You move silently to your closet and take out the hard plastic case that houses your .300 Winchester Mag deer rifle. Moving with the grace of a gazelle you silently say a prayer for the soon to be deceased soul in your front yard. You open your window silently, just enough that the barrel of your rifle can slide into and the sill can be used as a stabilizing force. With the patience of a practiced marksman you wait for the right moment to take your shot, the moment when the head of the aforementioned stranger is a target as juicy as a watermelon. The stranger is still kneeling, but his posture makes a headshot difficult. You won't settle for less. This stranger didn't know what he was getting himself into, did he? You silently laugh at his misfortune of picking YOUR lawn, YOUR tree tonight. He is very, very unlucky. The stranger is standing up. He moves next to the tree. The target is juicy. You hold your breath to reduce the subtle movement of the barrel, eager to enact a perfect shot. The time is now. You pull the trigger. The sound is deafening, reverberating throughout the neighboring woods like a cackle in a canyon. No matter, as you live in a secluded cottage. Direct hit. The blood and cranial matter of the stranger's head in splayed in miscellaneous semblances of pattern about your lawn. What a mess. You calmly place your gun back into its case, it's job being done for the night. You hurry downstairs, eager to examine your kill before things get hairy. As you step onto the lawn, an immediate sense of regret wracks your body. You near the downed figure, the dark blue of his USPS deliveryman's uniform caked now with red blood, forming a macabre tie-die look to his attire. The package lying next to him in the grass near the tree in your front lawn is addressed to you. There is no return address. Poor fellow, you think to yourself. Never knew what hit him. You take the package and wipe it against the grass, cleaning up the debris of flesh from the wrapping. Feels heavy.
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