Billy waited in anticipation for his birthday presents. Sure, his birthday rocked, but he really wanted to open his presents now. He watched the magician’s show waiting for the time he and his friends could eat cake and he could tear open his presents.

“…..aaaand the Amazing Randy must leave you all!” Randy the magician said before he bowed. The children clapped with bored politeness.

“Okay kids! Who wants cake and ice cream?” Billy’s mom, Robin, said from the kitchen.

“Me! Me!” all the kids rushed over to the kitchen as soon as she said the magic words.

Billy’s mom managed to calm them down and get them seated in the dining room to receive their cake.

Billy opened his presents with the force of a hurricane, wrapping paper and bows flying everywhere. His friends huddled around him as he took a medium-sized box, shaped like a perfect square. “It came in the mail,” his Mom said. “In fact, it came in this morning, I had no time to take it out of its packaging and wrap it.”

“That’s fine mom,” he said as he unwrapped his present, revealing a brown© box. He tore the tape with surprising strength. A noxious smell wafted from the open box, the rest of the kids pinched their noses.

Billy lifted up the object, it had texture like an over-ripe peach.

A black-haired, caucasian head stared at him, or would have if he lived. The man’s eyes had rolled back, showing the whites. His neck ended in a ragged edge as if cut off by a saw. His tongue stuck out from the corner of his mouth.

The rest of Billy’s friends huddled around, amazed that they got to see a dead person’s head. Billy loved his present, with the glee a 10-year-old boy has when getting something awesome.

“Coool!” Billy said as he held the head.

Robin saw everything from the kitchen as she got some more punch. She dropped the Pitcher, rushing into the dining room wearing dishwashing gloves to avoid contamination and snatched away the head despite Billy’s protests.
A piece of paper fluttered to the ground.

I haven’t forgotten how you screwed us over. Thought that “The Mafia won’t miss one little protection payment.” Your accountant doesn’t think so now. Think of his head as your “Final Notice.” I will be coming for you soon.

The note had no signature.


Near the post office a crowd formed, they watched the blood leak out of the postal worker’s bullet-riddled corpse. A piece of paper soaked with blood attached to his chest. It said in big, bold letters:


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