Delivery For D. Esperates

Mother Whofleck ordered me this frigid morning to run an errand. I was to pick up bags upon boxes of donated food stuffs from the church she teaches at and deliver them...to another church up the street.

Be calm, Whofleck. Let the insanity of this arrangement trickle past your perfectly plucked brow without a trace.

I arrived promptly at 1pm. I parked close to the doors with efficiency in mind, leaving everything unlocked (it's a lovely neighborhood, plenty of Whites). I opened the doors and found...boxes everywhere. No organization; not a shred of labeling or arrangement.

It's fine, Whofleck. It. Is. Fine. Take it all.

Although the P90X has been working it's magic for some time now, the obstacle was neither strength nor speed: you see, the boxes had no handles, as anyone properly prepared would have demanded. Many of them were even gift-wrapped to appear like presents under a tree, which ruined the grip. Regardless, I was swiftly dispatching The Desperates' meals-to-be with a fire; a Christmas fire. The cleansing inferno had consumed nearly all distractions, when suddenly Mother Whofleck rushed to meet me.
"There are some in my trunk, can you get them as well?"
"Sure. Where are you parked?"
"Down the street, about a block."

Faster, Whofleck. Focus on the task at hand.

Finally, everything was packed and ready to go. Within minutes I was at Church 2.0, my sleigh of gifted peanut butter and olives in hand. Cautiously I entered, eyeballs careening from side to side, seeking a secretary of legendary poor attitude. Gold: Struck.
"Can I help you?" disdain crawling from her throat.
"Yes. I have a lot of food donations from Our Stupid Lady, should I place them in the back (the usual dumping ground)?"
"Oh my. Jeez. Can you...-sigh-...can you fit it all right here?"

She has motioned toward the empty floor on which we stand. She has asked me to find somewhere, anywhere, in an enormous empty foyer to pile the poor-food.

"Sure!"

Classic Whofleck! Dodging an aggravating, idiotic, and inevitable conversation by agreeing to anything!

As I begin my laborious climax, a strange noise comes wafting through my drop-zone. It is laughter. Cheery fucking laughter. Shortly thereafter, four gentlemen exit a side-room. We exchange greetings. Assistance...is not offered.

Fuck it, Whofleck. Let the rage fuel you, as these non-perishables shall fuel the unfortunate masses.

And then it was done. I did not stay to make my leaving known. I bombed out of there, pausing only to double-check the back for anything that may have been...

...left behind.

This is an old cupcake and a candy wrapper, found mashed into the car-seat like a weeping kidnap victim's face. This mystery, like so many before it, has sullied an otherwise joyous day. Why, God, after putting all my effort into doing the Good Deed, the Necessary, the Nice, must I be punished?

Happy holidays, everyone who partakes of my hand-delivered feast.
I hope you choke on it.