Package for Mister Harwood

A package arrives for Mister Harwood, plane brown box, no return label.

Mike scratched his cheek, still wearing his boxer shorts and blinking painfully in the light of day. Fuck, he didn't want to be up. He wasn't drunk enough, and he could smell the bittersweet tang of crisped flesh in his memory. His guts churned. What he wouldn't give for this to be a package of SoCo.

He tore it open.

Inside the box is a disposable cellphone and a cheep bluetooth device. The Cellphone is off and there is nothing remarkable about it.

Mike frowned.

"I didn't order a phone. What?" He turned it over in his hands, wincing at the volume of his own voice. "Ow, ow..."

Automatically, he turned the phone on. Maybe it'd been sent to the wrong address? Hotels sometimes posted stuff out if you left it there. Probably, it belonged to one of his neighbours.

Or this is really, really bad.

"Hello Michael" is on the banner of the phone and the phone has a new message alert on it.

Okay, that... that's pretty creepy.

Mike thought, turning the phone over suspiciously.

Let's not jump to conclusions. Maybe the owner is also called Michael.

He checked the message with one, slightly unsteady finger.

Yeah... conclusion jumped to.

The Message says, "Call the number in the Address book Mister Harwood."

Mike frowned.

"Uh... oookay, that's weird."

He hesitantly checked the address book, and dialled the number.

While his brain insisted it totally couldn't be a bomb. Could it?

A electronically modified voice says, "Hello Mister Harwood. How is the Hangover?"

"Who the Hell are you?" Mike said, brushing off the question. His massive hand slid towards the knife in his pants pocket. Great. This was starting to feel like a scene from some spy movie.

Or Saw.

Mike objected to anything that reminded him of a movie that bad.