Who could it be? I open the door. A Campmor box? I didn't order anything from there recently. Strange. I pick it up bring it indoors. Sit it on the table.
I start to sweat. Internet Detective Agency, Disposal of Evidence Division?!?
My mind races. Thinking of all the bad things I've done. I put two and two together. Last summer I went camping and accidentally murdered someone. They are playing mind games with me sending it in a Campmor box. But no, I'm pretty sure I disposed of the body really well. Besides, the box is much to small and doesn't smell bad. Check sender. James Joyce? He's dead...another clue pointing to me surely doing jail time.
I shake it. Crap! What if it's a bomb? What if it's a creepy picture collage by a stalker?! I must open it. Grab a knife. Go back and get a bigger knife. (In case it's tarantulas) I slice slowly...wince, waiting for something to jump out at me. I get up and close the windows, go back to box surgery. I open the first flap.
Do people wrap body parts in newspaper or is that meat? Isn't that the same thing? I push on the paper. Something's hard underneath not squishy. That's a good sign. I slowly unravel the paper. I remember I'm not wearing rubber gloves! Good going MP. Now my fingerprints are all over this thing. Finally just as I'm about to call 911 and confess, the last paper lifts and reveals:
Thanks J.J. Who knew all these months of begging would pay off.