Liver Between the Lines

"Do you deliver after hours?"

The other end of the wire hummed a dimly lit, vacuous kind of empty.

"Sir or madam, this is a post office." Croaked a young angsty voice through the noisy land line. "We only operate during office hours, not after office hours."

"You see, I really need that parcel, and quite frankly it's a joke. It's a joke that you'd go to all the effort to bring it to my doorstep only to leave a note because I wasn't home to collect it. What is the point of having a parcel delivered if I need to be free to collect it anyway!?"

The unnecessary outburst hung in the air by a horse's hair.

"Sir or madam, this is a post office. We deliver parcels and letters we don't deliver notes, jokes or horse hairs."

"I know that. I want my parcel today. Is there a way I can receive my parcel today?" Reason requested in a seething staccato.

"Sir or madam, this is a post office, if you want to pick up after office hours you need to call the post office hours post office line. You'll find the address between the lines "Little" and "Listen."

"No. You listen here you little..."

Before anger could finish, the line crashed like a mannequin in a middle seat, and the line, being all out of seat, left only what may as well have been a mannequin.

"How will I ever receive what is rightfully mine under such dire circumstances!? Am I a joke?" The melodrama flitted fancifully about before weary eyes bore down between the lines of the joke.

"Little you hear, listen..."

"You hear!"

Jumping up in hopeful skepticism, with eyes closed, cupped ears carefully surveyed the silence.

HONK!

HONK, HOOONK!

"Oh dear, oh dear oh dear, do mind my horns. They can be a little obnoxious."

...

"I SAID THEY CAN BE A LITTLE OBNOXIOUS! Dear me, the kind of parcels they let through these days. I suppose you're here to get a handle on an uncollected package. Well, you've reverse called the right place. I am the stag*Ahem* the staging officer here at the undelivered deliveries post office hours post office. Tell me, what is your parcel number?"

"My parcel number? I'm not sure I have one." Anxious fingers writhed randomly, inverting pockets and pants until peculiar past particulars posed present problems.

HONK!

"I've heard enough! You clearly don't understand what you are doing. Alliteration is bad enough my dear. The last thing I need to see is your knickers in a knot. Now, allow me."

With a single swift movement, the stag*Ahem* staging officer pulled a loose thread from a flustered rear pocket revealing a string of numbers scribbled across an old note from long forgotten childhood friend.

"Let's see here. 8-0-0-8-1-3-5...6-9. Well, this is deeply troubling. It appears the sum of these integers are less than their total and therefore lacks the proper integrity. I mean really, at 40 you should know this my dear. Unfortunately, that means I will need to forward you on to our Fell Off Department for intentionally unintended deliveries. Toodles!"

Desperation grew like a vine wrapping around ungrounded feet, causing the parcel conveyor to strain as it delivered escargot to the awful Fell Off Department.

"The sum of a number's integers is always less than its total!"

"Not if you know where to put the stop!" HONK!

Not if you know where to put the stop? The words echoed liminally through the long conveyor corridor. Whatever could that mean?

More than a fraction later, after rounding off several dark corners. Spiraling neon lights flickered to life. Their rainbow pulse gradually quickening toward a bright light in the distance. Well, this isn't so bad. I just hope my parcel isn't spoiled.

"Welcome, to the punch line" The soothing mechanical voice seemed to emanate from all around.

"Welcome to the punch line" The second time didn't sound funny at all. In fact, it hit hard enough to knock the lights out, the literal lights out and the living daylights out.

Not long after, harsh flickering lights lit bloody entrails and snail shells scattered across a cold tiled floor. The smell was completely offal.

"I must have fallen off the punch line." Groaning eyes rolled an inevitable circular road.

"Mama mia! Must you be so obvious?" The booming Italian accent swept like olive oil across the tiled kitchen floor. "Ah, of course, they send you to me! Bad jokes, bad taste, bad delivery—it all ends up here!"

Eyes blurry from 3.14 to many turns slowly began to focus.

"So, you figure it out yet, huh? This is the Fell Off Department, wasn't that hard then was it ah? Now, didn't your mother tell you not to play with your food, ay? Offal jokes are always in bad taste!"

"I haven't told any jokes at all." Tears welling from the smell of liver decomposing in stacked pizza boxes.

"AH HA! let me see here, yes. You ring our post office a little late, no? Asking if we do liver? After hours? WHY! Who would do liver after hours huh? It would be spoilt after minutes!"

"I see what is going on here, what I meant to say was do you deliver parcels after regular business hours. This isn't some joke; it's an important package. I think I'll collect it a be on my way then."

"I'm no click-bait-and-collect! No, I send it back! No liver package is going to spoil on my watch!"

At that, the Italian inhaled defiantly through his nostrils before slapping a fresh liver across his elegant Visconti timepiece, creating a flash of white light and ringing ears.

Cupping ringing ears, feeling the familiar floor beneath newfound feet, a folded note falls from the unlocked door.

"Well, I suppose this would have made for quite the joke. That is, if it wasn't for the stop in the delivery."