Another day. Another cup of coffee. That was how Edgar Schneck viewed life. Of course, for him there wasn’t much to regard in the first place; primarily because he was a postman. At the moment, Edgar sat at his perfect, spotless kitchen table, looming over a cup of very black coffee—and dreading going through the neat stack of mail on the table. He spent all day with others’ mail—why would he want some of his own? The unevenly-package, hastily-stamped things were practically the axis of his life—and no one wanted to take their work home with them, least of all a postman.

So Edgar sat there, frumpled and ruminating. He was neither young nor old, straddling the fence of middle age. He hair was still brown, but he had not been able to hold onto all of it; his eyes were still hazel, like the nut, but he needed glasses now to even drive. His body was not fat; was not thin. Edgar was a bag of flesh, taking up space, and it was just starting to sink into his thick skull that maybe he should end it all before his grandchildren grew up—oh, wait, he didn’t even have children to take care of him when he would be too old to feed himself, let alone strapping young grandchildren.

But finally he was able to cajole himself into giving the three little pieces of post a quick glance, after taking an encouraging gulp of coffee. I mean, he thought, it couldn’t hurt, could it?

Oh, now he’d done it. No one ever says “it can’t hurt” without getting painfully hurt. And Edgar had found himself tempting fate more and more often with these little adages. What is getting into me? he asked heartlessly. What is getting out of me? is what he should have asked.

He nervously sipped his coffee and fumbled for the first letter, his eyes glazing over it.

Just a bill. Phew!

Oh, damn, I’m late on my electric. Whoops. Better than the alternative, he conceded. There he was tempting fate again with still a sixty-six percent chance of finding the alternative.

Edgar slipped the bill into the don’t-throw-away pile. One down; he breathed out slowly; two to go. What was it his psychiatrist often told him—don’t sweat the little things? Well, this was going to be a big thing if he found another one of those letters, and he was certainly going to sweat.

The next bit of post found its way into his hands. It was thin, and he turned it over to a glossy picture of a man and a woman lounging in a hammock on a beach in Jamaica.

“The weather’s here, wish you were beautiful,” he read aloud. “How rude.” It was addressed to a “Gammy,” so he tossed it into the rubbish bin.

The last letter looked to be a doozy. It sat there, dauntingly, as if taunting him with its fancy dried wax sealing the back flap, very foreboding, because that was what all the other letters had had on them, with a little insignia too, like a squiggly mark and some miniscule letters in a circle.

Edgar’s hands shook violently, knocking over his coffee mug. He cursed and jumped to his feet, happy for the distraction. He rushed over to the coffee pot, thinking, “more coffee, that’s all I need to calm my nerves.”

The kitchen window of his apartment overlooked main street—where, prowling, was a grim, redheaded man holding a “THE END IS NIGH” picket sign. What was more unnerving was that he was staring directly at Edgar.

“Oh God—Oh, God!”

Understand, ever since the redhead had appeared on this block several days previous, Edgar had found the prowler following him. Of course, Edgar thought a lot of people were following him, but on this occasion, he was correct. Something about the look in his eyes, the way the redhead kept constant watch on him, told Edgar that this guy was a fucking psychopath.

Suddenly, all thoughts of coffee were banished from his mind, and he had to see what was in that letter. He was tearing it open and ripping the stuffed paper out.

“Boo. I see you. FM.”

A boiling, unquenchable rage leapt out of Edgar’s throat, crushing the powerful fear that told him to run, run like hell, and he burst out of his apartment, down the stairs, and out onto the street. The redhead was watching Edgar, looking ludicrous as ever in his purple robe and moose slippers.

“WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT DO YOU WANT?” Edgar demanded from him.

The redhead’s hard face never changed expressions as his hand found and pressed a small, red button in his other hand, the one not holding the sign.

“What, are you calling your friends, huh, buddy?”

At the redhead’s call, a squid appeared from thin air, preceded by the sound of fabric being torn. Appearing a few seconds after him was a small black boy.

“We’ve been watching you,” said the redhead. “And we know what you are, even if you aren’t sure of it.”

“What are you talking about? Tell me, is this some prank?”

“I’m sorry,” said the boy, pointing a whirring, futuristic gun at his head.

Edgar laughed. “Surprise! Right? Right?” His voice was merely a squeak at the end.

“Kill him,” said the squid. “Do it now.”

And then the transformation began; Edgar felt the tingling start in his toes and his fingertips, move along their respective limbs, mingling in his chest and shooting up his neck and into his face. His teeth itched, and his vision grew dark. The redhead and the boy and the squid were just dots far, far away in a tiny speck of light. The monster within him grew and grew, awakened from its slumber, and burst from the human carcass disguise. One great, lolling red eye, slimy green tentacles, breaking out of the middle-aged body.

“PUNY MORTALS, I WILL GORGE—“

“The end.” Edgar’s mutating body exploded into bloody pieces. Everyone was showered with guts, but only the boy seemed to mind and looked perfectly disgusted at the whole situation.

“How many left, boss?” asked the boy. The squid was languidly counting on his tentacles.

“Three,” said the redhead, dropping the sign. “And that’s just in this universe. We’ve got a long road ahead of us, boys. You did well on your first kill, Chadwick.”

The boy, Lazere Chadwick, smiled and fished a similar red button from his pocket, flipped it over to a blue button, pressed it, and disappeared almost instantly. The squid followed suit, only his red and blue buttons were attached to a metal harness that looped around his body. The redhead was left alone for a moment.

“Great Old Ones,” he scoffed, nudging a chunk with the toe of his boot. “Never did seem too great to me.” Then he too disappeared from the scene.