The Legend of Post Mortem

It was a rainy, snowy, windy, cloudy, hail-stormy day. The darkened sky retched bolts of electricity as it painfully spat forth wet hail stones (like a betel from a bus driver, in a long distance bus). A postman was making his way to a house down a lonely road, to a house on top of a jagged cliff that was repeatedly being struck by the lightening (like a defenseless prisoner in a police station). As the postman was putting the letter in, out jumped a black and white medium sized, five year old, cross bred dog. It carried itself with a air of confidence, and its laughing face was outlined brilliantly with a square jaw and piercing eyes. Standing up on his hind legs, the dog pushed the postman against the wall and bit him. Mortem, the dog, then ran off. Ever since then, Mortem noticed changes. He was losing his sense of smell. He couldn’t ignore letterboxes. He was turning in to postman. One evening, when the moon was at its fullest, Mortem went in to a fit. His fur turned in to a thick cow-dung green. The dog, unable to control himself, jumped on a bicycle and sped to a letter box, where he shamelessly indulged himself, sorting mail till morning. Colombo, outstation, Colombo, outstation, international outstation. When it was all over, he stole home and he wept. He was no longer Mortem the dog. From that day on, people see a busy dog on a bicycle when the moon is full. They call him, Post Mortem