The Postal Dude didn't seem to have a name. The people in town just seemed to call him 'Dude'. He'd been kicked out of his trailer not too long ago, his wife left him, and he seemed to have gone a bit crazy. You avoided the area his van always sat in, but it was placed just between your apartment and the grocery store, so you had to go out of your way to avoid him. He'd never done anything to you, exactly. But, according to his ramblings about an outbreak in town or the Earth itself was hungry and the world needed cleansing, it was probably best not to speak to him.

Regardless of all of that, it was raining, and you were tired. Trudging through the litter on the streets and the grossly sticky wetness of your clothes as they soaked onto your skin, few things could've made this worse anyway. Until the world tested your patience.

You could hear him talking incoherently as he stumbled out of that rusted van. It was almost planted to its spot outside the alley, but no one dared to ask him to move it. He had a multitude of guns, not to mention he was completely mentally unstable.

"Hey. You, get over here." His voice was surprisingly monotone and gravelly, like a chain smoker. He pointed directly at you, his sunglasses slid down just far enough on his large nose so you could see those piercing, insane eyes.

There was a second that passed before he clicked his fingers annoyedly and casually pulled out his assault rifle. "You gotta help me make these fuckers pay. The government, ya know? Sign my petition." He shoves a paper in your face. Looking down, it was a petition to 'Make Whiney Congressmen Play Violent Video Games'.