The door knocker cracked against the hard wood, pulling me from my slumber like an angry lover. I stumbled through the fog and haze of the early morning and opened the door. The postman shoved a package at me and demanded my signature, a smug, mysterious smile playing across his lips. Was I in danger? Whatever was in the box, it couldn’t be worse than my hangover.
The jokers who’d sent this had gotten a little too enthusiastic with the masking tape. I briefly thought about shooting my way into the box and then remembered I wasn’t exactly the most popular guy with my neighbours. I decided the silent approach was best.
I lifted the lid and my name stared back at me from inside the box. What the hell was this? Was somebody playing a prank? If they were I wasn’t in the mood. Any friendly feeling I might have had towards this world disappeared down my throat along with the eighth or ninth shot of bourbon I downed last night. I had heartburn so bad you could fry an egg on my chest. Today wasn’t the day to be poking the bear in its cage.
So this was it. My grand re-entrance. After nearly a decade of lying low I was now about to step back into the bullet-festival I laughingly called my existence. I hope these chumps knew what they were in for.
There it was in the cold light of day. My ticket back to the big leagues. Funny. I hadn’t felt like dealing in lead for years but now my trigger fingers were getting itchy.
Seems that whoever had sent me this package had decided I needed some cultural sustenance. They’d included some folders containing artwork, probably aimed at broadening my horizons. If they’d wanted to help me out they could have sent over some more bourbon. Or maybe a pick axe that I could bury in my own skull and take the edge off this hangover.
The box also contained this. A figure wrapped in plastic. I’d seen figures like this before. Except they were usually life-sized and surrounded by cops snapping photos and making bad jokes.
I peeled away the plastic and stared into the eyes of a killer. It was me all right. Same paunch. Same five 0′ clock shadow. Same desperation plastered over my haggard, aging mug. Same guns, too. Even the shell-casings matched. Whoever had sent this had done a job on me, all right. Once my hangover cleared I’d be repaying the favour.
It was probably stupid, going in like this, but then what’s one more bad idea in a lifetime of bad ideas. At least I was consistent. You had to give me that…