-August- Back Home

Well, that took considerably longer than I thought it would.

Almost a week longer than I thought it would, actually. All thanks to a note taped to the sender's door when I arrived on Wednesday night.

"To the courier -

Took the package myself. Hope the money will cover the gas cost.

God bless,

Stephanie"

I could already see this was going to be a nightmare, because of course I'm not allowed to just say 'oh, well, it's been taken care of' and take them money and run because of course it's never that easy, because there's no such thing as a normal delivery, especially if you're doing it by yourself and especially if you called us to do the delivery in the first place.

Oh, and the small stack of bills she left didn't even begin to cover the costs of travelling from the house to NYC. So there's always that.

... So I was going to hunt her down, then. A near impossible task considering the size of the big apple and the fact that Runners are usually really, really hard to find considering they're people who manage to stay mostly out of reach of Slim N' Trim himself.

Not exactly the easiest of tasks.

But as luck would have it, what do I hear over the radio as I start up the FREE CANDY van?

"... no evidence found. One child reported a man in a suit near the scene of the crime. Police are investigating."

After twenty minutes of staring hopefully at the radio, the story wasn't mentioned again. I didn't catch the location, but if the fact that this was a little too coincidental was anything to go by, I figured I could take a guess as to where the body had been found, and who the body belonged to.

I got to Central Park a bit before midnight, (Jesus Rollerblading Christ this is such a big city.) meaning most reasonable people had left and most of the police force had been sent out. I'll save you the details and tell you that the Central Park Police really know what they're doing.

Looks like I'd get lucky twice today, because the package was on the girl (or what was left of her) and I managed to get out without being caught.

I don't know how, either.

The drop-off was some little village called Mystic in Connecticut. (You may proceed to chuckle at the coincidence; I certainly did.) A five hour drive to avoid the mind-numbingly boring I-95.

But hey, despite having a case of wicked nausea that kept me pulled over every hour or so, (still haven't gotten all the Slendergunk out of me) I had Queen to keep me company.

She's a killer queen

Gunpowder, Gelatine

Dynamite with a laser beam

Let me tell you a few things about the village of Mystic.

The village of Mystic is not a recognized municipality.

The village of Mystic has a population of 4001 people.

The village of Mystic has a total area of 3.8 square miles.

About ten percent of that is water.

The village of Mystic is located within another city by the name of Groton.

And on top of this, there's also the village of Old Mystic, which is about two miles bigger and actually marked on a map.

Needless to say, it was really, really easy to miss.

And guess which one I wasted a whole day in, before driving back out to the larger town of Groton to ask somebody who might actually know what they're doing.

Well, I found it.

It was Sunday by then. I had split the driving up into two days (I think I would die driving for five straight hours. Three hours on and off when I go on delivery with someone else is torture) and wasted Saturday in Old Mystic, growing increasingly frustrated and loathsome of the tiny cardboard box in the passenger's seat. I had decided sometime around Friday evening that there would be nothing short of heaven on earth that would make this delivery worth it. Hunting down a victim, stealing evidence, hundreds of dollars in gas money and fast food.

There's a reason I learned how to cook, you know.

Maybe one day I'll tell you.

Ha.

But back to the delivery.

On the box was an address somewhere in the middle of the suburbs, (And by suburbs, I mean about fifty town houses clustered together with a park somewhere in the middle.) and guess who was waiting for me when I arrived?

Nobody. I was about ready to break into the house, steal whatever was of value, drop the box and get home when their neighbor, regarding the package in my hand, approached me.

"Excuse me, little miss, can I help you?"

He was in his late 40s; salt-and-pepper hair and crow's feet clinging to his eyes. A slight grin was playing on his face, brown eyes looking me up and down.

Creep.

"Delivery for mister... Church?" I ignored the middle bit of that statement. You're here to do a delivery, not to make enemies. Calm, calm...

His brow raised slightly. "Ian's not around, girly. If you step inside I'd be happy to sign for-"

"If you could just give me the spare key I can leave it inside."

Oh, you have got to be kidding me. Nothing in that man's eyes was to be trusted. I took a step back and cut him off, trying very, very hard to hide the obvious irritation in my tone.

Needless to say, I failed.

He didn't like this one bit.

"Now listen here, you gotta be a little more respectful than-"

"We have explicit instructions from both Ian and the sender to leave it inside. It's very valuable. Something about a deceased relative? Anyways, he wants it inside and told me one of the neighbors would have the key."

Blatant lies.

Spencer had taught me well.

(And the nausea's acting up again. Jesus Rollerblading Christ. I need to get into a bathroom. Quickly.)

He didn't argue much after that, retreating back into the house and returning shortly with a key. Grumbling and some less-than-savory language may have been involved in the process, but I was beyond caring. The end was finally in sight.

There was no note because no doubt Mr. Church had expected this package days ago. He was probably on his way to New York to see the sender and... well, he wouldn't like what he found.

I entered the kitchen and left the cardboard box on the counter, glad to finally have that thing off my hands.

And then I realized.

I didn't specify payment.

And how did I know this?

By the stack of bills sitting in a clip on the counter, marked 'FOR THE DELIVERY.'

Notes on the fridge, on the table, in frames on the walls and written on the floor told me this guy had horrible memory issues. Induced by Slim N' Trim? Maybe. But I really didn't care. Something told me this guy would need the money for himself, if only to buy more stickies to write down his name, his home address, and why he's living alone and what was in the package.

A wedding band.

...

Suddenly, this hell became completely worth it.

I didn't take the cash, but there were some fantastic Italian cookbooks in the drawers next to the kitchen. I grabbed a couple (and one East Indian, mmmmmm~) and left my own note.

The drive home would take me another nine hours. Again, I split it into two days.

So now it's Wednesday at 5 AM and I come home, and of course the house is still a mess because I can't expect them to clean, but somebody did the dishes and the kitchen has been scrubbed down, though the smell of vomit and Slendergunk still clings to the air.

I'm dead tired and collapse onto the kitchen table, realizing how comfortable the chair is and what a great pillow this table makes.

I realize the others will be up in an hour or so.

I realize somebody needs to cook them breakfast.

Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.

I drag my legs up from under the chair and practically crawl towards the fridge, stubbing my toe in the dark (because by now I'm used to the headlights of the van) on the counter and yelping like a puppy who's taken his first fall down a flight of stairs.

The light from the inside of the fridge burns my eyes, and I'm looking through two hazy slits.

What's sitting on the top shelf?

A piece of cake, covered in plastic wrap, garnished with a piece of paper.

"Happy birthday, August!

♥"

Awwwwww.

It's got strawberry frosting jesus rollerblading christ strawberry frosting is my favorite and it could be made of sand and garnished with dandelion heads and it would still taste like sweet, sweet, strawberry-frosted heaven.

Breakfast would have to wait a few minutes, and the slight sugar high made pancakes much, much easier. I also only ended up cooking for five of us seeing as Steele and Todd have flown the coup, (at least for now) which is good because I only made half the recipe.

Anyways, Spencer says we're invited to a wedding tomorrow? I guess I'll have to catch up on blogs some other time. I've got a week's worth of sleep to catch up on and an outfit to plan out.

...

Wait.

Spencer, I'm wearing a what?!