"Holy mother fucking piece of shit"

//YES. INDEED.
"Why is the Holy mother fucking a piece of shit?" You wailed. The other junior mailman just shrug. That what is it. This is the plague.
"So all women are... sex mad?"
"Yes. Terrible stuff. They never sleep. Ultimately, they cum so much that their body shutdown due to exertion and finally, when too much water is loss, they die."
"So what do we do? How do we-" you pause. It dawn on you. The fact that you are here, pants-less. "Do-do we fuck them?"
The other man shook his head. "What!? No! You wanna die? They gonna go down on you until you are dead!"
"Then why the hell are we naked from the waist down? Is this a suicide mission?"
"Here" he handed you a vial of some gooey, pink stuff. "Smear around your shaft. If they spot you, aim and try to shoot your cum far away. They will run to that."
He wrap a hand around your shoulder, and pull you in close: "And if you see any infected man... run."
To empathize the point, he slap your ass. Hard.
"God save you if it ever happen."
He push you tumbling forward, wave his hand, and recite the oath:
"REMEMBER!" he shout.
"For good or ill, in hell or heaven, even if a bullet is through our head, the mail always come through!"

"Hey man. Tell me frank. Are we gonna-"
//POSSIBLY.
"Well shit."
And you, with only a flashlight, your old Magnum Opus, and a bag of medicine, make your way into the dark street.