A mailman is driven mad by the endless stream of junk he is required to deliver; by Jeff Weddle.
The sheer weight of this mail is staggering. Jack figures that over the years he's carried more than seven tons of junk mail for more than a hundred miles. His feet ache just at the notion.
He starts reading stories in the paper about disgruntled postal workers. There was a guy in Omaha who went crazy and shot up the post office. Another fellow in Maine did the same thing. It seems like every time he turns around another postal worker has blown his co-workers away.
The thing he can't figure about it is why the newspaper stories always refer to these guys as "disgruntled." What kind of word is that, anyway? Jack thinks of a number of words that might describe the way he feels: dismayed, disorderly, dissatisfied, distended, upset, pissed off, enraged, perplexed, mad, angry, insane, sore, queasy, sad, loopy, irregular. But disgruntled? Too tame. Too tame especially for those guys already over the edge, the ones who brought their guns to work.
He starts hoarding the bulk rate material. He's supposed to deliver everything assigned to his route. To do otherwise is a felony. Jack doesn't care. He starts keeping it and stashing it in his house. Maybe if it doesn't get to the potential customers the advertisers will see their investment is costing them money and will cut it out. Maybe Jack will single handedly bring down the junk mail industry. The savings in trees alone would be staggering.
Soon his living room is filled with flyers from Food Town and K-Mart. BIG SALE THIS WEEK! UNBELIEVABLE VALUES! Next to them sit the Publisher's Clearinghouse envelopes. Big, thick, hideous bundles of waste. They make a huge pile right next to Jack's rubber tree plant.
A couple of weeks of this and Jack is running out of room. He's got a small place anyway, and the junk mail just keeps on coming. His kitchen fills up, his bedroom, his bath. One day his supervisor calls him into the office. Says there's a problem. Says it seems like some of the mail isn't being delivered.
"Frankly, we're concerned. We can't help wondering where all this mail is going."
Jack doesn't respond at first. He sits there looking at his supervisor. Both are aware that he - Jack - looks like hell. What with the Kroger circulars in his tub, he hasn't been able to shower in five days.
"We want to help you, Jack. We want to make sure the mail gets through."
"DON'T MISS BIG BARGAIN DAYS!" says Jack. His supervisor looks nervous. Sweat forms on his face. There is a button on his desk and he pushes it. "YOUR IMMEDIATE ATTENTION IS REQUESTED!" says Jack. "DATED MATERIAL, OPEN AT ONCE!"
The office door opens and two big men in postal uniforms enter. They look to the supervisor for instructions.
We've got one, boys," he says. "Careful, now."
The bigger of the men leaps on Jack and wrestles him to the floor.
"NOBODY BEATS OUR PRICES!" says Jack. "WE WILL NOT BE UNDERSOLD!"
The big man holds Jack down while the smaller one applies the restraints, the gag, hood and irons. Together they drag him out of the supervisor's office, down the hall and to the room that is kept for just this purpose.
The supervisor has a pretty good idea where the mail has gotten to. He calls and arranges for someone to check out Jack's place and retrieve anything, um, unusual, they find. He looks at a pile of applications gathering dust on his desk. It's hard to get a job with the post office. Good hours, good pay. Benefits. He's going to make someone very happy.
The supervisor picks up the first application from the pile and starts dialing a phone number. He's thinking to himself, absolutely without irony, SATISFACTION GUARANTEED!