Death in the City by Kyle Giroux (read my book TXT) 📗

-Football

-Cowboy boots

-The Food Network

-Texas Hold ‘Em versus five card poker

-Ankle-highs versus knee-highs

-Puppies

“You know, just basic stuff,” said Tim. “Girls are simple creatures. Easily amused. Not much going for them.” As Death marveled at Tim’s vast knowledge of the human race, the two friends looked up to see Maria the new waitress looking at them, disgusted. Tim winked at her and she threw a single finger in the air and walked off. Tim turned back to Death and said, “See? Easy.”

“Wow, thanks,” said Death.

“Yeah, no problem. So, you’re getting this meal, right?” Tim squinted his eyes and gave Death a thin-lipped smile.

“Uh, what?” asked Death. “You…you want me to pay for this?”

“Yeah, you have a job now, don’t you? They’ve been giving you money, haven’t they?”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” said Death. “And money, that’s how…uh, that’s how I get a meal for us?”

Tim placed his palm on his forehead and closed his eyes. “You don’t have any money on you, do you?” he asked quietly.

“No,” said Death, looking at the table.

“Okay, listen,” said Tim, opening his eyes. “I’ll get this one. But you need to cash your check and bring the money here, so you can pay for the meal you owe me. Okay?”

“Yes, sure,” said Death, nodding. Tim tossed a few bills on the table and sighed.

Hours later, Tim and Death were parked outside a brick building on Parakeet Street. “Good luck, buddy,” he said. “With your good looks, you’ll knock them dead.”

The function hall was full of men in brightly colored polo shirts and women in short skirts. Static emitted from a PA system and reverberated across the brick walls, punctuated by announcements such as, “Only give out personal information if you are legitimately interested in the person to whom you are giving it,” and, “Beverages and snacks are available in the lobby,” and, “Colton Cassanelli, you left a box full of contraceptives at table number five, please pick them up at reception.”

Upon entering, Death made his way into the group of men, who seemed to be purposefully sequestered from the group of women. One of them, a hulking man with spiked blonde hair and rippling arm muscles, dug into a box of ice and pulled out a beer.

“Heineken,” said the man as Death took the bottle and undid the cap. “My favorite.”

Death took only a small sip before spitting the bitter liquid on the ground. “Dear Lord, that is horrible,” he said, wiping his mouth.

“Yeah, isn’t it good?” asked the man, chugging half of his own bottle. Death took another few painful sips and the crowd went silent when a man in a beige suit and an off-kilter wig blew a whistle.

“Hello, everyone, and welcome to our weekly Parakeet Street Speed-Date-Off. I’ll be your host, Edgar.” The crowd whooped and applauded, and Death joined in. “We’re going to get started in just a few minutes here. I want everyone to get to a table and meet up with a member of the opposite sex. I’ll give you five minutes with each person, then it’s off to the next table. We’re going to get in a circle here, so if we could just have each male go to the table to their right, we should be able to work this out. So go on, everyone get to a table.” People scrambled all around for their seats. Death found the very last one available, across from a woman with heavy black eye makeup and a somber expression. Death smiled at her, a gesture she did not return. “Okay, boys and girls,” said Edgar. “On my whistle…and…go!” A shrill screech, and Death was officially on his first date ever.

“So,” started Death, nervousness settling in. “I’m Derek.”

“Shirley,” said the woman. She was pale as a sheet of printer paper and her voice was flat and entirely uninterested. Death pressed forward anyways.

“Well, uh,” he started. “What do you think of…” He could feel himself sweating. He unfolded the napkin that Tim gave him and set it down on the table to study it. Shirley seemed involved for a moment, then folded her arms and looked out a window. “Oh, here. What do you think of, uh, the post-apocalyptic world?” Death looked up hopefully, but his body was growing weak at the sight of the woman’s hideous scowl.

“Who cares?” spat Shirley, repugnance written on every syllable. “When I die, I’m going to see Satan, and that’s all I care about. I can’t wait to die and go to Hell.”

Death could do nothing but look at her, one eyebrow raised. “Satan can be pretty fun,” he said slowly. “I mean, lately he’s been pretty fun. God’s okay, but he can be a real stickler.”

Shirley leaned forward over the table. Death noticed that her eyes were two different colors. “The Lord Satan is all I need. I worship him and he will bring me salvation.”

“Oh, probably not,” said Death. “He’s trying to build an army and all that. But really it’s just kind of a temper tantrum. He’s actually a pretty nice guy, and has a great sense of fashion. Loves rock music from the fifties, too.” Death looked at Shirley hopefully, glad to have found a connection so immediately. But she merely glared.

“I think you are mistaken,” she said. She impressively maintained her pessimistic expression but could barely hide her confusion. “The Lord my Satan is hedonistic, evil, vengeful, and—“

“Hedonistic, I guess,” said Death. “He’s not all that evil, though. He’s a softie. When you do go to Hell, he’ll probably give you a tray of fudge. See, it’s all to join his army for the Apocalypse. He—“ Edgar blew his whistle again. Shirley shooed him away and Death left without another word.

The next woman was on the taller side, blonde, with a huge smile planted on her thin young face. She gazed at Death with deep blue eyes and, as Death fought to keep his balance in the chair under the eyes of her beauty, Edgar blew his whistle.

“My name’s Bridgit,” she