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

out his cigar on the arm of the bench as he, Famine, and War stood up. The last wisps of smoke vanished into the darkening air, and the Horsemen were gone. Death was alone.

Death Finds Religion

At Freepay, a young blonde woman with a baby carriage and heavy makeup wanted lobsters for her cookout, so Death helped her. He reached into the tank with a set of plastic claws, but when he took hold of the lobster to put it into the paper bag, the creature died. He tossed it aside (since Bobby had told Death that shellfish could not be sold dead) and tried for another, but it too died. A third one died, then a fourth one, and Death was flustered. He looked at Al, who was watching what Death was doing instead of helping the five other customers at the counter. He had a gruesome scowl on his face and shook his head every time Death had to throw another lobster away.

“Can you help me, Al?” asked Death, sweat forming on his brow. Al shrugged.

“Help you? Why?” he asked. “Can’t do it? Are you stupid or something?”

Death, feeling hurt and taken aback by the hostile comment, said, “Why do you have to be that way?”

“Be what way?” asked Al, puffing out his lips. Bobby, who had heard the exchange, rushed through the back door and up to Al.

“Al, I’d better not be hearing you talk to another employee like that,” he shouted. The woman at the counter brushed her hair aside, interested in what was happening but trying to seem indifferent. “You aren’t half the employee he is. Help him.” Al leaned back with his hands in the air and eyebrows raised. “Like now,” screamed Bobby, his voice booming through the store.

Al placed a sizeable lobster into the bag and handed it to the woman. With a heinous glare, he silently walked over to help the rest of the customers. Death turned to Bobby, whose face was red and lips pursed.

When his shift was finished, Death picked up his check ($249) and gave it to the man outside the door, who jumped up in happiness. Death began walking back to his apartment, but he was stopped by the sound of bass-driven music growing closer to his ears.

Then they turned the corner. Death had been growing accustomed to seeing them every day on Maine Street. They all wore bright pink vests and harem pants and played an assortment of instruments. Some danced about while others handed out fliers. Both the men and the women had shaved heads and looked sickly and eerie to other people, but not to Death. He was mesmerized by their clothes, and found their tunes to be righteous and catchy.

Death, assuming these people were part of a band trying to sell compact discs (as so many other street performers did in the city, particularly on Maine Street), wanted to get one, so he walked up close.

“Um, excuse me,” said Death, waving one man over. He was tall and gaunt, his face full of wrinkles, and he smelt of cabbage. “Where can I get your music? I’d like to buy some.”

The man, as though Death had asked a perfectly rational question even though he had not, responded with, “Why, you can get our music from the great Lord Backspace, which is where we get ours.” He spoke as though he had rehearsed to get the correct groovy inflection. He held his arms high above his head and twirled around, sending himself into a giggling fit. Death laughed along with him, but it was more out of confusion.

“B—uh…Backspace?” asked Death. “Where can I find him?” He looked behind the man where a group of the pink-clad people had just formed a circle around a very elderly woman, who was defending herself with a cane.

“The great Lord Backspace is everywhere,” said the man. “The air, the water, the trees. Earth, sky, people. Everywhere and everything. We worship the Lord Backspace, and he gives us all we need in life.” The man held out a flier, which Death took quite willingly. After seeing how incredibly happy Backspace made the man, Death wanted some of that happiness for himself as well. “My name is Kevin. We are called the LightScribe Gate Group, and we’re always looking for new members. All are welcome. Do you ever question your beliefs? Do you ever feel unhappy, or let down? Do you think you deserve something better in life?” As Death looked at the brightly colored flier without actually reading it, he pondered the questions.

“Yeah…yeah I suppose so,” said Death, confused. He did not think unhappiness was so uncommon, but apparently the LightScribe Gate Group did not feel it. “I guess sometimes I can be unhappy.”

“See, my friend?” said the man consolingly. Death felt better already. “You need the LSGG, and we need you. Backspace needs all of us.” He looked at Death with raised eyebrows, silently nodding.

After a few questions, Death found out he was not happy with life at all. So, on a late sunny morning on Maine Street, Death became part of the LightScribe Gate Group. He was given his pink garments and danced with the group all the way to their headquarters.

As the rest of the LSGG sat down in black plastic chairs, Kevin led Death to the front of the long hallway and spoke into a microphone. “Everyone, I want to introduce our newest member, Dean.” The crowd applauded. Death did not have the heart to correct him on the name in front of everyone. “To initiate him, we will shave his head, as our Lord Backspace commands us.” Another member brought out a chair, upon which Death sat. As he did so his pink clothes stretched and threatened to break. They were made of poor material and they were incredibly abrasive--especially the pants, which Death found to be quite tight around the groin and waist. Kevin walked up to him with electric hair clippers. Death, being