The Package

The guy in the suit was talking to the shop owner.

“Look, if you don’t pay insurance, the rioters will destroy your business tonight,” the man in the suit said.

The shop owner said, “Uhmp! They are going to destroy my shop anyway. Why pay you? You can’t stop it.”

He said, “I can start it. And that will be your end.”

“You just do that,” the shop owner said.

“Have it your way,” the well-dressed man said, and he left.

The shop owner’s name was Chris. Going to an old storage cabinet, I took down a package wrapped in plain brown paper.

Memories of the Navy came flooding back. We were on liberty from the USS San Francisco. We were a tender. The Navy sent us to help the USS Adam Schiff, an intelligence-gathering ship that had had a very suspicious fire on board. It limped to Jamacia.

“Chris, what do you want one of the voodoo ladies for? They give me the creeps,” my friend Dana said.

“Are you kidding, Dana? We will probably never be back here again, I want a voodoo kit that I can use once to get an enemy that will one day try to get me, but I have some voodoo whoop-ass to break out on them. As a surprise move.”

“Okay, Chris, what makes you think that such a thing even exists?”

“I don’t know Dana, that is why I’m just checking it out.”

We walked down a street with a lot of locals and no sailors.

“Where are you going, Chris?”

I pointed to a dingy shack that had a sign of some sort in front. We walked in through some small shells on strings hanging like beads in a row across the opening, and the real world was left behind.

“Yes,” the lady smoking at the table said?

Chris said, “I want ….”

The lady took a big drag on the hand-rolled ganja smoke and crushed it out, “I know what you want.”

A simple brown paper package was produced. It was set on the table.

Chris said, “How do I know this package is what I want?”

“You got here,” she said, “You were expected. Here is the package you wanted.”

“How do I know it will it will last?”

“If the date on the inside of the box is different than the date when you open the package. It will be no good, but if the dates match, you will know,” she said.

“Okay,” Chris said, “How much do I owe you?”

“You know the answer,” she said.

I gave her my wad of money.

She took it and said, “Thank you, remember when you use this to let the universe feel your anger.”

“Okay,” Chris said.

I toted this box with me for thirty years. I had stored it in this cabinet for a long time. Now was the time to use it. I took the box over to the counter and took off the brown paper. On the box written in strange red ink was today's date. So, I opened it. There was a ceramic dish, a bag of crushed-up material, and a drawing showing a ring of salt. The stick figure put the bag on the dish and lit the bag.

I got the salt and went to the backyard. On the patio, I made a salt circle. I put the dish down, put the bag in it, and lit the fuse. The flame hissed as it burned down its length. It went into the bag. Nothing happened. I was about to give up when I noticed some smoke. I let my anger over the man in the suit and his obscene proposal pay insurance money rage. The bag burst into bright flames for a few seconds and was consumed. There was no ash after it burned. The smoke swirled around just outside the salt ring, then vanished.

That night I sat in the front of my store. I could see the rioters come down the street, one of the shops down from me, they attacked. They busted the wood-covered windows and took everything in the store. Then I noticed the man in the suit stand across the street from me. Rioters gathered with him. He pointed at my store, and the mob started across the street. Then an earthquake shook the street. There was a crack that opened up in the street between the rioters and the store. The rioters stopped. The small deterrent did little to stop them. They jumped over the crack, and a sheet of flame shot up from the crack. They screamed as the flame burned them to a cinder. Other rioters saw what happened, and they went around the crack in the street. As they approached the store, a strong wind blew, they were thrown back over the crack. As they crossed the crack, the flame would shoot up, and they were cinders. The rest of the rioters left. The man in the suit tried to get them to come back. Soon, he was the only one left. He reached down into his suit and produced a pistol. He pointed it at me. The smoke from the pit seemed to enter the gun. He did not care and pulled the trigger. The gun exploded. Pieces of the gun left bloody holes in his suit. He limped away, hurt.

I never heard from the men in suits again. I don’t think anybody on this street heard from them either.