In the continuing saga of “life finds a way,” we take you into a town called Sauceburg, where children are hooked up to indoor gaming devices or texting tablets, well protected from the scorching ultraviolent rays of the hot sun.

Deep into the labyrinthine lanes, streets, courts, roads and sidewalk-lined, curbed, cobbled, paved and concreted vehicle access paths of suburban housing estates.

Where, except on Mondays and Thursday, when lawn maintenance crews cut, sweep, mow, and blow landscape material, hauling the unapproved composting contents away, babies are raised, teenagers tolerated and adults get their weekly five-minute breaks from the horrors of reality.

Otherwise, during the day, relative quiet hangs in the air, hardly a soul in sight of patrolling drones.

At night, sleep.

Occasionally, a raucous sound pierces the peaceful dreams of parents, driving the stake of fear through their hearts!

Oh my God, Jasmyn!  Drunken young adult drivers weaving through the neighbourhood!!!

Quick! Press the button that lowers your curbside mailbox into its protective underground vault, safe from the screeching tires and solid bumpers of SUVs out of control!

What did you say?

You didn’t follow the Joneses and buy the latest in home protective services, including the Postal Service Access System 3000 that only allows preauthorized, certified delivery of mail and small packages to the pop-up mailbox, activated by the security badges worn by prescreened postmen (and women! (and robots!)), which, after delivery, lowers itself automatically and attaches to the underground conveyor that passes your mail through metal detectors, bomb sniffers, white powder zappers and pest control fumigators to the comfort of your home, your castle, the virtual womb that encases you and your family, well out of reach of those who intend only harm and malice?

Well, that’s too bad.

Because, in that case, this is you:

The Mailbox – Chapter Two

Stay tuned to what happens when your neighbours are in too big of a hurry to investigate the manufacture of mailboxes they stick into the ground because the suburban covenant says they have to have one despite all their correspondence flying back and forth electronically.