but Brandon, scything next to me, did. His disapproving scowl opened a pit in my heart.
A group of kids madly lapped at the trough in the Junior Postman’s Stable, filled to the brim with our daily feed of chicken hearts, as others exhaustedly tore off their Postman’s coat and trousers, revealing loose loincloths, our only clothing other than our uniforms, our oversized shirts long having been burnt as part of our Initiation Ceremony. I threw my whole outfit on the ground, knowing I’d wash it again soon anyway. Pushing others aside, Brandon strode forcefully over to me, his tie still perfectly knotted as he grasped my shoulder bones sharply and spoke into my ear.
“I can’t stand how you look at Lady Heist. You’ll never understand her.”
Ever since he had been spared the death penalty with the condition that he and all of us his friends be trained to become Postmen, I’d grown used to Brandon’s fanaticism and zeal, but now he seemed out of control in a way different than usual.
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I do either.”
“Then why were you looking at her like that?”
I stared at him for a second while struggling to come up with what to say.
“I wasn’t.”
Brandon grabbed my neck and snarled from his nose, exhaling onto my face deliberately several times before intensely annunciating every word.
“Lady Heist bears a great burden...”
His face cherry red and perfectly drenched, he rested his forehead onto mine, hissing through his teeth.
“We’re 8 now… everything has changed. You can’t keep thinking like a 7 year old.”
Confused and defensive, I let Brandon talk. His voice slowed and shrunk to a whisper blown directly into my fossa.
“She’s going to do it…”
After saying this, Brandon backed away from me, panting and glaring like a gorilla, until his eyes rolled back into whites and he regained consciousness, just when it seemed like he was about to pass out. He fixed his posture, did the Postmen’s Salute, and walked away.
All of the kids were motionless and silent as we slept in parallel lines in the Post Auditorium, lit by the moon through the enormous Palladian windows. The kids were all motionless and silent as the Postmen Superiors patrolled the room. I subtly shifted my gaze towards Lady Heist laying next to me, her thick lashes closed and that noble face relaxed in a vulnerable and neutral state. Seeing her, my every pore ached, nerve ends screaming for some reciprocation. Her beauty violently spun the world out of balance, leaving me sick, disturbed, and wrong. I could in no way justify trying to speak to her now, but I did anyway.
“Hey, Lady Heist…. are you awake….”
Without moving she opened one eye sharply, directly at me.
“What?”
“I just… I really like working with you.”
At that moment, poor Little Freddy three rows over was caught looking at a comic book under his blankets. A web of Postmen Superiors descended on him, repeatedly blowing their whistles and flashing their flashlights on and off in his face. Freddy cried, mouth agape, as his comic book was torn from him. Only I could hear Lady Heist over the noisy cacophony.
“That's what you have to say to me? Well I can’t fucking stand you! You make me fucking miserable! It’s because of you that I hate this world and my life is a living hell. And you say you’re fucking happy? You say you’re fucking happy? Heaven fucking vomits at your rotten existence you cunt. How dare you say you’re happy in this fucking hell we’re in. You’re a pathetic parasite who will drain and drain until we’re all dead. And we are almost dead!”
My body tensed up and I tried to think of what to say.
“Well, I didn’t say I was happy. I didn’t really mean anything. I just said I like…”
“And now the fucking excuses. You always have to run from what you say.. All you say is, no, that’s not what I meant, I didn’t mean for that to happen, whatever. Pathetic. Weakling. I hate you. Why are you alive? I wish you’d fucking die.”
Little Freddy was handcuffed and dragged out of auditorium, limp and lifeless after his comic book was torn to shreds in front of his eyes. The open doors, over which the words “THE PATH OF THE POSTMAN IS THE PATH OF LOVE” were spelled in enormous letters made from thousands of balloons, revealed a world of yellow lights outside the auditorium before being swiftly shut again. We knew that was the last we’d ever see of Freddy.
Lady Heist immediately shifted back into a sleeping position. In the momentarily lax supervision, I pulled a phial out of my undies, full of Children’s Whisky, and chugged.
In my dream, we were in the fields where we worked, but there were no Superiors, no scythes, the light was soft and golden, and the landscape continued endlessly.
In a small clearing, Lady Heist was asleep or dead on a stone bed, her unleashed hair blowing over her lids and lips. Both of us were clad in the true costume of our tribe, those enormous dress-like T-shirts.
Her hands held a bouquet of strange, dried flowers, long, brown stems and thin, white petals.
I slowly floated towards her, running my hand through the grass as I approached.
For sometime I stared at her lifeless, beautiful body before kneeling beside her. Irresistably, I took the flowers from her hands.
As I stared at the dead corollas, and then at the sleeping Lady Heist, the stems gradually crumbled into jet black ash, and the petals erupted in flames, swiftly spreading to my hands, arms, and head.
It was when I tried to scream that I noticed this world had no sound.
Lady Heist continued to sleep expressionless and unaffected as I, and the field around us, burned.
Sorting the mail from the Great Central Postal Center into a complex system of cubbies, from whence the Senior Postmen would fill their bags to deliver the post, was my squad’s responsibility, and I was currently working through a massive pile. Beside me, some other kids, including Brandon, were doing the same. The clock chimed 2 pm, at which we all stopped our work and stood to recite the Junior Postmen’s Creed.
“I, a lowly Junior Postmen, will strive again today for excellence in post, and offer as a sacrifice my life for the honor to one day become a Senior Postmen…”
As we were doing this, which we did every hour, Lady Heist unceremoniously entered the room.
“Run,” she said, firmly, blankly.
Brandon, breast adorned with the radiant star of the Junior Excellence Medal, immediately stood up, nodded, and began following her. The rest of us continued reciting the Creed, looking at each other to express our mutual confusion.
Brandon paused at the door and turned back to us.
“Did you hear her? Run!”
Before we had a chance to react, a deafening alarm went off along with pulsing red lights.I heard a choir of terrible screams coming from the other room, along with the overpowering smell of Chinese mustard.
Not knowing what else to do, I began running to follow Brandon and Lady Heist. Leaving the sorting room, the door to the Senior Postmen’s Rest Chamber, usually locked and inaccessible to us, was wide open. Chinese mustard was still pouring from the ventilation, onto a mess of writhing and smoking Postman bodies, ripped through with and destroyed by mustard powder and salt.
Their backs and stomachs jutted in weird patterns as if something were trying to push out from them, until finally opening to pour out gallons of mustard, worms, and jellyfish. The Postmen’s Emblem, erected in red glass on the wall, reflected necks being elongated, spinal cords melted, and brains gorging into a mess of sponges. Crying heads spun about the room as if mixed in a soup.
We continued down the hall, blocked by Master Postmen Ernest Lester, who had crawled out and was grabbing Brandon by the pant leg.
“Brandon… Brandon… how could you!!!!”
Ernest had exerted his last spurts of life to grab onto Brandon, who, without acknowledging Ernest as anything other than a piece of trash in his way, kicked him aside. The bandages fell off of Ernest’s face to reveal enormous, melted, crying empty sockets and a mouth of the same shape, face pierced with holes as if he been repeatedly stabbed with a pencil. His face twisted into a sadder and sadder expression until finally engorging, as his spine cracked and his whole body turned into a mush of brains and blood, his last words echoing behind.
“Brandon… Brandon… help me… please! no! noooo!!!!”
We kept running, dodging Postman after Postman, all writhing, dying, melting, and exploding on the floor below us, all of us kids shielded from the Chinese mustard attack. Lady Heist led the way until we finally reached the Main Gate, and, bursting it open, were met with a blast of pure white light.
In slow motion, as if obeying our instincts, we took off our Junior Postman coats, covers, blouses, trousers, or in Lady Heist’s case, skirt, hoes, and heels, until the oversized shirts which had been confiscated and burned when we joined the ranks of the Postmen miraculously reappeared on our bodies after all these months. Any of us could have collapsed onto the ground at the moment, only some defiant synapse forcing our legs to keep upright and moving us forward. We kept on running through this huge town, whose name we had never learned. For the last year, the Post Office had been our world, but now it was just another small and locked off building, of which hundreds rested on every block. Throughout Monkey Alley, which was near the Post Compound, vulgar and violent mustachioed men tried to sell us boiled monkeys.
We ran through the Knife District, Oil Factories, and Bowling Alleys. We jumped over convenience store counters and darted through trap doors. Through a strange maze of fences, we sprinted through hundreds of neighborhoods.
After days of running, trees began to appear, along with lakes, rivers, and mountains. Grasslands lit by an endless evening, streams where we drank with our tongues like dogs. We slept on cliff sides under the moon, and hid in frigid grottos under the desert. Caravans passed from kingdom to kingdom. We adopted the customs of manifold empires, bowing to one king or god in one land, and later, in different dress, saluting another, always hiding our t-shirts underneath.
We passed ocean lights and suburban, sleeping roads, city waterways and winding alley stairs. We killed baby deer and let them rot on altars, drawn like moths around a great light.
Now, settling for the night in this forest of firs we’ve been lost in all summer, I watch a fox-colored sunset splash into a lake. Brandon and Lady Heist settle into their royal yurt, while the rest of us prepare to keep watch through the night.
Just as I once sweat in my Junior Postmen uniform out in the fields, I’m still sweating here. It hurts when I breathe. My eyes twitch incessantly and I vomit when I eat. Sores have enlarged and leak pus on my legs. I can't sleep at night for my agonizing hemmhoroids.
As I write this the sky has turned pitch black, and the white moon illuminates endless slopes of firs. I imagine a pale and enormous flame, towering far up into the sky, sending burnt specks into the moon, that hole in the firmament, a portal into nothingness, a vanishing illusion, just as I throw myself into the future.
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Ending theme:
Brandon (vocals), Lady Heist (guitar), narrator (bass, backing vocals in chorus) and Little Freddy (drums) perform the following song in full Senior Postmen regalia as the credits roll.