As mailmen were taking over the mail business, a series of motion-picture advertisements were produced to encourage people to continue using the Pony Express.
Mano A Mano
The dastardly Señor Mailmán’s poisoned the well, in true mailman fashion. Blood lines his jacket, undelivered mail lines his mustache. His excessive rates have terrorized this town too long. A Pony Express rider appears on the horizon. He is much hunkier and covered in hardly any blood. He rushes his package to the mayor, who signs and tosses the box into the air. It explodes to reveal a new well. Mayor says, “How can we repay you, Pony Express?” But the rider’s long gone.
Woman tied up on train tracks. Señor Mailmán rides away, laughing. A hoof stomps into frame, holding a package. “Is that a Pony Express© flat-rate box?” the woman would have said, but she is so overwhelmed by the fair pricing of the box that she can only exclaim “HELPPPP!” “Yes,” says the rider in response to the woman’s first question. He holds up the paper for her. She’s tied and can’t sign, so the rider leaves, to return when she can.
Civil War rages on. Ponies caught up in both sides – this isn’t their fight, but they run on. Very quick shot of mailman corpses, with Señor Mailmán on top. We don’t care about them. In a lonely battlefield, one rider dies in the arms of another. One a Confederate, the other in the Union, but both are brothers committed to the excellence of the Pony Express Company, now serving discounted rates. The still-living rider weeps – not for the death of his comrade, but because his fallen brother did not sign for his package. He’s in the Great Parcel Depot in the sky, now.
Señor Mailmán enters a saloon. No one there but the barkeep and a man at the piano. “Heya barkeep, how bout some chow and a drink? I’m so hungry I could ride a–” not so fast. The man at the piano is really a devoted rider for the Pony Express Company, LLC. He gets up to reveal– Son of a bitch, it was a player-piano. He didn’t touch a single key. Mailmán turns to run before he can sign the package, but too late: the bar was full of riders the whole time.
Two old men playing chess. One of them has the gout, the other one is looking to get some. Both are Señor Mailmán, his days of mediocre service behind him. A pony screeches to a halt. “Got a package,” says the rider – but the Mailmén already know that. They stare his horse right in the teeth and sign for the package. The rider leaves, they look back at the chessboard – they’ve both lost and every piece is a knight. Both men now have gout.