RKNet’s Weird Tales: The Package
Today, while walking to work, the darnedest thing happened.
A shifty-eyed man with a sparse mustache approaches me, carrying a large package. He’s dressed like a UPS man, but his uniform is generic. No badge. No hat. Are those Chucks peeking out from below his pants?
“Hi miss…” he stutters, spit collecting in the corners of his mouth. “You, uh, you heading to the mills?”
“Yeah… I work there… can I help you with something?”
“Yeah, yeah you can,” he replies, handing me the package, his arms shaking, still not looking at me. His fingernails are torn. Two have caked blood around their edges.
“Can you take this to…” He pretends to check the label, though it’s clear from his trembling hands that he knows exactly where this box is going. “Can you take this to Gloria Blacke?”
“Uhm, sure I guess…” I respond, not from any desire to help the man, but because this guy with his white spittle and earthquake eyes is beginning to creep me out. That, and because I want to make sure that, whatever this is, the Ironbauchs has it.
The man nods, thanks me and quickly disappears around the corner. I stand on the sidewalk for a moment, bewildered, and then start on my way. I haven’t taken more than five steps before, I swear, the box starts to move. A ball inside perhaps? Rolling around? Throwing the box off balance? No, no it’s not a ball, because now the box is making noise. Wailing. Crying. What the hell is inside this thing? An animal? A dog?
Bang. Bang. Bang.
“Jesus Christ,” I think to myself. What the fuck have I gotten myself into? I set the package on the ground and use my ring to slice through the tape. Suddenly, something is gripping my fingers… a hand! Holy shit, a tiny fucking hand!
“It’s a goddamn baby…” I whisper, but, there is something off about this baby-hand. It is strong, slightly gnarled. It isn’t soft, like a baby’s hand should be. No, good god dammit, this isn’t a baby. I rip my hand free and back away from the box just as whatever’s inside hoists itself out.
“Please.” It speaks. Tiny plaid pants. Tiny glasses. Its voice high and strained. “Please,” It says again. Standing before me is a tiny, tiny man. His body is perfectly proportioned, but he can’t be more than two feet tall. Oh my god; he is a primordial dwarf.
“Holy Shit!” I say aloud. I want to say: “I saw a special on you guys on TV once! Man! You guys are freaking adorable!” But, I don’t say that. I just stand and stare at this little man. I picture him dancing a gig. Okay, I’m fucked up.
“Please, read this.” He squeaks, handing me a folded piece of paper. “Please, don’t take me there!”
I take the paper from him, and began to read.
“Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Heat butter in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Fry chops on each side until browned, about 3 minutes per side…”
“I don’t understand…” I said to the little man, though the pit iof my stomach is beginning to churn.
“Turn it over,” he tells me quietly. I’m impressed with his patience. I flip the page.
INGREDIENTS:
- 1 tablespoon butter or margarine
- 1/4 cup brown sugar
- 4 cuts dwarf tenderloin
- 1 cup hot water
I actually laugh. I don’t know what else to do. I laugh! And then I look at the little man with his earnest eyes and trembling hands. I throw up on myself and on the recipe and on the torn cardboard box that my new friend is now standing behind.
“I wont take you there,” I tell him. But my head is already spinning. My hands shake- just like the man in the brown suit. Shit goes down when the Blacke One doesn’t get what she wants. Did anyone see me take that package? Does anyone know I’ve seen this little man? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“Come on,” I say, taking his tiny hand. “Get back in that box. I’ll keep you safe…”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“Good Afternoon,” the Blacke One grins at me, like a fox. She’s carrying a steaming plate from the kitchen. It smells delicious, buttery and sweet, golden chops glazed in brown sugar.
“I want to thank you for delivering my package today,” she says to me, her dark eyes locked on mine. She hands me the plate. “Here,” she says softly, “I made up a snack for you.”
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