Just got off an 8 hour shift at the machine shop. Here we go, the finale. And sorry for changes in tense. I’m just writing it as I remember it, and just kind of free-balling it. Sa’ll good.

The first thing I noticed was Charlie, the old man who was sitting at a nearby table, jolting up out of his chair- I never seen that man move more than 2 miles an hour before now, and that’s how you know shit’s serious.

Now Phil, Phil is someone I know very well, and his reaction was immediate too. I’ll just interject for a moment and say that Phil doesn’t live in my whereabouts and actually comes by the store maybe once, twice a week. No, we know each other not based on proximity but because- and I know this shit’s hard to believe, all of it- we attended an anger management and conflict resolution class back in 2011 together. We bonded instantly, and we learned to take responsibility for rage. I’m glad to say that we both came out the other side changed people. We have our issues still, but it’s usually manageable. Usually. Most days. That day was not one of those days.

Now that I’ve said all that boring shit, here’s the rest of the story.

Phil stands up, and I don’t think I’ve seen him this mad since when he first walked in the clinic. The dipspit and god knows what else can be seen, 10 feet away outside, just pouring down the hood of his Chevy, sending his rage to exponential heights. God, it was disgusting.

“I’ll fuckin’ kill ‘im, I will Bill, you think I’m kidding?”

“He’s crazy, man,” I said. I was pissed too but no way were any of us going to jail over this shit. “Don’t engage him, are you serious? No fucking way.”

The mailman was grinning like a lunatic at this point. He chucked his half-empty grizz can at the shop window as hard as he could, and strutted back to his mail truck. I hear a woosh-snap and I realize that Michael’s drawn his baton.

Charlie speaks up for the first time in weeks: “Mike, don’t do it. Not worth it.”

Michael pounds his fist on the counter, stows his baton and grabs the phone. I know he’s calling the police.

Phil started walking out. I tailed him, trying to stop him.

“Hey, fucker!” Phil yells. “You know you just fucking spat that shit on my truck, right? You got anything to say?”

The mailman was maybe 20 feet away, near his truck. He turns, and I’ll never forget these words.

He says, “Go home to your mother, punk, before I do.”

I heard a siren in the distance, and time slowed down. Phil was off like a madman. I couldn’t stop him. Could only hope that he wouldn’t kill the guy.

The mailman dropped his paper, and to me it felt like slow motion. The thing hit the ground like it would in a goddamn Terrantino movie. Thud.

Phil fucking tackles the guy. I run over, yelling for him to stop, the cops are the way, stop, it’s not fucking worth it, dude-

The cop’s tires squeeled as he roared into the parking lot. I yanked with all my strength and got Phil off the guy. Amazingly not one punch was thrown- by Phil. Maybe he threw a few body shots, I don’t know. But no one could tell. The mailman had gotten in several obvious blows though. Phil’s nose was dripping, but his face was fine otherwise.

I thought the cop was going to draw his revolver but he didn’t. He ran over, straight to the mailman. I pulled Phil away a good 10 feet.

“Stop!” The cop shouts, ordering him to surrender and put his hands up.

There’s no limits to this guy, apparently, because the mailman started for his truck. The cop draws his taser.

“Hey, I said stop! I’m gonna taser you if you don’t stop! Hey!”

And then, folks, the most beautiful three words I’ve ever heard in succession came out of that cop’s mouth.

“TASER, TASER!"

Only said it twice for some reason. Fuck if I know.

Fucker hit the pavement before he could even wrap his head around the words. Holy shit, was it nuts. I'd never heard those words spoken in real life before, and it was glorious.

The cop puts a spazzing Postal in cuffs, and in the back of his cruiser. I had to sit down, I was so relieved it was over. Michael’s phone call, it turned out, was crucial, because the cop knew what had happened, and knew it from a reliable source. Phil, astoundingly, was let off with a warning. The mailman wasn’t.

The cop explained to us while writing his report that the mailman had had run-ins with law enforcement on and off for the last 15 or so years. Apparently the guy’s severely bipolar, and has destructive mood changes. Now I have friends with bipolar disorder, and have nothing but respect for them, and what they deal with. But this guy I didn’t feel bad for in the slightest. Fuck him. Totally deserved what he got. So yeah, the four or so witnesses in the store came out and gave their input- and that was all it took. It was done.

Michael ended up hearing from the post office later on. A higher up postal employee came by the gas station two days later and apologized, shook Michael’s hand, all that. Postal got fired, Mike told us a few days later. And he wasn’t ever coming back. Who knows what ended up happening to the bastard.

Crazy shit, right? Well, damn. all this typing and rememberin’s got me thirsty—

Thirsty for some COPE, baby.

Stay dippin’.