I was hoping—really, desperately hoping—that after the whole "Button incident," I'd catch a break. Maybe a nice, normal package. Something simple, like socks. But no. This job laughs in the face of hope.
My app pinged with obnoxious cheer: NEW DROP ASSIGNED. PRIORITY: HIGH. CLIENT: MR. VINCENT GRUMBLE. SPECIAL NOTE: HANDLE WITH CARE.
I muttered a curse and grabbed my helmet. "Let's get this over with."
The address was close, but it looked like the set of every bad haunted house movie: peeling paint, a porch that sagged like it had given up on life, and a mailbox that literally snarled as I parked. The porch light flickered ominously, because of course it did.
I rang the bell. Instantly, the door whipped open like it was mad at me. A tall, bony man with deep-set eyes and the energy of someone perpetually displeased loomed over me.
"You're LATE!" he barked.
I blinked. "Uh, I'm actually five minutes early."
"TOO FAST!" he snapped, snatching the package from my hands. "This is unacceptable! You've disrupted the cosmic balance!"
"...By being on time?"
Mr. Grumble glared, shaking the box. It hissed. We both froze.
"Did... did that thing just hiss?" I asked, stepping back.
"It wasn't ready yet!" he growled. "You delivered it too soon—it's AWAKENED PREMATURELY!"
With a tearing sound, the box burst open. Out came a flying snake—yes, flying. With teeny, angry wings. It zoomed around the room, knocking over a lamp and dive-bombing my head.
"THIS IS YOUR FAULT!" Grumble shrieked, swinging a broom like a maniac.
"HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW?!" I yelled, ducking as the snake buzzed my ear.
The next ten minutes were pure chaos: broken vases, a shattered chandelier, Mr. Grumble trying to trap the snake with a colander, me hiding behind the couch yelling unhelpful advice. Finally, the snake zipped into the kitchen and disappeared down the garbage disposal with a victorious hiss.
We collapsed, gasping. Grumble adjusted his tie, looking scandalized. "Well. That was dreadful."
My phone buzzed: DELIVERY COMPLETE. 3-STAR RATING.
"Three stars?!" I shouted. "You hit me with a broom!"
He handed me a coupon for 50% off coffin polishing. I staggered outside, defeated.
But the universe wasn't done with me.
As I started my moped, the mailbox growled. Again. I gave it the finger and roared off, my phone buzzing ominously: NEXT DROP PENDING. STAY READY.
I stopped at a run-down diner to recover, scarfing down greasy fries and nursing a soda. My reflection in the window gave me a thumbs-up—literally, it moved on its own—and I almost spat out my drink.
"Great," I muttered. "Even my reflection thinks I'm an idiot."
Suddenly, a waitress appeared, sliding into the booth. Only... she wasn't a waitress. Her name tag flickered, letters changing too fast to read. Her smile was sharp, unsettling.
"You're Ray, right?" she purred.
"Who's asking?"
"Company representative." She handed me a tiny scroll. "Special complaint forms. For situations like Mr. Grumble's."
I unrolled it. It was blank.
"Uh... thanks?"
She leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "Word of advice? Don't open the next package. Not even a peek."
I blinked. "How do you—"
But she was gone. Just like that.
I shivered. Maybe it was the fries. Or the ghost waitress.
Back on the road, the app chimed again: NEW DROP INCOMING. CLIENT: UNKNOWN. PACKAGE: FRAGILE. WARNING: DO NOT LISTEN TO IT.
Oh good. More ominous instructions.
I pulled up to an empty lot. Nothing there except weeds and an old bench. But the app insisted: DELIVER HERE. WAIT FOR PICKUP.
I waited.
And waited.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, something shimmered. A figure flickered into view—a woman with no face, just a mouth stretching ear to ear.
She reached out for the package.
I hesitated. "Uh... signature?"
She didn't answer. Just smiled wider.
Against every survival instinct, I handed it over.
She vanished.
My phone pinged: DELIVERY COMPLETE. 5 STARS. BONUS AWARDED.
I checked the bonus: one (1) cryptic fortune cookie.
Breaking it open, I read the slip: "The eyes are watching. Do not blink."
"...Okay," I whispered. "I am so quitting tomorrow."
But we both know I wouldn't.
The wind howled as I sped off, phone buzzing: NEXT DROP: STAY ALERT.
Because in this job, there's no such thing as a real break.