Back to James Wall's Artist PageTo the Artist's Page     Back to the Unlikely Stories home pageTo our home page
PortraitTo James Wall's previous piece


Junk Mail

I am lucky enough to secure the lease on a magnificent eighteenth century house in a fashionable and affluent suburb. My neighbours are friendly and compassionate and for the first month hound me with offers to join them for dinner, as well as delivering unto me gifts of fruitcake and innumerable bottles of the finest cabernet sauvignon. Soon they tire of my snappy retorts and gloomy outlook on life, and stop visiting, which suits me perfectly. I am able to get plenty of good work done, and am eating well, fruitcake being a particular favourite of mine. The thorn in my side, however, is that I am plagued by junk mail and printed envelopes addressed to 'The Resident'. Normally I would simply throw this printed matter away, or shove it into someone else's mailbox, but I am disturbed by the adverse and threatening contents of the pre-printed envelopes. Many of them are death threats, or offers of violence, agony and torture. I am compelled to keep these envelopes in my desk drawer, and I refer to them often when I feel my day needs darkening. Stupidly, these envelopes have been marked with a return address, and on the receipt of my twentieth such letter, I resolve to track down the perpetrator. The return address is an anonymous and colourfully-numbered postbox in the outer reaches of the city, and I drive there one morning to reconnaissance it. At twelve-thirty I watch as a sad-faced old gentleman, a least in his late eighties and dressed in an uncomfortable-looking suit and tie, limps to the postbox and removes the mail. He shakes his head, stuffs it into his pocket, and limps away. I get out of my car and follow him at a discreet distance, and after navigating a number of streets behind him, witness as he enters a large abandoned warehouse. I sneak down a side alley, and climb atop a rubbish bin to allow me viewing through the grime-streaked windows. The factory is for the most part bare, with the exception of a massive conference table in the middle of the floor. It is piled high with envelopes which I recognise as the ones I have been receiving, and is surrounded by beautiful women in leather skirts, typing letters and stuffing envelopes. I understand it to be a production-line for these death threats, and am about to hop down from my vantage point when I notice a large sign hanging above the table, emblazoned with the name of the company, 'Suicide Enterprises, Ltd.'. It is then that I properly comprehend what is happening here, and my mind goes back to an article I read several years ago in one of the trade journals, detailing the purpose of this organisation, which is the execution of those too meek or cowardly to do it themselves. Solicitations are sent out to every household with alarming regularity, and those who wish to partake of their services pay a small fee for a swift demise, be it in their homes or in any other place of their choosing. Apparently the company is able to operate through a legal loophole of some kind. I chew my lip in thought for a moment, before proceeding inside to sign up. Another advertising campaign has got me.


To the top of this pageTo the top of this page