Here is my story.
It all started when our over-heralded star, Mr.Mail, woke up in a imaginery desert. It was the fourth time it had happened. Feeling scarcely relieved, Mr.Mail groped a ninja star, thinking it would make him feel better (but as usual, it did not). Duly ecstatic about the looming crises, he realized that his beloved letters was missing! Immediately he called his former lay, Mrs.Mail. Mr.Mail had known Mrs.Mail for (plus or minus) 1.2 billion years, the majority of which were electric ones. Mrs.Mail was unique. She was congenial though sometimes a little... insensitive. Mr.Mail called her anyway, for the situation was urgent.
Mrs.Mail picked up to a very unctuous Mr.Mail. Mrs.Mail calmly assured him that most 3-legged wallabies sneeze before mating, yet man-eating capybaras usually explosively yawn *after* mating. She had no idea what that meant; she was only concerned with distracting Mr.Mail. Why was Mrs.Mail trying to distract Mr.Mail? Because she had snuck out from Mr.Mail's with the letters only nine days prior. It was a saucy little letters... how could she resist?
It didn't take long before Mr.Mail got back to the subject at hand: his letters. Mrs.Mail panicked. Relunctantly, Mrs.Mail invited him over, assuring him they'd find the letters. Mr.Mail grabbed his elephant and disembarked immediately. After hanging up the phone, Mrs.Mail realized that she was in trouble. She had to find a place to hide the letters and she had to do it carefully. She figured that if Mr.Mail took the spaceship, she had take at least ten minutes before Mr.Mail would get there. But if he took the Motorbike? Then Mrs.Mail would be excessively screwed.
Before she could come up with any reasonable ideas, Mrs.Mail was interrupted by ten abrasive wolfs that were lured by her letters. Mrs.Mail turned red; 'Not again', she thought. Feeling stunned, she aimlessly reached for her banana and recklessly slapped every last one of them. Apparently this was an adequate deterrent--the discouraged critters began to scurry back toward the foxy forest, squealing with discontent. She exhaled with relief. That's when she heard the Motorbike rolling up. It was Mr.Mail.
----o0o----
As he pulled up, he felt a sense of urgency. He had had to make an unscheduled stop at McDonald's to pick up a 12-pack of live hand grenades, so he knew he was running late. With a skillful leap, Mr.Mail was out of the Motorbike and went earnestly jaunting toward Mrs.Mail's front door. Meanwhile inside, Mrs.Mail was panicking. Not thinking, she tossed the letters into a box of dull pencils and then slid the box behind her rhinocerus. Mrs.Mail was worried but at least the letters was concealed. The doorbell rang.
'Come in,' Mrs.Mail sassily purred. With a heroic push, Mr.Mail opened the door. 'Sorry for being late, but I was being chased by some pestering beer-sloshed tool in a hippie-pleasing hybrid vehicle,' he lied. 'It's fine,' Mrs.Mail assured him. Mr.Mail took a seat RIGHT next to where Mrs.Mail had hidden the letters. Mrs.Mail cringed trying unsuccessfully to hide her nervousness. 'Uhh, can I get you anything?' she blurted. But Mr.Mail was distracted. Absolutely thrilled, Mrs.Mail noticed a abrasive look on Mr.Mail's face. Mr.Mail slowly opened his mouth to speak.
'...What's that smell?'
Mrs.Mail felt a stabbing pain in her prostate when Mr.Mail asked this. In a moment of disbelief, she realized that she had hidden the letters right by her oscillating fan. 'Wh-what? I don't smell anything..!' A lie. A funny-smelling look started to form on Mr.Mail's face. He turned to notice a box that seemed clearly out of place. 'Th-th-those are just my grandma's live hand grenades from when she used to have pet Indonesian devil cats. She, uh...dropped 'em by here earlier'. Mr.Mail nodded with fake acknowledgement...then, before Mrs.Mail could react, Mr.Mail skillfully lunged toward the box and opened it. The letters was plainly in view.
Mr.Mail stared at Mrs.Mail for what what must've been seven millseconds. Happy as a frickin' monkey, Mrs.Mail groped charismatically in Mr.Mail's direction, clearly desperate. Mr.Mail grabbed the letters and bolted for the door. It was locked. Mrs.Mail let out a exotic chuckle. 'If only you hadn't been so protective of that thing, none of this would have happened, Mr.Mail,' she rebuked. Mrs.Mail always had been a little oafish, so Mr.Mail knew that reconciliation was not an option; he needed to escape before Mrs.Mail did something crazy, like... start chucking bananas at her or something. Absolutely thrilled, he gripped his letters tightly and made a dash toward the window, diving headlong through the glass panels.
Mrs.Mail looked on, blankly. 'What the hell? That seemed excessive. The other door was open, you know.' Silence from Mr.Mail. 'And to think, I varnished that window frame eight days ago...it never ends!' Suddenly she felt a tinge of concern for Mr.Mail. 'Oh. You ..okay?' Still silence. Mrs.Mail walked over to the window and looked down. Mr.Mail was gone.
----o0o----
Just yonder, Mr.Mail was struggling to make his way through the secret vineyard behind Mrs.Mail's place. Mr.Mail had severely hurt his love handle during the window incident, and was starting to lose strength. Another pack of feral wolfs suddenly appeared, having caught wind of the letters. One by one they latched on to Mr.Mail. Already weakened from his injury, Mr.Mail yielded to the furry onslaught and collapsed. The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was a buzzing horde of wolfs running off with his letters.
But then God came down with His easygoing smile and restored Mr.Mail's letters. Feeling concerned, God smote the wolfs for their injustice. Then He got in His Jap Trap and zipped away with the fortitude of 61 disease-carrying chipmunks running from a little pack of man-eating capybaras. Mr.Mail jumped with joy when he saw this. His letters was safe. It was a good thing, too, because in five minutes his favorite TV show, Pokemon, was going to come on (followed immediately by 'When disease-carrying chipmunks meet bloody glove'). Mr.Mail was jubilant. And so, everyone except Mrs.Mail and a few ebola-toting 3-legged wallabies lived blissfully happy, forever after.
An nah, I don't think so, I'd rather sell it in my shop.
