Fortunato walked out of his silent, run-down bungalow to his black mailbox facing the dark, secluded street. The grass Fortunato walked through was brown and decaying, smelling of rabbit and deer feces, brittle from dehydration. The sky was dark and empty—not a white, twinkling star to be seen. A slight breeze blew passed Fortunato, but he was still affected by the humid summer evening. He looked out passed his mailbox, just above the horizon of the expansive soybean field, and he saw the aurora borealis as it twisted and changed color, but that didn’t boost his melancholy spirit.

Fortunato lived alone, and he was desperate to find something exciting to do. Nearly every day he would ride the railcars on the train tracks that led into Smile Town. He did this often, even late into the early morning hours. He found fascination on the tracks, and the conductor even gave him a job as the electrical technician (he would have to fix the railroad lights if they shorted out). He even filled the furnaces to the conductor’s train with coal. Those jobs gave Fortunato some decent money. However, the conductor banned him from visiting his paradise, the railroad, for he paid and seduced several “bag ladies.”

Fortunato’s attire reflected his melancholy mood and feelings: he wore a torn, dark suit, with a matching coat, all battered and worn with uneven stitching, the holes patched together with felt. Brown overalls held up his pants, attached to a dusty turquoise shirt. He wore a dark derby on his head, which was dusty and faded. His shoes were polished and clean, despite the “toe area” missing on his right shoe. His brown socks had large holes in them. His pants, like his coat, were patched with material. Flies were circling his head. His beard, covering his whole chin and running up his face to join his sideburns, was caked with coffee and cigar ash. His face was sunburned, which was already showing signs of peeling. His nose, which was round, small, and ruddy, looked sore and painful. His face had deposits of soot, as well as his brown gloves, even around his baggy, tired eyes. White makeup surrounded his lips and mouth. Jutting out from his teeth was the butt of a cigar. His mouth was shaped into a frown as well as his eyebrows.

He shuffled his way to his mailbox, sighing and grunting, fatigue spreading throughout his entire body. He was sleeping on his old, worn cot, springs popping up in all directions, when he heard the horns of the mail truck blaze through his snoring.

Why in Hell would the mail truck come this early in the morning? he thought to himself.

Fortunato flipped open the lid, placing his gloved hand inside, and pulling out a brown-paper package. It was small and square, and it felt heavy in his hands. Pink and green ribbons were wrapped around the box. In the upper-left corner, Fortunato saw a stamped insignia, possibly from the sender: “Smile Town’s Items You Can’t Possibly Live Without – where our products are guaranteed to make you laugh your pants off!” Fortunato shook the package vigorously; something rattled inside. He plopped down in a small patch of grass in front of the mailbox, and he ripped open the package.

The parcel was another small box, decorated with rainbow swirls and a ghostly white face, which bore a wide smile, painted on the side facing Fortunato. A small crank handle jutted out from the left side. Fortunato, dazed and confused, decided to turn the handle. “Hopefully cash will pour out. Hell, with my luck, it probably will be graffiti or a pie.”

As he turned the handle, reluctantly, in a counter-clockwise fashion, music clicked on, which Fortunato recognized. As he turned the handle even more, he recited some of the words to the happy tune:


As soon as Fortunato stopped singing, an object quickly popped out of the box, giving Fortunato a scare. The object was a stuffed howler monkey, wrapped tightly in a white, linen rope, holding a triangular flag which read “HELP!” in bright green letters. The monkey’s expression of sadness and sorrow left Fortunato silent and angry. Who could have done such a thing to a poor, helpless, stuffed monkey? Those damned taxidermists! Fortunato gently set the toy beside the mailbox. He yawned and stretched, scratching under his arms. As he began to walk away, toward his bungalow (which, in reality, looked like an Asian house in the horizon), a “voice” coming from the hostage monkey spoke to Fortunato:

“Fortunato, I know you don’t know who I am, but what you see before you is a stuffed howler monkey, which is being held hostage by the company stationed in Smile Town. Isn’t it hilarious?” The voice began to laugh hysterically, sounding ghostly and creepy. “Anyway, I sent you this disturbing gift because you are the Chosen One! They have chosen you as their master. They are waiting for you in the subway. They are chasing away innocent lives! And I’m losing money! Go, and rid our town of the infestation. If you don’t, they’ll wage war on your city! This message was recorded by Ignacio Garibaldi (Alice, shut up! Leave me alone!). Thank you for purchasing one of our fabulous products! We hope you—(No, Alice! That’s a bomb, not an alarm clock! ALICE!!!! GET THAT DAMNED THING AWAY FROM ME!!!!)....”

Fortunato, in a fit of rage, threw the toy in the empty soybean field.

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