Christian mercy for a postal guy

I was forced to yell at a postal worker today. Of course, he deserved to be tarred and feathered and driven out of town at gun point, so I rendered onto him pure Christian mercy, in fact.

Today I became the proud owner of twenty shiny copies of my own novel Cross On Me. My publisher shipped them over; the boxes carried stamps from at least five countries on three different continents. I live in Serbia, where, apparently, every parcel from abroad is yanked apart and inspected. The postal guy who inspected my parcel, while I was standing at the window waiting for it mind you, decided that a mere visual inspection wasn’t enough. He tried bouncing them off a rusty steel bar that ran over his head, he smelled them, folded them, rolled a few up like phone books, opened one to the scene where the protagonist attacks God with a baseball bat and sneezed on it. If I hadn’t stopped him I’m sure he would have wiped his behind on them.

Luckily for all of us, the guy didn’t understand English well enough to understand precisely what I was promising to do to him if he didn’t hand my good over right away. But he got the right away part. And I got to yell a bit, and that’s always nice.