He had a vague
idea, as everyone does, about the behind-the-scenes workings at his local post
office.
It seemed a
herculean, impossible and tedious task to go through literally thousands of
pieces of mail every day, trying to read people’s handwriting or smudged
labels, sorting everything, and distributing it all to the appropriate receptacles.
Elves? Maybe elves.
How the hell do you
get elves? Traps?
He smiled to himself
as he imagined tiny elves working away feverishly in the back room.
Collecting his packages
from one of the parcel lockers, he never saw the small bloody handprint on the
wall.
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