Spamkiller Made Flesh

(previously published in the UK's underground idiocy compendium Blowback magazine - the title above is a link - in July 2005. And I didn't get any money for it, so copyright's still mine. Muhahahahahaha.)

DRINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!

Feeling as if some disgruntled farmer had emptied a month’s worth of slurry from his Cotswold cattle farm into my frontal lobes, I spill from my bed towards the intercom.

“…hello…,” I manage.

“Hello there! I’m a courier here to deliver a letter. I’ve got to leave it at the boxes.”

This sounded fair enough, but being security-conscious of my apartment block – I once watched a Community Liason Security Officer from West Midlands Police break into this building with nothing but a Swiss Army knife – I grab my dressing-gown and head downstairs.

The chap looks rather surprised that I haven’t just buzzed him in through the door from my flat to just get on with it. Come to think of it, I am quite surprised, as I could be back in bed by now.

The fella is a somewhat dishevelled character, more Birmingham Evening Mail streetbox seller than “courier” – a position which spoke to me of shiny, finely-tuned motorcycles, leathers, helmets, club patches, day-glo bags and clipboards of delivery dockets. Conversely, our man is on foot, short, squat and unshaven, with thick-lensed glasses perched on an upward-tilting snout. His mucky canvas bag and overalls perfect the mechanic vision.

I expect to sign something on behalf of someone. Instead, the mole-like creature shuffles past me, and I notice a perceptible whiff of the unclean. This was looking less like Parcelforce every minute.

He approaches the postboxes, and pulls from his shabby satchel a clutch of advertising flyers – junk mail – heralding a major local property sales and rental firm. One by one, he begins to insert them in each of the pigeonholes. I watch him, even as he drops one in my own slot. Perhaps becoming uncomfortable at my presence, he turns to tell me that he can manage on his own, that he’ll see himself out.

“I thought you said you were a courier and that you had a parcel to deliver to someone?” I enquire.

“I said I had a letter.”

“Well, that’s more than one letter, and it seems to be for everyone. You’re not a courier.”

“I am a courier.”

“But you’re just putting junk mail into every box. How does that make you a courier?”

“Because I’ve got all these letters to deliver.”

“These aren’t letters: letters come in envelopes, addressed to individuals and with postage paid. These are advertising flyers. Junk mail. Crap.”

“Well, if that’s what you think of it…”

“It is what I think of it, and it’s what everyone else thinks of it. It’s just more rubbish for the bin. What’s more, you have gained access to this building under false pretences, which is illegal. If you and the company you are delivering for want to flyer our letterboxes, you can do so when the post arrives in the morning.”

He leaves.

I wonder later if I was unduly harsh. After all, he’s just the messenger. But, to be fair, he’s the only one who was available for shooting right there, right then.