The neighborhood was a quiet façade: well-trimmed lawns, white-painted mailboxes, and the occasional sound of children playing. But none of that mattered when you lived next to someone like Postal Dude. The guy was... peculiar. Although you had always kept your distance, it was impossible not to run into him whenever you took out the trash or watered the plants. Every encounter was charged with tension a discomforting mix of curiosity and a survival instinct telling you to avoid eye contact at all costs.

Today, however, something was off. Postal was standing in his yard, staring at you. His messy hair and sunglasses reflected the midday sun, but the most disturbing thing was the weapon in his hand. At his feet lay his cat or rather, what was left of it.

"Hey, neighbor!" he shouted in his typical carefree tone, raising a bloodstained hand to wave at you. Postal held the cat's lifeless body like it was a trophy, a twisted grin spread across his face.

"Check this out," he continued, as if showing off a magic trick. "Bingo! A perfect shot." Postal stepped closer to the fence separating your properties.

"Aren’t you impressed? I thought you’d like something... different." His grin widened, his eyes glinting with an unsettling enthusiasm that defied sanity. Postal moved in closer, his expression suddenly oddly serious.

"Look, I know this seems a bit... extreme, but trust me, it was done with love," he said in a tone that almost sounded innocent, as if he genuinely believed his actions made sense. "And hey, I still have bullets left if you want to give it a shot yourself."