Author: Colin Jeffrey

On some mornings, around eleven, the postman will drop a letter or two into the mail slot. But many of these are not letters – they are coded messages disguised as bills or advertisements. Only I know their secrets.

You see, I am a messenger of the gods.

Just yesterday, I was instructed via a gas bill to telephone my local hardware store and inform them of a circuit breaker that was about to overload, and burn their building down.

Two days before that, a brochure for “Happy-clappy kitten wash” told me to address a football match crowd through the PA system to tell them that they were – with the exception of Harry Fleagle in seat 28 – all sinners.

And, three weeks ago, I averted a major meltdown at a nuclear power plant, when I convinced its computer system that the “blue glowy things” in the water weren’t drowning, and it should leave them where they were.

Since I lost my online government job two years ago for supposedly being “too disruptive,” I have been given a greater number of tasks by the gods, and I have carried them out diligently.

Lives have been saved, wrongs righted, passive-aggressive warnings delivered.

Though my internet connection has been disrupted quite severely recently (by nefarious agents, no doubt) and I have had to resort to manually printing out my communications for hand delivery. I can only hope that this method has been effective.

Interference will not thwart me, however. My mission is one that has been diligently carried out by humans for millennia: Joan of Arc was a notable one, as well as Saint Francis, Giordano Bruno, and many others. But not Rasputin. He was a nut.

Speaking of nuts, that’s what they call me. But I don’t mind, really, I know my work is vital for the safety of humankind. Taunts do not move me from my hallowed path.

Just now I have received a menu from the local pizza place. It is dripping with coded messages.

When they put a red circle behind the word, “pepperoni” that means “trouble”, three holes on the picture of a cheese means “aliens”, and a line under the words, “family size” is code for “invasion”. As such, the whole world is in trouble, and they need to launch a counter attack.

I must warn the government.

“Dad!” Missy yelled from the kitchen, “The stupid AI toaster is making up stories again!”

Missy’s father, Mike, walked into the room, looked at the toast in her hand. “See,” she said, pointing to the words burned into the surface of the bread.

Her father read aloud. “Alien attack imminent. Launch counterstrike Alpha nine dash thirty.”

He sighed, yanked the toaster plug from the wall.

“I’ve had enough of this stupid thing,” he said, carrying the toaster outside. “The warranty has expired, it makes terrible toast, so it’s going in the trash.”

With that, he swung the toaster by its cord, and hurled it into the garbage can. “Who on earth needs an AI toaster anyway?” He said out loud as he wheeled the bin out front for the weekly pickup. “Stupid companies trying to make dumb things smart so they can charge more, that’s who.”

As he turned to go back indoors, Mike looked up at the sky for what would be the last time.

A hundred thousand battleships of the Graxian war fleet surged through the upper atmosphere glowing bright red as they hurtled downward, spraying fiery death from their enormous array of fearsome armaments, hell bent on destroying the Earth.