The Postal Worker in the future of America will run his course. He tends to the streets and roads upon many plains, hills, and tree inducted roads that he rambles through, arriving to the set course of his route. He stops at the first house with the flag down upon the mailbox when he realized that there is a lock upon the bottom storage of it when he fished the mail through the slot, closing the door when he cycled the engine to the next mailbox that is .3 miles.

For the Postal Worker, he's been doing this for more than ten years. Ten years. It has been hard to believe it has been this long since he has been in the business. Before being what he came to be he was a man of military honor for saving 31 people in the Congo Regions of Africa since the Islamic Factions went on a path of cleansing to their submission. In Arabic, Islam means, "Submission" when The Postal Worker thought of this, coming up to the next mailbox with the flag up upon it. The mailbox is colored in the shade of pink with little flowers coated on the side of it with the intention of it being all cheery and beautiful on a day that is glorious for this work to be done. He put the flag down and opened the door when he revealed the envelope that is tucked inside of it. The letter is posted to him when he opened it directly and read it without the slightest hesitation as his eyes darted, reading the words that are on the page:

I need another sliver of copper wiring for the fan that has broken down in my work shop. I have the amount and the tip on the bottom of the envelope that is provided.

He finished, smiling when he unhanded the envelope and dumped the contents into his lap. He knew that this is regulation to be a Postal Worker as he knew that all buying and trading on all markets is no contraband for the U.S. Postal Service for which is saved since technology tried to wash it down the primordial river. He filled the request when he checked the envelope, photo-copied the slip and placed it back into the mailbox when he traveled to the next mailbox that is in his path on this warm and comfortable day. He stopped when the car hitched under his own power, driving a little far from the mailbox when he backed the car up and opened the mailbox with the red flag up upon it. He noticed that a vehicle has been here before when he rectified the tracks in the dirt as he did his business, looking at the envelope inside of it as he fished it out of the box.

It is addressed to him as he opened it, almost forgetting the last deed when he placed the envelope in the mailbox before proceeding to open the next order of business. He slit the envelope and poked the paper out when he unfolded it and looked at the paper that is typed by computer:

I need 40 ounces of fertilizer for my crops. No violence necessary in my bones.

The Postal Worker chuckled at the thought when he gave the address in his directory inbox that is anointed on his phone when he gave a message to a guy named Orville Glover who is prioritized in the business of fertilization handling. He didn't give it to anyone under a certain age and he sure as hell won't give it to people that has a criminal history of any kind. Orville is a man of business and that strict in temperament.

The Postal Worker checked the letter, made a photo-copy with his phone and placed it back into the mailbox when The Postal Worker thought about having ham for lunch with three eggs and a cup of soda to wash it down with. He knew that this is going to be such a fabulous day when his car continued to diddy up the road with both windows down on each side of the car as he arrived to another mailbox with no flag up upon it, opening the mailbox and placing the order of some contraband inside of it. For something he couldn't remember, the person that is the ownership of the mailbox knew that on the day of getting the package when he pulled a fashionable slim-jim device from the manila envelope that is instituted for the length of its weight. The man that lives in this house is setting up his old ways of theft when The Postal Worker thought of nothing else but getting the job done.

When he arrived to the next mailbox, he heard the slight buzz of a bee rip around his head when he tried not to swat it and miss. He had the window down when he noticed something about the mailbox that is slightly askew upon its post. It looks to be tampered with when he noticed something else that is posted on the door of the mailbox that is fitted with scotch tape. It is a letter that is posted to him, unfolded when he read the words:

Try and open the door, you two-faced fuck!

A bee came out of the cracks of the hinge when he knew what is inside of it. He monitored the mailbox when he got into contact with one of his cronies that are suitable for the job of sadist intent to rile up the guy who tried to cross the Postal Worker that only does his job to-a-T. He fulfilled the request when he left the mailbox and went down to the next mailbox when the sun dashed behind the clouds in the atmosphere, hiding and shifting a day into a shadowy day when he continued to do his business with nothing itching upon his mind.

When he came to the next mailbox over an hour from arriving to the first mailbox, he spotted a kid sitting on his kid-size bike near the mouth of a dirt driveway. He looked both ways before kicking his feet up on the pedals and riding over to the parked car that is sitting in the ditch. The Postal Worker saw all of this while doing his business.

"I know you," The kid didn't say hi. He didn't even say hello.

"You are the guy that is awarded the Medal of Honor some years ago. I want to be just like you."

In personal reflection, The Postal Worker does not want to be himself when he thought about what he had done in the past.

"How old are you kid?" The Postal Worker says through the open window when he placed the goodies into the box with his one hand doing all the work.

"I'm 9. My daddy is at work now and I have all day to myself. The babysitter is a-sleepin'."

"Well don't pick up any coins on the tail's side and stay out of the road. They don't implement the speeding laws in rural areas anymore." The Postal Worker looked up and down the road when the boy nodded, going back to the mouth of the driveway.

Kids don't listen, none of them do.

The Postal Worker left the mailbox and the kid behind in the mirror when he drove for what seemed like almost a mile when he arrived to another mailbox with the red flag up, opening the black mailbox with tints of red on the side of it. As he poked his hand in the mailbox and got the letter out of it, he made a slit into it and unfolded the letter, reading the words printed upon it from a computer printer:

Kill my bitch of a wife and the neighbor and I'll make your life wealthy.

The Postal Worker checked the letter, made a photo-copy and placed the letter back into the mailbox, putting the flag down when he drove ever on towards a partly cloudy but pleasing day in the futuristic bliss of America.