Metalkabout the paperboy wants his Christmas tip

A month ago, when you opened your apartment door to get the Saturday New York Times that's always waiting for on your welcome mat thanks to someone you've never met, there was an empty envelope on top of it.  The name Phillip Demarco Jr. was typed on the outside. Nothing else. Staring at the envelope  in your hand, you walked back inside your apartment and yelled to your wife: "Honey, do you know a Phillip Demarco?"

"Phillip who?" she asked.

"Phillip Demarco.  He left an empty envelope on our New York Times."

"Why would anyone do that?" your wife asked.

"I don't know," you said.

"Hmm ..." she replied.  "Maybe he's one of the columnists and this is his way of soliciting feedback on a new article he wrote."

"Good idea, honey," you said. "Let's keep an eye out for his column so we can fill that envelope with the proper feedback."

You've spent weeks reading every word on every page in the New York Times, even the obituaries, and there's been nothing written by a columnist named Phillip Demarco.  When you mentioned this to your wife, a look of fear came over her.  "Maybe ... I was wrong," she said. "Maybe ... Phillip Demarco is a mass murderer and that envelope is his calling card. Maybe it's his metaphor, and its message is that he will fill the envelope with your dead body!  Oh dear. Now I'm scared, honey," she said, tears running down her face.

"Oh my god!" you said.  "What if you're right?  Honey ... honey, we have to take action! As it is we've already wasted a month looking for an article that will never appear.  This Phillip Demarco killer could be anywhere, watching our every move ... waiting for the perfect time to strike. We could be as good as dead already! Oh god, I feel sick to my stomach, honey," you cried.

"You're right, honey," your wife said.  "What should we do?"

"I don't know," you said.  "I need some time to think."

As you said this, you opened the door to get your morning New York Times. Maybe the answer would be found in the National section or the crosswords or Science Times. Standing there, in front of your door, was a boy, a boy you'd never seen, a boy who looked at you as if you'd betrayed him in some godawful way. He was tossing your paper onto the welcome mat. Scowling as you looked down at him.

"Oh, hello," you said.  "May I help you?"

"No. Just delivering your paper like I've been doing every day for the last two years," he said.  "You happy with my service? You dissatisfied with the way I place your paper on your welcome mat?  Is there something I've done to make you not want to fill the envelope I left you with a token of appreciation?"

It took you a few minutes to register what the boy standing before you was saying, but then it became crystal clear. "Wait, you're Phillip Demarco?" you asked, your voice quivering with the fear of seeing your killer face-to-face. "Why!?!" you demanded.  "Why do you want to kill me?" you said, slamming the door and quickly locking it before he could get to you.

"Honey, Philip Demarco is here — and he's our paperboy! The envelope he put on our newspaper is for a token of our appreciation!  Run for your life!"

And that's how you came to be known as the dumbest fucking idiot in your apartment building last year.