What the fuck is that?
Kill, growls the Hound of Satan. Fucking Kill!
All right, all right, all right. Jesus Christ, give me a minute.
I get to the door and whoever it was is gone, but the Hound of Satan is on the trail and streaks past me in a flying ball of spit and brimstone, trailing a Doppler-shifted snarl as he makes straight for the postman’s moving van and sinks his fangs into the rear wheel. Rotating Hound of Satan.
Jesus, howya John. Sorry I didn’t hear you knocking sooner.
No bother Bock, says cheery smiling John Postman.
Snarl!! threatens the Hound, but John the Postman only laughs.
He might bite you, John, I warn.
Not a bit of it, laughs John the Postman. I have a few of these fellas meself at home. And he waves a bunch of letters the Hound. Haven’t I? Yes I have.
The Hound snatches the bunch of letters out of his hand and runs away with them, spitting out bits of chewed paper into the pissing rain while snarling threats over his shoulder. You have nothing like me, Motherfucker!
John is the coolest postman I have ever known. Here Bock, he says. It’s a box of something from somewhere.
I know what it is, I tell him. It’s that clever pair of plug-in things that I got from the internet at a quarter the Price Currys were asking in their half-price sale, the thieving bastards with bad after-sales service. And other shit. Bastards.
No way!! John celebrates. Does this mean you’l be able to surf the web in your north-tower eyrie from now on?
Sure does, John, but what about your letters?
Oh, yeah. Right, he agrees. My letters.
So we pick up the sodden, saliva-riddled pieces of former documents, bills, billets-doux, summonses and poison-pen threats.
John is very gracious about it. Not to worry, he says.
I awkwardly proffer the bottle of wine I’ve been holding. Happy Christmas, John. You’re a good postman.
He seems taken aback. Jesus, Bock. Eh, thanks.
Enjoy it, I tell him.
Damn fucking right I will, he says.
Grrrrrr, says the Hound.
Grrrrr, says John, and the Hound slinks away, defeated.