Discreet package relocation since whenever you say

Not a mailman.

Your packages were never here.

I get your deliveries off the porch before your wife, your husband or Linda across the street lays eyes on 'em. I was never here.

Try an operative, free

Select neighborhoods near me in Lexington County, SC. Paid by Zelle donation, no refunds.

Chad in a plaid shirt tiptoeing across a front lawn at dawn with a tower of cardboard boxes, finger to his lips.

Pick your operative

Text one right here, have him text your phone, or call and he'll pick up in character. It's free, it's Chad's AI, and Linda can't hear it. Probably.

Checkin' for Linda... If nothin' shows up, call (803) 310-5359.

Actual field work

Every one of these was a Tuesday.

Chad crouched behind a tiny hedge holding a box while Linda, across the street in a housecoat and pink slippers, spies through binoculars from behind a sapling far too skinny to hide her.
Neighbor countermeasuresLinda's been standin' behind that tree since six this mornin'. The tree's been there since Tuesday. She thinks it's workin'. I'm behind a hedge with a box and a bad knee, so who am I to talk.
Chad grimacing beside a twelve-foot box in a pickup bed with a small towel on the end, as Linda in pink hair rollers leans over the fence with binoculars.
Oversize items"It's a lamp." It's a fourteen-foot lamp. I got a towel on it. Linda's got binoculars on it. The towel is losin'.
Chad at the wheel of a pickup with a six-foot pink teddy bear buckled into the passenger seat, both staring ahead.
Birthday surprisesThree weeks till her birthday. He rides shotgun, he don't touch his hash browns, and he ain't once asked where we're goin'. Best partner I ever had.
Chad under a bare bulb in a shed full of boxes, with a corkboard of box photos joined by red string.
Secure storageEvery box gets a photo and a string. The string means somethin'. I'm close. Somebody on Maple Street has a candle problem, and I think it's the deacon.
Chad in goggles and a headlamp feeding boxes into a wood chipper at night in a storm of cardboard confetti, while Linda secretly peeks over the back fence with binoculars.
Cardboard witness protectionAin't no box. Never was no box. Linda says there's a box. Linda also says the moon landing was filmed in her carport.
Chad in a shed doorway holding an air fryer, shelves behind him packed with identical air fryers.
Spending habitsMa'am. I say this with love. That's fourteen air fryers. Number fifteen lands Thursday. I'm out of shed, out of excuses, and I've started cookin' wings for the whole street.
Chad crawling across a lawn at dusk with a branch in his hair, dragging a small box on a rope past a garden gnome, while Linda peeks over the bushes by the house with binoculars, a leaf in her hair.
The final dropForty yards of open lawn for one pack of socks. The gnome saw everything. Linda saw everything. Only one of 'em's gonna talk, and it ain't the gnome.

Sound familiar?

Tired of keeping your spending habits a secret?

That's your fourth air fryer. You told your husband it was "somethin' for the church." Son, the church has asked you to stop.

Can't figure out how to hide that birthday surprise?

You hid it in the garage. Your wife parks in the garage. You hid it in the closet. Bless your heart, she's the only one who knows where anything in that closet is.

Nosey neighbor eyeballin' your deliveries?

Linda knows what's in that box. Linda knew before you did. Linda's got binoculars, a folding chair and a group chat with four hundred members.

Box bigger than your excuse?

Ain't no story on God's green earth that explains a twelve-foot box. "It's a lamp" is not gonna get it done. I've heard "it's a lamp." It was a kayak. It's always a kayak.

Doin' the "oh, this old thing" routine?

"Had it for years, honey." The tag's still on it. It's got a tracking number. Y'all live in a house with a shared email account. I am beggin' you to hire a professional.

Porch look like a loading dock?

Your UPS man knows your kids' names. He got invited to the graduation. He came. You got a problem, friend, and for five dollars it can be my problem.

What it costs

Monthly charge: one (1) plan

$5/month

That's less than what you spent while readin' this sentence.

  • Package extraction, relocation and return
  • Cardboard hauled off the premises
  • One alibi, written on a napkin, per box
  • A wave at Linda, which she'll think about for days

Add-on: make it disappear for good, 10% of the sale. How that works

Select neighborhoods near me only. Nothin' owed for askin'. If you make the route, you Zelle me five dollars a month. Nothin' bills on its own, and if you stop sendin', the route stops. It'll show up in your bank app. I can hide a kayak. I can't hide that. Tell 'em it's parkin'.

Get on the route

What folks are sayin'

Every one of these is made up, which is honestly on brand.

"My wife still thinks that's the same grill. It's the fourth grill."Dale, name changed, grill not
"I know exactly what you're doin' and I've got it wrote down."Linda
"Best five dollars I ever spent, and I would know, 'cause I've spent all the other ones."Anonymous, Maple Street

The "I have no idea what happened to your package, honey" plan

Gone for good: I sell it, keep 10%, you get the rest by Zelle.

Some packages don't need relocatin'. They need to vanish.

Two in the mornin', you bought a third exercise bike. It's come to your senses before you did. Say the word and that box is gone for good. I sell it on Facebook or Craigslist to a fella in a parkin' lot who don't ask questions neither, and I get you back as much money as I can.

My cut's 10% of whatever it sells for. It goes for $200, you get $180, by Zelle. That part's your money comin' back, not a donation. Your spouse never knows a thing. Completely discreet.

"I have no idea what happened to your package, honey. Terrible. This neighborhood's changin'."

Has to be your package with your name on it. I can't promise what it'll fetch; an air fryer's worth what Gary says it's worth. And no, I ain't filin' no claim with the carrier or the store. We ain't crooks. We're just quiet.

Chad at his tailgate in a parking lot handing a boxed air fryer to a man holding out cash, while Linda watches from a parked car through binoculars poking out of holes cut in a newspaper.
Asset liquidationThis is Gary. Gary's got eleven air fryers now. Gary thinks this is a normal Tuesday. The lady in the sedan thinks it's a sting. She ain't wrong.

How the operation works

Tip-off, extraction, relocation, evidence, drop
  1. The tip-off. You send me the tracking number and the word "dog." I don't ask what's in it. I do not want to know. I will find out anyway, and I'll take it to my grave.
  2. The extraction. I show up lookin' like nothin'. Just a man in plaid, walkin' slow, callin' for a dog. Box is off the porch in eleven seconds. I've been timed. By Linda.
  3. The relocation. Your package goes to a secure, undisclosed location. It's my shed. That was the whole secret. It's got a lock and a raccoon that owes me money.
  4. The evidence. The cardboard's what gets you. It always is. I break it down and it leaves with me, 'cause in this line of work a recyclin' bin is a witness.
  5. The drop. You text me when the coast is clear. Spouse at work, in-laws gone, Linda at the dentist. I bring it back and I set it down like it's been there since 2019.

Questions I'll answer

Is this real?

The jokes are jokes. The form below goes to the real Chad, who really does read it. The phone number's answered by his AI, which will tell you straight it's an AI if you ask. If your neighborhood makes the route, he'll text you. Money's by Zelle, it's a donation, and my services may or may not be real.

So are you a mailman?

No sir. It's right there in the name. I don't touch your mailbox. That's federal, and them folks ain't got a sense of humor. I'm strictly a porch man.

Whose packages do you take?

Yours. Your name on the label, your own house, you signed up. I ain't movin' your wife's Kohl's order 'cause y'all are fightin'. That's a different business, and it's called a felony.

What if my spouse signs up too?

Then I'm holdin' both y'all's stuff in the same shed, and it's your anniversary gifts, and y'all bought each other the same grill. I will take it to my grave. That's ten dollars a month.

What if I get caught?

I never met you. I'm lookin' for my dog. Have you seen my dog? He's brown, about yay high. Anyway, you're on your own.

Doorbell camera?

Sir, I'm on every doorbell camera in the county. To this day they all think it's the same lost fella. There's a Facebook group tryin' to help me find my dog.

What if my spouse asks where it went?

Porch pirates. Terrible. You're as upset as anybody. Linda will back you up, 'cause she saw the whole thing, and she's got it wrote down, and I still ain't figured out how to handle that part.

Can you hold perishables?

No ice cream, no steaks, nothin' alive. I took a lobster once. I don't wanna talk about it, and neither does the raccoon.

How long will you hold it?

Long as it takes. Current record's a kayak goin' on its third Christmas. The fella's still workin' up to it.

How you pay: Zelle

Zelle donation. No refunds. No real invoice.
  • Zelle only, to chadbechtel225@gmail.com. Put your first name in the memo.
  • I won't send an invoice. If I do, it's fake, and it won't be for the amount you actually paid, if you actually paid.
  • It's all a donation. Donations are appreciated, because my time and services may or may not be real.
  • No refunds. Zelle doesn't do take-backs and neither do I. This part's no joke: it's real money, so only send what you're fine never seein' again.
  • Five dollars a month, by hand. Only once you make the route. Zelle it each month; if you stop, the route stops.

Get on the route

Tell me where you're at, or just call (803) 310-5359. I'm only runnin' select neighborhoods.

Ship to: Not A Mailman

Nothin' owed for askin'. I'll only use your number to text you about the route, and I don't sell it to nobody.