Mr. Postman

It is now a daily ritual to waltz into the office, making sure that he is on time. When he settles down, he will boot up the PC and send morning greetings to friends on MSN. He didn’t have much time to spend on the PC. Maybe a few minutes each time, often sporadic throughout the day. That is, if he’s in the office in the first place. It didn’t help that he had to share a terminal with the rest of his colleagues.

Well, Mr. postman delivers thoughts and well-wishes everyday. It’s hard to be even remotely influenced by the feel-good items that he delivers everyday. (He has been desensitized so to speak.) Once in a while he also delivers a couple of court summons or fines letter. There is nothing like an official letter hand-delivered that will bring those recipients to a tearful mess. Physical appearance wise, he is indifferent after 10 years on the job. Sometimes even offering a few kind words. However, deep inside, he enjoyed it immensely. He is always careful not to let his physical exterior betray his glee. It is almost a torture trying to calm his exterior when he delivers the letter in person and getting the poor sob to sign for it.

He loves post-cards the most. Those little cards scrawled with handwriting and signatures. He often wonders why people will want to squeeze the most into a card measuring approximately 148mm x 105mm. But the intrusion of privacy is priceless. Each and every postcard will not be let away. Each and every postcard will be scanned. Reading those contents often fills him with rage. Like how the woman who visited Denmark and is writing back to inform his family about the sights. Then there is also the special case of the college guy in his sophomore year writing regularly to his girlfriend on his life in US. His case is special. He likes to use photos taken personally in US as a post-card. What an aspiring photographer!

The US kid signed off every time with his name. He even knew the girlfriend’s name! Cassandra. That’s what she’s called. Jerry and Cassandra. Hmm, doesn’t sound bad all together.

So bit-by-bit, Mr. Postman began to piece together his plot.

First, he began to intercept all the mails by the both of them. It seems that occasionally Jerry will send letters as well. Whenever he comes across mail from the both of them, he will take note on the contents. Not difficult since all he had to do is to smuggle the mail to the toilet when he came across them while sorting. There he will tear open the mail with trembling hands and great relish, read to his heart content and then take detailed snapshots of each and every mail before placing them into new envelopes and affixing them with address labels and stamps. All this is untraceable of course. The labels were prepared with an old type machine that he bought for 10 bucks at the Bugis flea market. The stamps? Bought from another post office. All thanks to CSI showing on the TV, he made it a point not to lick the envelopes and stamps but to wet them with water from the tap. He also wiped the letters carefully with a static-free cloth of all fingerprint before slotting them back into the new envelope. However, he did not wipe the envelope. After all, the postman had every reason to leave his fingerprint on the envelope isn’t it?

Secondly, each and every snapshot will go into his thumb drive archive labeled carefully with the date and time. He was also careful not to reveal the fact that he is rather tech-savvy to his colleagues. Yet, he didn’t want to appear to be an odd ball. So he often made it a point to use the MSN in front of other colleagues. Blending-in. That’s the way to avoid detection.

Soon he had a good idea on the situation. Apparently, Jerry is studying to be an architect in US and Cassandra is doing business in SMU. Both seem to be quite steadfast to another.

Time to break them up. First, he began to intercept each and very mail. Slowly, he began to forge letters to both parties. Very innocuous reply at first, detailing about their every day’s life. Slowly, he began to write about boredom and single-hood, hinting about the hassles and stress of a long distance relationship. Over a course of 6 months, he created cracks in the relationship. All original mails that expressed disbelieve and frustrations were greatly exaggerated to the point that it is almost accusatory.

Over the course of 6 months, there was nothing that indicated that the game was up. The postman found it difficult to believe that they never exchanged calls or email. Yet there was nothing in the mail that suggested that they ever did. Not even MSN was mentioned once in their mail. Absolutely no telltale indication whatsoever. Also, the general tone of each letter is getting more hopeless and desperate with time. A sign that he is slowly but surely succeeding.

Mr. Postman can’t believe his luck. He’s incredibly lucky for once.

It happened one day. The 3-page letter from Cassandra brought up the issue of breakup. He was thrilled that it was finally happening. Immediately, he went about implementing the next step of his plan. He photo-shopped the picture of Jerry beside a random picture of another asian-looking girl that he found on face book. Call it an intimate shot as they were caught in a very subtle ‘more then friends’ embrace.

As expected, Jerry sent a letter asking Cassandra to rethink her decision a few days later. Mr. Postman had known that would happen. So he simply altered the content and appended the photo. What was originally a pleading letter became a defiant letter celebrating his newfound freedom. What better way to deliver his independence with the photo-shopped photo?

Cassandra sent a reply that was intercepted as well. A letter with more scrawls then words. A lot of splotchy areas, marred by tears maybe? Mr. Postman was ecstatic when he saw that. How about altering the letter to show that she was indifferent and wishing Jerry all the best for his next relationship?

Mr. Postman then made up his mind to harass Cassandra to no end. He will send Cassandra odd mails pretending to be Jerry. Cassandra on her part also replied. She was a bit puzzled that Jerry still took effort in remaining in contact but she didn’t think much about it as they are still friends to a certain degree. They then began to exchange mail as like in the past. Six months flew by just like that. And she didn’t suspect a thing.

Mr. Postman got tired of his little game. All games got to end somehow and its time for him to move on to greater things. Another more interesting game was waiting to be played. You see, another post-card has presented it-self. This time of a rich widow who regularly exchange mails with her sister, a lady who had no IT inclination at all. According to the mail, new technology scares her and she would rather use the old-fashioned way of writing to keep her mind sane and working. A perfect opportunity!~

Impersonating Jerry, he fabricated an excuse saying that he is back in Singapore for term break and would like to meet up with her at Pasir Ris mangrove swamp. He mentioned that he would like to visit all the places he used to visit as a kid hence the place. He also mentioned that he would keep in contact by mail, as he will leave his US based phone in the dormitory. He will call her if there are any changes to the appointment.

That fateful day was raining heavily. Mr. Postman waited along path-A right after the turn behind the bushes. He was in a high kneel position. The rain didn’t bother him. Neither did the mud. A stint in the army has drilled into him the importance of concentration. He preferred to concentrate on the task that he had to accomplish. Only then will he thoroughly enjoy the task. Frankly, he was only worried that Cassandra will cancel the appointment and the game will be up.

Half past quarter on the appointed hour, Cassandra strolled carefully down the path. He had planned the day carefully, checking the weather forecast ahead. The rain will help to wash away all evidence of a struggle. More importantly, she will be sufficiently dressed. At least enough to protect her delicate body against what he had in mind do later.

Cassandra was a rather fair girl with great fashion taste. She wasn’t a stunning beauty but would rank quite high on the attractiveness quotient. Her letters revealed her to be conscious of her looks. Well, all the more interesting to play with later.

He took great plans to plan for today. Applying for leave up to a week before and renting a car. He also prepared the essential stuff before hand with visits to different hardware store and everything. Concentration is crucial here. Slowly he strolled up to the path and behind Cassandra.

“ Hello Cassandra.” He spoke with a light lisp. Startled, Cassandra gave a little yelp and spun around to meet the stranger. Mr. Postman then gave her a backhand swipe to the face with enough strength to daze a man. Mr. Postman knew. He hasn’t stopped training ever since he left the army. Cassandra was thrown by the force to the ground, dazed by the blow. Mr. Postman took his time and strolled over. Even if Cassandra screamed, it would have been futile. There is nobody around and the roaring rain is louder then anything else. Mr. Postman then gave Cassandra another blow, rendering her unconscious.

Wiping the blood of her face with the wet tissue he prepared before hand. He expected that the mouth internal tissues to be lacerated by the teeth when the blow landed. Nothing-new there. He took special care not to throw the used tissue anywhere. He searched around for her handphone, removed the SIM card and threw it over his shoulder into the vegetation behind him. The handphone will be used as a paper weight. He then proceeded to adjust her hair and looped a baseball hat on her head. He then carried her using the traditional fireman-lift to the car he prepared before hand.

He adjusted her nicely on the passenger seat so that she appeared asleep. He also took out his sunglass and adjusted it nicely on her face. Now the seat-belt. Never forget to fasten it. He then took out the special concoction IV drip that he prepared beforehand. The special mix of gatorade and sleeping pills. The gatorade is easily bought in any supermarket and is one of the liquid commercially available that is easily absorbed into the bloodstream. The sleeping pill is more difficult. He had to visit a doctor for it. Mr. Postman honestly suffered from insomnia. He threw in 10 pills into the gatorade, definitely enough to cause the person to slumber for the next few hours. Things like rubber cork and tubing is available in hardware stores. The drip needle can be bought in pharmacy. He picked the biggest and the meanest one of course! He also took great pains to ensure that no bubbles are caught in the drip before administering it. Complications can arise when the bubble travel to the heart. Mr. Postman was trained in first aid many years back when he was still in uniform service. Lifting up Cassandra’s left arm, he shoved the drip into her arm artery. Cassandra gave a slight moan but didn’t stir from her sleep. Mr. Postman was ready to give her a backhand swipe if she woke anyway. Now taking out cable-ties, he fastened the limbs securely. It’s unlikely that she will awake during the trip. But he never liked to leave things to chance.

He then spent the next one-hour or so driving to his hideout. No wait, not hideout but his lodging, a flat in the western part of Singapore. Hideout was only for villains. He is not a villain. He is a monster. He was lucky again. Nobody saw him on his way up. He even took the lift, all the time careful to disguise the drip as a bag.

He had specially converted his master bedroom into a soundproof room. With foam padding that is up to 10-inch think. The toilet is also soundproofed. He could simply snip away the tongue but that might kill her immediately. Too easy for her. She is a pawn now. The windows are all boarded up and a double door corridor has been affixed into the entrance of the room all electronically controlled. All in all, he had spent a huge chunk of his savings on the room. No problem there, the next victim, the rich widow will take care of it. Now to incarcerate a person indefinitely, a lot of efforts need to be taken isn’t it? How about cameras? Done. Place at all corners of the room. This includes the toilet. Seriously, he doesn’t need to peep at her while she’s in the toilet. She is her toy now. He can play with her anytime he likes. But surveillance is important. If you bought a fish, you would also want to watch it regularly. Nothing wrong there.

The necessities cannot be spared. No problem. He had broken into her apartment the other day and taken photos of the room layout, furniture and even the clothing. He then spent the last one-month replicating the room and layout down right to the last detail.

Safety precautions are plentiful. You never know if animals suddenly place into captivity can cope with the stress. Mirror must be shatterproof and bolted to the ground. Power sockets must be deactivated. It’s no good if she suddenly decides to end it all by running currents through herself? Dangerous essential items such as shaving blades must be allowed at least. Toys mustn’t become too hairy. Mr. Postman doesn’t like hairy animals. What if she slit her wrist? Problem has been foreseen. A visit to the hospital blood bank last week yielded blood packets of her type. Not that it will be used. But he always preferred to err on the side of caution. Anyway, he planned to threaten to kill the family if she dare commit suicide or hurt herself. To show that he means business, he is going back to finish the family dog later.

He dragged her unconscious body to the master bedroom toilet and filled up the bathtub with warm water. Tearing the half depleted gatorade IV drip from her wrist, he threw it into the bin just outside the room. A little blood streamed from the needle wound. Staring at the wound, he lifted the hand and lapped up all the blood. The familiar metallic salty taste. Better that then messing up the floor. He then took off her clothing and slowly dipped her into the bathtub. As a human specimen, she must have been considered almost perfect, figure wise. Breast were not humongous and no bulging belly. She must have worked out regularly. All except for the ugly dollar size birthmark near her inner thigh. Looks like Mr. Postman got to perform removal surgery sometime. The last few surgeries he performed were botched, leaving ugly scar tissues over the wound. This antagonise him alot. Enough to terminate the ‘patient’ in a rage. Looks like there is a chance to take up the knife once more. Ah… this means that he needs to prepare the scalpel and cauterizing brand yet again. He will be meticulous this time round. He will not slice off more then required.

He wet a 3M sponge and began soaping her body. Just like how his mother used to do for him. Fifteen minutes later, he’s done, rinse and all. Now that pesky wound is still oozing blood. Irritating. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a small roll of bandage that he had prepared for himself. Just in case that he gets injured or something. He bandaged the arm carefully and eased her into the bathrobe that he had prepared earlier.

He carried her out onto the office chair that he had prepared before hand. Then he pushed her to the middle of the room. Using a plastic canvas sheet he began to wrap it around her. Leaving just the head exposed. He then prepared his tools.

He was a hairstylist before he became a postman. Too bad the former could not grant him access to power and information that he seeks for his alter-ego. He began work on her hair. Snipping and trimming, he began to transform the hairdo to a style that he saw on TV on a popular starlet the other day. Once in a while, he watched TV. To blend-in of course. Nothing beats discussing TV programme the next day with colleagues to project a sense of normalcy.

Once done, he brushed of all the loose hair and swept them onto the ground. He then stood back and admired his handicraft. She looks like a doll. He could feel rage filling inside him, as he wanted so much to hurt her now. Trembling with fury, he willed himself to calm down. That can wait. He carried her over to the bed and adjusted her until she is comfortable. Then covering her with the comforter, he began arranging soft toys over her head-rest. A Doll would love soft toys. He then took a photo of her sleeping. This photo will be sent to Jerry after Cassandra is ‘expired’ together with a taunting letter. Hopefully, Jerry will be driven into a guilt-wrecked man for the rest of his life. He can't help but chuckle at his ingenuity.

Exiting the master bedroom, he activated all the electronic dual lock for the double door and switched on all the camera screens. 4 hours has lapsed and she’s still out like a light.

Determined to maintain his façade, he went out to water the plants and swept the corridor. All the time remembering to smile and greet any neighbours who saw him. He then went downstairs to collect his mail. He is extremely careful when opening his letterbox. As usual, he glanced around to see if there is anybody first before opening the mailbox.

Inside his mailbox, there is a thick stacks of letters dated a couple of years back. On the top left corner of those letters, One can see the logo of IMH clearly imprinted on it. The circle with letterings stylised in it...

The addressee? None other then Mr. Postman himself…

The Reluctant Bus Passenger

“It’s a Sunday today, 30th of Dec 2007, 1200 hrs. Here I am sitting in Punggol Temp Interchange, looking at buses coming to and fro. Every bus will roar into the interchange (no doubt steered by the bus captain.) Hmm… Passengers. Some buses seem to carry more of this commodity then other buses. One thing is certain, though, there are no empty buses as yet to my observation.”

He sat on a wire-meshed bench with red plastic coating as he muses about his observations. The obnoxious chair does nothing to the bottoms. After a while, the ache seems to seep into the flesh itself, Oh wait! It must be designed so that people won’t occupy the seats for long. All these 3G chairs out there! Blasted designers.

3G… Ha. The term has been utterly whored by a government organization for a couple of years now. TO think that now it can be used on a chair. So funny… He sniggered at that and wondered, what a hollow thought!~

Trying to make himself more comfortable, he began to think about the concept of satisfaction. If only buses are not inanimate objects! If only they are not just mere metal beasts driven by human bus captains! What would a bus feel? To be more specific, would the concept of satisfaction apply to a bus? Would a bus feel satisfied with ferrying a few passengers and have a relatively easy time in the process or would the bus really live up to its design and ferry to its maximum capacity? Does any of this even make sense to the bus?

Bus number 3 just went by with an advert by Singapore Custom. It’s a public education ad teaching (warning perhaps?) the public not to carry the burden of duty unpaid cigarette. Should the bus shout “violation” out-loud about being transformed against its will to cater to the whim and fancy of the party that is milking the appearance of the poor metal carriage? It is definitely more glamorous to be hawking Gucci or Lacoste along its boxy body!

There goes Bus 86 again. It’s the…. 19th Bus 86… Or so he thinks. He has simply lost count. Another bus-load of people… another group of commuters. One doesn’t find anything else much these days in the interchange.

Looking at the watch, looking as every second passes by… he felt used. Betrayed even. The only thing good is that he can now finally sit around in the interchange for hours running along a stretch just to gaze at buses and commuters. Some say the beach helps. Let the waves carry away all the trouble. What’s wrong with the interchange then? Simply let the commuters carry away all the trouble. Few commuters languish endlessly at the terminal anyway.

Back to ‘satisfaction’, if both parties holds an equal stake in a relationship, then one party would be the bus captain and the other party the bus. It’s a mutually exclusive relationship. One captain cannot drive more then one bus at anyone time and one bus can only be driven by one driver at any one time. Then passengers must be the commodities that each stops offers… A good passenger will mean a harmonious relationship for all the stakeholders. Think bad passenger that vandalise buses…. He gave out a cruel laugh.

Now the bus-fare, He did not forget about that. Placing things into perspectives, the fare must be the ‘recognition’ for all the parties involved. It’s an affirmation of everything. The mileage of the bus, the labour of the driver and the recognition of service from the passenger.

His thoughts flickered momentarily to reality, pondering briefly on why the bus fare has risen until Bus No. 85 roared into the bus bay again. Before he knew it, he was sucked back again, mind and mood, into the merciless debacle.

“It’s a Sunday today, 30th of Dec 2007, 1822 hrs. Here I am sitting in Punggol Temp Interchange, looking at buses coming to and fro… When its time to go, its time to go!” He muttered to himself.

He boarded onto the Bus No.3 that was about to pull out of the bus bay.

The sun was just setting over the horizon then.



"Over and Out"