That afternoon, there came a knock at the front door of Jabber’s home. When the magician opened it he was confused to find his mail-demon standing there in full uniform: kilt, axe, mailbag and all.

“Master Jabber?” the mail demon said in a serious tone. His bushy eyebrows were furled into a frown like two red woolly caterpillars sleeping above his eyes.

“Yes, can I help you?”

“I’ve received reports that you’ve been telling people your invitations aren’t being delivered.”

Jabber frowned. “Who told you that?”

“Rospo and Shana Seccant.”

“Ah!” Jasper said, pointing a finger in understanding. “Yes, that’s right . . . well, that’s a funny story actually. I was invited to some kind of charity event. I think it had to do with abused demons or something, but it didn’t really matter because I don’t go to those kinds of things, you know, too many fake people.”

The demon crossed his arms across his broad chest nodding angrily.

“So anyways, I didn’t want to hurt Rospo’s feelings, and thus, you know, I told him it was, um, lost in the mail.”

“Lost in the mail?” The demon pursed his lips.

“Yep!”

“Well, do you not understand that’s my job? I’m the one who delivers the mail.”

“Yes, of course.”

“So you’re disparaging my name to my clients by implying I don’t perform my duties well? Which is an absolute lie because the MacDevil clan has never in our two hundred year history of delivering mail in the mortal realms lost a single piece.” The demon’s voice raised slightly as he jabbed a finger in the air at Jabber.

“Really?” Jabber asked. “Never? You’ve never lost a piece of mail?”

“Please understand, our reputation is our life. So I need you to go back to the Seccants and tell them the truth.”

A smile half-formed on Jabber’s lips.

“What is it?” the demon asked. “Do you find this humorous?”

“Well,” Jabber began, “it’s merely that, I wouldn’t say these are the best clothes to confront someone in. It’s kind of hard to take you seriously.”

The demon’s eyes widened. “How dare you, sir!” He took a step back, waving his hands up and down his body to point out his clothes. “This is the traditional attire of clan MacDevil, the sign of our honored profession.”

“Be that as it may, can I give you some advice?” Jabber scratched his chin. “Don’t try to confront someone when you’re wearing a skirt. Frankly, it detracts from the seriousness of your position.”

“This isn’t a skirt!” The demon growled. “It’s a kilt, you uncultured woebegone. These colors are those of my clan!”

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“Purple and yellow?”

The demon nodded. “I’m honored to wear these and I don’t appreciate you belittling them.”

Jabber held up his hands. “No belittlement intended. I’m only saying it may not be the best confrontation attire . . . Take that axe for example.”

“My battleaxe?” The demon said, a question on his face as he partly reached back towards his weapon.

“Yes, you’re a mail-demon, what do you even need a battleaxe for?”

“It’s standard issue,” the demon spluttered in rage. “That’s what we wear to do our job.”

“But what does it have to do with delivering mail?”

“It has lots of uses. I can fight dogs off with it, for example.” At this the mail-demon reached back to pull the axe up out of its sheath but the handle was too long and he ended up circling himself on Jabber’s porch. “I can show you, just give me one second.”

“Okay, okay,” Jabber said. “I’ve seen enough.”

The demon stopped circling and put his hands on his hips, chest out proudly. “The MacDevils are one of the twelve Deeplander clans of old that defended the Nether Regions from angelic incursions for millenia. We’re mighty proud of our history and proud of having conquered the mail-carrying profession. Every piece of mail from here to Nadaland is delivered by a MacDevil! So I warn you a second time sir–”

The demon jabbed his finger in the air again to finish his point but just then a messenger boy rode up on a bicycle, ringing his bell and waving a note for Master Jabber.

“Ah!” Jabber said. “Can you wait for a moment?”

The demon pursed his lips in frustration. “Go ahead.” He waved Jabber away with an angry twist of his hand.

“I was only trying to give you a tip,” Jabber called back to the demon as he hurried over to the messenger boy. “It’s a good tip!”

“Just get your message,” the mail-demon muttered.

“Master Jabber?” the boy said as the magician neared.

“Yes?”

“Message from Doctor Turnbull!”

“Oh my Dear Missing God!” Jabber said, his heart dropping in fear. He couldn’t keep his hands from shaking as he handed the boy some coins and took the message. “Oh Lord, Oh Dear Dear Lord,” he continued as he ripped open the envelope to read the message. The boy rode off with a sharp jingle of his bicycle bell.

Dear Master Jabber,

I hope this message finds you well. As you know we did tests on a dark looking patch of skin on your forearm that had come into contact with demonic spittle. We were worried that it might indicate a malignant demonic infection called daemonoplasmosis that would soon turn you into the thrall of whatever infernal beast had infected you. I ran the sample I took from your skin through a battery of tests and I’m happy to inform you that it’s completely benign! The discoloration in your skin should clear up in a week or so.

May our missing God return to us with even more good news soon!

Your doctor in this life and the next,

- Magnus Turnbull, MD

Relief flooded through Jabber as he finished the note. “Hallelujah!” he shouted, capering back to the waiting mail-demon, who took a step away from the magician.

“Hahaa!” Jabber exclaimed, opening his arms wide. “Come here! Bring it in!”

The demon reluctantly allowed the magician to hug him, the leather straps of his axe sheath creaking from Jabber’s firm embrace. “Just, make sure you tell Rospo and Shana,” he muttered.

Jabber let him go. “Of course I will! This is the best day of my life!” he said, going back inside.

“You better tell them!” the demon insisted.

“Of course! Of course! I’ll let them know today!” the magician said with an ecstatic grin on his face, pointing at the demon excitedly as he shut the door.

Unsure if he had won or lost his confrontation with Master Jabber, the mail-demon turned from the magician's porch, adjusted his axe on his back, reached into his kilt to reposition his demonhood for more support, and then marched off to his next delivery, whistling a melancholic battle dirge.