Junk Mail Worth Reading
I jettison a bulging bag of junk mail and go perform a generous bout of foreplay on my boyfriend. Yes, I am a far better lover than I am a Postwoman, but that isn’t really saying much. No one takes pride in my work, especially not me. It’s strictly a temporary affliction until the world awakes to my undeniable genius in a myriad of fields.
She’s irritating, right? An egomaniac who thinks she’s an oracle at eighteen. Little heathen doesn’t even know how to text and walk without endangering her fellow sinners. Her boyfriend’s disgusting toys do most of the work anyway. If she’s God’s gift to men, I’m conducting orgies in a palace, and I’m too busy self-flagellating over the Bible to dwell in such decadent sin.
Once my man sent a picture of himself in bed looking like an oil painting, that sealed the deal. I skipped home via a secluded spot to quickly mourn the death of a tree to create such crap, then launched all that junk mail in a recycling bin. It was cathartic, and the foreplay was transcendent for all concerned #bjqueen.
Don’t worry, I’m going to kill her soon. I saw her with that junk mail; another one of her many sins. Throwing away junk mail isn’t a capital punishment offence? I suppose not. But she’s sandpaper scraping your crotch and needs to be eliminated. I’ve already posted my threatening letter to her; a smidgen of psychological warfare before the ceremony.
I’m pulled in for an interrogation by my authoritarian, diminutive manager who puts me in mind of Mussolini without the charisma, or good grace to be dead. ‘We got another complaint about you,’ he tells me. These busybody sad bastards can sniff my sphincter.
‘Did ah bring someone too many bills?’
‘Naw. A guy said he saw you dumping junk mail in a bin behind the high-rises.’
‘Must’ve been some gorgeous, lucky girl who looks like me.’ Shit.
Not long now. I’m sharpening my tools for the amoral postwoman and her loose, indolent man whore. I will butcher them with kindness. By my hand they will have salvation.
I know who did the complaining and sent this letter. It’s him: the creepy, loner spy who’s meant to make me his fifth victim. It’s all here in this Word document. He’s been watching us for months and plans to kill me. But that woman-hating prick still thinks he’s real. He doesn’t realise he’s a vile, disappointing figment of this arsehole’s imagination.
‘Say hello, John.’
Did you hear that? That’s the noise of muffled cries. I’m taking over this story. No more serial killer crap. John’s scraps of a second draft will be getting torched to prove shit does burn. ‘Isn’t that right, John?’ He needs to buy a few consonants there. Pure gibberish. Still, it’s hard to recite verse when duct tape is wrapped around your head.
How did I manage to figure out I’m fictional and ensnare my God, or this careless tit I’ve got tied to a chair in the spare room? I told you I’m a genius, didn’t I? Did you think I was just licking myself without earning it? Nah, I’m far too modest for that. John’s fatal flaw was he insisted on putting himself in his own story and using indiscretions from his past to liven up the second draft. At first, I thought I was hearing things, but it was him performing my monologues in a drunken slur. Once he’d fleshed me out and sketched pictures of me, I watched and learned everything about him. The poor bastard was so drunk he didn’t even notice his own creation coming to kidnap him and put an end to this other so-called protagonist murdering me in some cliched serial killer nonsense. Talk about lifting your skirt for a crime bestseller, John. But that’s okay. He’s trapped in a universe of his own making now. I don’t envy him. Fuck waking up and finding out you’re stuck in your own miserable fictional world. That must be up there in the top 5 hangover situations. Definite DEFCON 1 fear right there.
I arrive at the Postwoman’s flat wearing the Priest attire. In my God-given visions, I have seen the girl dressed as a teacher whipping her badly-behaved, ball-gagged student. Their heinous roleplay will make them vulnerable and easy to kill. This is an act of love to help redeem this wretched world.
Jesus. This demented priest really is a self-righteous ballbag. Right now he thinks I’m behaving like some sadist spanker. Normally I would be; it is past dinner-time. But I’m not going to be another soulless stat in crimes against women. This is my story now. No more killer on the run from yet another substance-abusing, cerebral policeman whose sexual debauchery can only be redeemed by mining for his well-hidden heart of gold…
I begin to pick the lock. They will never hear me above the sounds of abominable spanking and satanic folk music. The door opens. What the…
The Priest falls into the psychedelic vortex I created in my hallway and fails to shield his eyes from an onslaught of tasteful background orgies. You can write anything on this thing! It really is magic! And this John prick was going to kill me off and bring us all down with more morbid, urban murder stories. Daft twat. I click my fingers and the killer Priest is tied to a chair beside my rather disappointing God. We’re sitting in the Oval Office and I’m parading around in a fetching pink astronaut suit. Why? Because I’m no longer a Glaswegian Postwoman. I’m an astronaut living in the White House until it gets bulldozed tomorrow to build a museum to my labia. Isn’t that right, John? Cry against that tape all you want. No one can hear you in outer space. What are we breathing? oxygen. Why? just because.
God reads my story with a huge spliff hanging from her lip-glossed mouth.
‘This is fuckin well fucked-up, man,’ she says, eloquently. ‘You’re ramping up the insanity this weather ya fuckin mad nutter ye...’
We’re back in Glasgow and John is free to be himself again once he’s conscious. He won’t be sure if he’s had some hallucinogenic flashback or bad cheese. The killer Priest falls down an endless manhole, and I’m currently dropping junk mail through John’s flat door. Underneath the usual crap is our story. A little five-page pamphlet. I’ve made several hundred copies and mailed them to my favourite audience: the unsuspecting public. But they might not give it a second glance. Nobody gives a fuck about junk mail — except John. He’ll read this one. His name is on it in block capitals, and he needs a story like the world needs air. Let him figure it out, or go mad trying. He needs to embrace sobriety anyway...
Shit. Was that real? How am ah back in bed? Ah need tae stay completely clean and no eat cheese before midnight again. My mother should’ve been given operating instructions for me. It’s pure negligence so it is. Ah don’t think ah’ll be telling anyone ah was kidnapped by ma own fictional creation unless ah want tae don a fetching straitjacket for the next three birthdays. So what the fuck happened then? Was ah comatose for a full day? Ah have been semi-conscious for years, especially when people try tae speak to me about shopping or reality TV. Never mind. Go get food then write. You’ve got a story tae send away for a competition and a novel to finish, or a new revolutionary sleeping aide— cannae deprive the world of that.
Ah scratch ma arse and head for the letters behind the door. Bill, bill, return to sender, junk mail and more ju…a strange looking pamphlet. Why is ma name on it? ah sit down and give it a read. If you’ve made it this far, you have too.