Today was Tuesday; the only day that could be considered worse than Monday. The Dude woke up much better than he did Monday and felt content with himself. That was, until he saw the list of errands on the refrigerator.
"I told you that you could do a few more things for me since you won't be going to work for a while, didn't I? Now get out there!" the Bitch bitched at the Postal Dude. His mouth was halfway open as he groaned and got dressed to go out into Paradise. Just before going outside, he looked at the counter and saw a dark-green book and clipboard that needed to be taken with him this time. It was a petition to make whiney congressmen play violent video games and the smashing hit book Catch her in the Rye. The petition needed to be signed by enough people as soon as possible, and the book needed to be returned to the library, lest the Postal Dude suffer a hefty fine and humiliation.
"All right, let's see here: Gotta sign this petition and gotta return the stupid book the Bitch can't even read. Maybe I can swing over to the mall to pick up a copy of What I'm Talkin' Bout. Hmm, it's been a while since I've confessed. Hope I can remember everything!" The Dude meditated on his list of errands to do. That's when he realized something,
"Oh, what the hell am I doing being the Bitch's bitch? I'd better go see Larry. Good thing I still have some change from the Lucky Ganesh in case he's gonna pay me in stuffed raccoon carcasses."
So, with his priorities straightened out, the Postal Dude decided to go out of town to find Larry Chakawitz and discuss payment. The neighboring sound of the marching band distracted the Postal Dude for a little while. He stood alongside several other interested bystanders to listen to the band play.
"You know, as crazy as this may sound, this is relaxing," said the Dude to one guy, who only nodded in dumb approval.
"By the way, would you please sign my petition?" The man turned and looked at the Dude's petition with a curious look on his face. After several seconds of deep pondering on whether or not to sign, he agreed. With the signature added, a member of the Taliban jumped out of the bushes armed with dynamite strapped to his chest. He ran into the center of the marching band and exploded. Every member of the marching band died in a fiery, violent, loud death. Inside the Postal Dude, a single tear was shed from a scene so beautiful as all other bystanders fled in panic.
The Dude went to the outskirts of Paradise, bugging random people to sign his petition along the way. He had gathered seven out of the eight signatures needed before the petition could be submitted. The last one would hopefully be Larry Chakawitz so two birds could be killed with one stone.
There stood Larry's truck, parked off in the distance, doing who knows what. The Postal Dude ran up with the harmless intentions of asking him if he could sign his petition. He knocked on the driver side of the window lightly, trying not to disturb him too much. Larry twisted his head around after looking down at his feet with his left arm twitching slightly. His face was redder than a ripe tomato.
"Gah! The fuck you doin' here!? Don't you know of privacy, mister?!" Larry barked at the Dude.
"This isn't what I'd call private. Now, if I remember correctly, we had a deal, remember?"
Larry Chakawitz soon came to his senses.
"Oh, is that right? Just a second," Larry said before disappearing deeper into his truck. When he surfaced again, he had a generous wad of bills.
"'Ere you go. Hope that helps," Larry said as he peeled off a few bills with his thumb and handed them to the Dude. A total of one-hundred and fifty dollars was given to the Dude for his reward. It wasn't something he could argue against. The Dude pocketed the money and held up his clipboard,
"Great. Can you sign my petition?"
"No way, you friggin' pinko!" Larry hissed at the Dude. The Dude lowered his clipboard and raised an eyebrow in curious disgust. Then, the Dude asked once more,
"Look, just sign my stupid petition. I got stuff to do."
Larry thought about it with empty eyes before agreeing.
"Okay, I guess that sounds pretty good," said Larry as he fidgeted for a pen and signed the petition. "Now, maybe you could do a favor for me since I did you a favor. Now, this-"
The Postal Dude grew disgusted upon hearing the word "favor" again. He had enough of doing favors for people outside of signing the petition. That's when the Dude suddenly the boldest idea he ever had,
"Woah, now, you don't wanna be talking about this business right here. Someone could be listening. If only we were at a much more remote, quiet, place that was much farther away from Paradise than from where we are…"
"Oh shit! I forgot! Okay, let's get to my station, shall we?" Larry offered as he realized how dangerous it was out here. The Dude climbed into the truck, and Larry Chakawitz drove off towards the desert hideout. When they got there, the Dude got out and took a long, relaxing, sophisticated piss onto the sand. Larry got out as well and called out from the other side of the car,
"Let's get straight to business, shall we? The mayor was pleased with that fireball you made in Paradise, and personally told me there's gonna be a big ass crowd of those degenerates outside the mall to protest. I dunno why, probably for food or somthin'. But none of 'em deserve it. They'll all waste it on heroin and whatnot. I figure with that big of a crowd, the popo's gonna come down and try to organize it. So, I'm thinking as well as you, why not just kill 'em all? Couldn't find a reason against it, and scrounged up some rockets for ya down under."
The Postal Dude's piss had concluded after Larry Chakawitz's long plan. He zipped up and sauntered towards the front of the truck.
"Sounds like fun," the Dude confessed. "But before I consider it, I want to ask something from you. It means a lot to me. Like, A LOT."
Larry grew puzzled.
"Like what, exactly? You ain't a cop, are you?" Larry asked, scared of getting the worst possible result from his shady career.
"It's about my wife. The only name that suits her is "Bitch." She's the one sending me out on errands every-fucking-day because her fat ass can't allow her to be out here for more than three seconds without keeling over from a heart attack. I've had enough of her, and I want you to promise that after this, you can hook me up with something guaranteed to wipe her ugly face off this planet for good."
Larry looked on with a shocked, blank look on his face.
"Uh, I dunno, partner. She ain't one of them, is she? I don't think-"
"Uh-uh. Don't you give me that crap again. I want her dead. D-E-A-D. I want her funeral to come quickly in a closed casket. Only then can I do what I damn well please. Maybe start again from a clean slate and be prosperous."
Larry Chakawitz looked down and thought about it hard. He cocked his head up and swallowed his bigoted pride,
"All right, fine. But you're gonna do what I want first, ya hear me? Just wait there so I can hook you up."
Larry went towards where the weapons shack once stood and went underground to fetch the Dude his rocket launcher. The Dude waited out in the blistering hot weather and thought back to what he said. He had known his wife for far too long, and almost every waking moment of it was nothing but suffering. But the question remained: after the Bitch died, then what? The Dude didn't know what he would do in the long run once the Bitch bit the dust. Maybe the prospect of blowing up his trailer with the Bitch trapped inside wasn't the best bet.
"All right! Have fun and remember to fire it like this!" Larry interrupted as he came back to the car with the rocket launcher and pointing it right at the Dude. As Larry approached, the Dude made up his mind once and for all as he asked once more,
"We still have a deal after I'm done with this, right?"
"Oh, we sures do! I think they're protesting right now, so we better hurry up."
Larry dumped the rocket launcher in the back of his truck as the Postal Dude got back into the passenger seat. The two men drove back to Paradise the same way they came from. The Dude had all the firepower he needed to take care of today's "errand." When the truck stopped, the Dude got out and picked up the rocket launcher to carry on his shoulders. Thankfully, he wasn't far away from the mall, but there would most likely be cops on duty. Any cop that saw the Dude like this would jeopardize the whole operation. Just to be safe, he took a longer route to the main entrance of the mall, where nobody paid enough attention to call for the law, although not that they would after seeing the type of heat the Postal Dude was packing.
"This system has been corrupt for too long! We demand for it to take change and finally take appropriate action!" a faint voice off the distance reached the Dude's ears. It was the protest Larry talked about, no doubt about it. Eager to put his rocket launcher to "good" use, the Dude took it off his shoulders and held it normally after cracking his neck.
"We've been quiet, and we demand we let ourselves finally be heard!" said another protester; the voices growing louder to the Postal Dude. He arrived at the location to see a group of twenty or so homeless people stand in front of the Paradise Mall with picket signs. Two patrol cars were parked to the sides, and four police officers were standing on the steps, preventing the situation from being overwhelming. With an internal grin, the Dude held down the trigger on the rocket launcher, charging up the rocket. When the rocket was fully charged, the internal computer spoke up,
"C.T ROCKET ACTIVATED."
The loud, abnormal computer voice quickly silenced the jeer of the protest group. All of the homeless people turned around to see the Dude as well. Some of them dropped their picket signs in horror, while others gazed on with an angry look on their face. The police officers present saw and heard the spectacle and drew their pistols at the Dude.
"Drop your weapon and get on the ground, or we'll shoot! We're not going to ask you again!" the cop ordered. The Dude only heard it as a form of encouragement to ravage the protest.
"I don't think so," said the Dude coldly.
The trigger was released, and a missile the size of his forearm was shot out towards the group, making industrial beeping sounds and leaving behind a thick trail of white smoke. The protest group looked their death straight on as the rocket collided with the closest member to the Postal Dude. All that happened next was a deafening explosion that spawned a shower of blood, smoke, and charred dirt. The explosion was big enough to annihilate the protest group completely, so the Dude knew there would be no survivors from the explosion. The smoke screen obscured the police officer's vision and threw them off their feet, giving the Dude time to escape. He was a long way from the mall as he ran as fast as his legs could allow with a rocket launcher tacked on. A couple of twists and turns later, the Dude hid himself in the interiors of a nearby gas station. The one spot that would be the most obvious place to look was skipped completely as he heard the buzzing radios and frantic footsteps of the police officers go by him completely.
"Hm hm. Mission accomplished," whispered the Dude under his own breath. After what he estimated to be five minutes, he stepped out into the open and went back to the outskirts of Paradise. Much to his delight, Larry's vehicle was parked out on the road.
"Jobs done," the Dude said as he dropped the rocket launcher in the truck. "Now, it's time for your end of the deal."
"Yeah, I heard that. The explosion, I meant. Let's get out of here before the popo comes and I have to pin the thing on you." Larry started up his car as the Postal Dude got back in to get more gear. Once more the Dude thought about what he would do once his wife was dead, and that is where he found some inspiration,
"Compared to the other employees you've had, how am I stacking up?"
"Oh, you? Well, you're probably the best damn one I've had. I mean, you ain't dead or incarcerated yet, so that's a good sign. Plus, I believe you got the highest body count so far. Them protests ain't short on numbers, and I don't let anybody use my rocket launcher, now. Why you ask?"
"I want her and my trailer gone. I can hardly stand living in that shithole without tearing my own head off. Thing is, with my trailer up in smoke, I got nowhere to go. That's why I'm asking if you could take me with you. Skip Paradise when the heat gets too much and move on, clean up this State one scumbag at a time, have a good night out with cold drinks and women, and what not. If your friend can keep up the cash and information flowing, I'll gladly continue to do this."
Larry's heart felt touched by the Postal Dude. He never thought one of his few employees cared so much about this. Larry coughed when trying to speak up until his throat was clear enough to express his feelings,
"You got a damn fine point there, boy. I'm not holding any guarantees, though. Don't think I've completely gave up on ya."
"I just hope you'll make the right decision here," the Dude replied as he sat back in his chair for the ride.