Thursdays With Uncle Boom #88

I ventured into the Post Office accompanied by my able assistant, Morris. A fine chap to have as an assistant despite having a face like a sphincter eating kimchi.

I had received a card through my letterbox informing me that I was not in and that my parcel had been returned to the depot.

Well, I bloody well had been in and was rather keen on getting my parcel. So I was not best pleased to have to trail down some vagabond industrial estate to collect it in person.

It was much more fun visiting these places when I was full of the sauce and had a filly on each arm.

The little office was quite empty. A dour-faced little man who looked like he might keep ferrets looked up from behind the counter where he was reading a brightly coloured newspaper.

Can I help ya guvnor?

He spoke in the dulcet tones of a filthy peon. It was most displeasing. I resisted the urge to gut him like a fish and wear his innards as a fetching Easter bonnet.

I slid the card over the counter and watched him as he studied the writing as if it were ants carrying bits of leaf.

Sorry guvnor. You will have to come back tomorrow. See?

He pointed at the bottom of the card. There was a sentence which read.

Your parcel will be available at the depot the next working day.

I frowned as if I had been given a poorly poached egg.

Nonsense, dear fellow. I am quite keen to receive this parcel. It is some baccy from a fellow in the Kenyas. It is quite exotic, Tears of the Badger.

The ferret keeping peon chuckled as if he understood the words I had just spoken.

Dunt matter what ya calls it. You can't get it till tomorrow.

He folded his arms and gave me a self-satisfied smirk as if his Mother had given him one of her special milk-shakes again.

I thought for a second.

Ah, so it is here?

The ferret keeper smirked again.

More than likely but you can't have it. Its policy, innit?

I pulled my hip flask out and had a good swallow before returning it to my inside pocket and turning to Morris with a smile.

Morris. Be a good fellow and punch this peon in the face a few times with those big hairy fists of yours?

Morris leapt up with an excited hoot and set to the peon who only had time for a brief squeal before Morris's boulder-like fists banged on his face as if it were a lady's gammon castanets.

When he was done, I beckoned Morris to bring him behind the counter and through the back.

Haul the weasel this way, old fellow.

Morris dragged the barely conscious mumbling peon after me.

Behind the counter was a large space with parcels on shelving units and crates ranging from small to large lying about as if discarded. One of the nearby crates was open.

Sling him in here, oh and take off one of your socks, if you would?

Morris eagerly whipped one of his shoes off and started peeling a sock off that looked more like dead foot skin held together by foosty thread than a sock.

I winced and waved for Morris to bundle it up.

Stick it in his mouth, so he doesn't make too much noise.

The ferret keeper's eyes widened in horror and he opened his mouth as if to yell.

Plop.

Morris neatly jammed his fetid sock into the peon's mouth.

There. Splendid. Now, stuff him in that crate.

Morris bundled the now limp body of the peon into the crate. The peon looked to have passed out from the heady scent of a working man's sock being in his mouth.

Oh wait, Morris?

Morris stopped and looked at me expectantly, a small hoot coming from his mouth. I waved at a nearby nailgun.

Be a good chap and nail him to the sides with that would you? Can't have him trying to get out before he gets to his destination?

Morris got to the task in hand whilst I found some labels and quickly pasted one to the side of the crate that said

AFRICA.

There that will do nicely.

Morris finished with his merry nailing and made yet another soft series of hooting noises.

What's that Morris? Will he survive the journey? Ha! You should know by now dear fellow...