"Dear Satan"

My damn dyslexia will be the death of me. In five minutes.

I've re-read the letter ten times now, praying my eyes are playing trick yet again.

But no, there it says, quite clearly, "My deepest condolences, From Satan".

Maybe I should call in a bomb squad. That would be the responsible thing to do. My mistake shouldn't fall on the heads of those unfortunate to live around me. Or I could somehow launch it into space, or bury it in the deepest depths of the ocean. Send it to my enemy... No, that's too evil.

I'll just shove it under my bed and forget about it. It seems harmless now. I just have to resist opening it ...

No, I'll never sleep right again. I should move, leave it buried in the backyard. I could bury it in the national forest next door. But that's probably illegal.

I hold up the small square carefully. It's 7 by 7 inches, flat, and lightweight. Just a few ounces and wrapped in red shiny paper with a bow sporting devil horns. It appeared out of thin air with a pop at the strike of midnight, December 25, Christmas day. Then just hovered in the air one foot from my face.

I shift the paper back and forth as if I can somehow test it's deadliness this way. Then I dare to shake it. Just the faintest rattle.

Well, screw it, I'm opening it. The devil knows me now personally. Can't get any worse.

Yes, I wrote my name and address on the envelope. I wasn't so fortunate as to screw that up.

I peel the folded corners of the paper open, careful not to tear. Unfold it from the back while holding it away from myself at furthest arm's reach. Any explosions will hopefully go the opposite way.

Out of the packaging drops a simple CD. The one I asked for. And a note.

"Dear Michael", it read. "Find a better taste in music."