by K. A. Patterson
Maynard Rumpole settled back into the faux leather, bucket seat of a rec room chair, having programmed the Elaviene II for autopilot. He jockeyed the little box of goodies he had brought with him around the bulge of his gelatinous belly, onto what remained of his lap. He made chomping noises as he contemplated which of the small bubble-wrapped parcels he would open first.
He had been selective as always. Being a company man, a government official of sorts, he chose only those packages co-labeled "or Current Occupant".
Unlike some unscrupulous couriers before him, Maynard would never open someone’s legitimate mail. After all, he was a Universal Parcel Shipping’s Courier of the Month. That may have been twenty-three Altorian cycles ago sure, but that crummy picture of him still remained in the database of the company’s employee lounge bulletin board.
Maynard rubbed his fingers together like a gambler itching to count his cash. He had spotted his first prize bundle. A lumpy, purple package, gleaming through the bubbly space wrap.
He read the label, as was his custom, "Mabel Stevens or Current Occupant, 100245739, Povar 27D." Maynard squeezed the package slightly. Soft. He sighed, contemplating a feminine hygiene product, but didn’t let the thought or the seventy-five percent probability dampen his excitement. Flicking open the number three blade of his handy-dandy, nail clipper-sized utility knife set he kept attached to his key ring, he deftly sliced through the standard bubble wrap, peeled it away, slit open the slightly bulged five by seven purple envelope, and pulled out his prize.
His smile sagged. His pudgy palm held a new and improved, gel cupped sample of Depends.
Ugh! No matter he had a hundred more trinket packages to open.
He dropped the undesirable product onto the high-glossed, Tredium floor.
Maynard glanced at the next label. Albert Watkins or Current Occupant. Maynard smiled, certain of a man gift.
Poke, tear, rip, rip. Out slid a shiny red executive pen, embossed with " Your Company Address and Logo Here", trimmed in brushed silver.
"Oh, that’s sweet. Very sweet."
He placed that prize on the faux leather cushion of the chair beside him.
Then, to save time, he rifled through his box, and discarded all the plump purple packs addressed to females that resembled Mabel Stevens unsolicited gift. He flung those to the floor.
An hour later, Maynard had opened all but one strangely shaped package. Thus far, his amassed, acceptable, stash consisted of thirty-four premium and executive style pens, sixteen pocket-sized virtual calendars, eleven holograph coupon cards-- inviting him to attend a free viewing of the movie of his choice at the new Multiplex on Frillex XII, fifteen different samples of hand lotions and shampoo-- containing a variety of exotic herbal essences, ten anti-stress squeezy balls stamped with the "From the Doctors of the Ryborg Clinic".
Twelve undesirable "Lady Packages" lay on the floor.
The last unopened package had piqued Maynard’s interest long before he had rifled through his emassed junk mail stash. It’s label read, To: Professor Arthur Furber, Ph.D., but to Maynard’s covetous eye, it most certainly read ‘or Current Occupant’. Of course it did.
Beneath the tight layers of premium bubble wrap, he uncovered an oblong box. A green box, constructed of fiber reinforced cardboard.
Maynard raised an eyebrow, tantalized. Not your typical, scrap container used to accommodate a cheap, mass mail, sample product.
Thin embossed words ran the length of each side of the box, "The R.R.G., Ryker Research Group".
Dirt-filled fingernails pried open a box end. Tapping the opposite box end, Maynard whistled in appreciation as a smooth, silver cylinder slid into the palm of his awaiting hand.
"Hello Precious!" Maynard said.
"Interesting." He noted, examining the six-inch tube’s center. A gold foil seal read, "Enjoyed your last book. Enjoy this."
Maynard twisted the cylinder apart, breaking the seal.
"Bingo!" Maynard chuckled, beholding a sight he hadn’t seen since they were banned twenty years ago. In his hand he held a pristine, zelintine encased, Proventa premium cigar.
Maynard didn’t hesitate, he slipped off the sheer zelintine casing, snipped off one end of the cigar using the scissors gadget from his knife set, and popped the end of the cigar into his mouth. He rolled his prize with his tongue, from one side of his mouth to the other. His taste buds tingled. Such an exotic flavor, fruity, almondy.
He lit up. Puff, puff, inhale, exhale, and a halo of bluish smoke floated before Maynard’s grinning face. Ahh heaven!
I love my job, Maynard conceded.
Forty minutes later, he regretted smoking the whole cigar all in one sitting. He felt queasy, dizzy. His vision wavered from focused to blurred. His head pounded like a kettledrum being beaten.
Getting up, he staggered two steps toward the rec room door, intending to head for the can, then collapsed, like an imploding twenty story building, into a heap on the unyielding metal floor. Before his eyes slipped shut, he saw, two white chips resembling his front teeth skitter across the floor in front of him.
***
When Maynard woke, he felt sluggish. Something squished and plopped when he moved his right arm to prop himself up. His vision cycled around in a multi-hexagonal view of the rec room's modular sofa. He moved his arm again, heard a soft popping noise, felt resistance. Swiveling his head, he watched duplicates of a rubbery, suction-cup ladden, tentacle flap upward.
Maynard moaned, felt ooze bubble from his mouth, and realized in horror that the flapping tentacle was his right arm.
His terror-filled scream was a slurpy warble. He crawled forward and the hulking bulk of his body undulated in all directions.
Then his mind congealed around a single thought, the Ryker Research Group. Dismal as the thought was, he guessed they didn’t like Professor Fuber’s book after all.
Maynard blinked his multi-faceted eyes, helpless.
Nevertheless, the Elaviene II, with its shelved cargo and its remorseful, one man-thing crew, sailed on.
THE END