The human mind is addling enough when in possession of a sober user but when the owner of that brittle property, if intoxicated or just plain drunk-out-his-senses, could become the inflictor of major chaos.

                  Kliffman was a drunk. Though his profession was in the postal service, he dedicated more than ample time, to an extent of calling it a non-paying career, to getting hammered. The community of the unemployed would have had the pleasure of Kliffman’s company years ago but for the fact that the village where this little story took place occupied, for mysterious reasons, inhabitants with an inexplicable scorn towards being a postman. A whole village’s poison thus became Kliffman’s food. Displeasure of any sort was nonexistent when the selfsame scorners were at the receiving end of the postman; for who doesn’t love getting mail!

                  Perhaps it was vapidity or just pure playfulness on his part that made Lady Luck’s uncle, Mr. Fate, enter the placid, little village.

                  Kliffman, on that eventful day, was, though it would’ve seemed a losing bet, more drunk than he had ever been. But the committed postman that he was (or maybe the extreme state of drunkenness inculcated values into his demeanor) Kliffman still delivered mail on that day. Kliffman’s cranium conveyed to him that encumbering himself with the mail bag was a rotten idea which would only serve to retard his work. After stuffing some letters inside his pockets, some inside his pants (God bless the recipients of those!) and rolling some inside his socks, Kliffman went about his business. After a miraculously flawless performance of delivering mail, Kliffman fell victim to the power of Mr. Fate (or Mr. Gin). It rained. Three letters, all addressed to men sharing the same name, Polblum, which were amongst the last of the mail Kliffman had to deliver, got drenched like a cloth. Kliffman, however, since he had clustered the three letters for his comfort (because they all carried the similar name) knew that they were for the three Polblums. He knew all three of them. Kliffman delivered but so did Mr. Fate.

                  Constable Polblum, on hearing the disturbing news that his daughter (who had only been living for ten years) was being visited by her fiancé and his family, rushed to the address mentioned in the letter.

                  Dr. Polblum received the news that his mother who, a month ago, he had left hale and hearty, was on her deathbed suffering from a strange and unexplained ailment which had left her lying comatose.

                  Purloiner Polblum was the recipient of an official letter from the Constabulary honoring him with an accolade for his untiring service.

                   The news that each received were so stupor-laden that all three rushed, without a taking a minute to speculate, to the various addresses in the letters they received.

                   The marriage of Dr. Polblum’s daughter was wholly cancelled as Constable Polblum, though in a befuddled state, recognized the girl’s fiancé to be a knave whose craft was hoodwinking others by pretending to be a medical practitioner.

                    Purloiner Polblum’s mother was restored to her previous health when the good doctor, who took no money for curing the old woman, removed the silver coin (actually belonging to her neighbor) discovered lodged in the woman’s throat but which, fortunately, had allowed the entry of sufficient air for her subsistence.

                     Purloiner Polblum, who demanded his reward, was given just that by the Constabulary. He was also found guilty of having filched a silver coin from his neighbor’s house.

                   Mr. Fate exited the village. Dr. Polblum still practiced. Constable Polblum still policed. Purloiner Polblum, after his release, still thieved. Kliffman still got drunk; Kliffman still delivered mail.