Mr. Bumbry seemed to know everyone in the town. "He had connections" as people say. Once, he managed to close all the schools on his birthday. Another time, he got the mayor to make a speech saying how wonderful he was on the local news... But just a week ago, he used his "gift" to put the paper boy out of business. He simply picked up the phone to the chief editor of the newspaper and had him relieved of duty. No reason given; no questions asked.
This made the new paper boy nervous. It was the first day of Timmy's new round, and each door felt like a new hurdle. Was he doing it right? Was he letting the letter flap down gently enough? Or too gently so as the occupants weren't notified of the arrival? Any one of a hundred things could've cost little Johnny his job, and he was determined not to go out the same way. Eventually and inevitably, the moment came to post a paper though Mr. Bumbry's house. Though never said outloud, everyone knew it was the old man that gave little Johnny the boot. This had to be perfect, he thought.
He opened the gate slowly, trying to minimise the squeak; trying not to be noticed. It let out a long but quiet squeal, and so he considered the entrance to the property a success. He tiptoed down the path, examining the ground closely; eyeing up any loose stones that could crunch or skitter across the ground. Taking his time, he slowly ballerina'd across the concrete until he reached the door. After focussing so intently on making the least bit of noise possible, not even looking at his destination, he finally looked up at the door.
But the door was not there. Only Mr. Bumbry. The boy's eyes widened, and pupils tightened. He didn't move a muscle; as if somehow the old man had not seen him. As if had he stayed still for long enough, the beast would see nothing, and continue on it's journey for other prey to hunt. The old man leant forward, and sniffed the air, ruffling the boy's hair. He paused for a moment, analysing the chemical compunds that made up the kid's particular brand of hair product; and then reached out for the paper. He grabbed onto the end of it with his vice-like spindly fingers and gave it a tug, attempting to free it from under the boy's arm. The boy, so frozen with fear, did not loosen his hold. And so the man pulled harder. Still the paper did not budge. And so he pulled a third time.
At last, the paper slid out of the boy's grasp; but the force of the pull was so much as to unbalance him. It's hard to keep your balance when you can't move a muscle. And so he fell, face first, to the floor.
He'd lost his job for sure, the boy thought. But he decided to accept his fate; no blubbing like the last boy. No begging or pleading... Just silence. Silence was golden, after all.
The old man turned and pushed the door closed. But Timmy caught a glimpse of what lay beyond the threshold of the door as he peeled his face from off the hard concrete. The tiniest flash of gold hit him square in the face. And the door slammed shut.