Please Mr. Postman

by Rubus_Lockpick

Summary:

A fic written in a style adjacent to the book "He used Thought as a Wife" by Tim Key.
In which Key falls head over heels for the Amazon Guy. Featuring Poems and a Recipe.

First Poem is by Tim Key, the rest are my fault.

Notes:

Author's brambles: (dunno where else to put this)
Long time lurker first time poster. This fic is technically done and yet technically still under construction.
I am trying to make a workskin for this fic to match the style of the book. You don't have to have read HUTAAW but it might help. What you need to know is that Tim Key is the author and the protagonist is also named Tim Key. Emily Juniper is his designer both in real life and in the book. Fatberg is a 5ft tall teddy bear. The story unfolds in London in 2020 during the first lockdown. The rest should be somewhat intuitive but feel free to ask if not, I won't judge.

I welcome all praise and criticism, so don't be shy. I also need some help tagging this.
Partially inspired by queequegscully's fic "package."

Huge shout out to penelopepennington for letting me peep the physical copy and getting a feel for what it looks like.
And a Huge shout out to LaetAira for pointing me to my typos and miscapitalizations after publishing.

Chapter 1

 

COMPANY.

THE Amazon Guy came.

I signed for my wok, whacked him on the head with it and hauled him in.

When he came to I explained he was locking down with me now and fed him some squid.

We quickly ascertained we were both into Mad Men and I popped season four on.

He opened a bottle of merlot and made himself comfortable on the beanbag.

I started carving up some more of his boxes, see if he had any jigsaws.

I fancied getting lashed and doing a 1000-piecer with this guy.

 

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THE THROB.

☏ THE TYPEWRITER / 10:00 PM, MAY /FLESH V. METAL

Key lies catatonic as a quilt on the couch, staring holes into the ceiling. His mind is thrashing against the confines of his thick skull. The curtains are drawn and the lights are off. It’s so quiet that you can hear the SMOG fridge snore.

He has been trying and failing not to think about the Amazon Guy all day. It’s cripplingly distracting. Key decides to get it out of his system once and for all and is thinking, thinking so hard about the Amazon Guy, thinking he will do so until he falls asleep or gets bored. Neither happens. He can’t take it any longer. But there’s no one he can talk to about all he’s thinking. For one, Fatberg shouldn’t have to hear it. He could call someone up but isn’t ready to face any more accusations of insanity, or worse, encouragements. And Key doesn’t want to wake the fridge.

KEY: Bollocks.

He sits up and puts the typewriter in first gear. His fingers hover over the revved up beast. It stares back at him.

TYPER: …
KEY: …
TYPER: …?
KEY: … Fuck off, mate.
TYPER: You came to me! It’s not my fault you cannot write.
KEY: Can write, do write, thank you very much, am a writer!
TYPER: so what’s the problem then?
KEY: …
TYPER: … Dear lord.
KEY: Oi, keep his name out of your ink strip.
TYPER: I can’t believe it! The published poet doesn’t know how to write about his feelings!
KEY: Zip it.
TYPER: What do you mean, “zip it?” You’ve clocked in to literally do your job, get going!
KEY: How?
TYPER: Transfer thoughts to words to paper. Use your fingers.
KEY: The words are stuck upstream, I’m afraid.
TYPER: Unclog the dam, then.
KEY: How?!
TYPER: Like I’d know!

Key short-circuits and tries to slam the lid on the Typewriter. But it’s not his Dell and that’s not how any of this works. The orange bastard pen stiffens, throbs, and leaks a little in Key’s tracksuit bottoms’ pocket. Black ink on black trousers; no harm done. Key unsheathes it and spitefully smears filth all over a blank A4 sheet of printer paper, and then another one, and another one.

He writes about his next encounter with the Amazon Guy. And it goes something like this: