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

I have seventeen dollars left. I can probably have more next week, if you want.” Death tossed the money onto the man’s lap.

“Uh,” started the man. “Well, yes, okay. Thanks. But I said your wallet. You must have more than that. Give me your wallet and we won’t have any problems.”

Death figured that, even though this new companion was not a woman, he was still asking for money and therefore Tim’s advice still applied. So he said, “I think the only problem is your breath.” And he smiled.

“Uh…what?” asked the man. “I’m telling you to shut up and give me your wallet.”

Then Death remembered that Tim had told him to be sarcastic. “Oh, give you my wallet. I could have sworn you said give you a comb.”

“Hey, stop that.”

“Or maybe some shampoo,” said Death, thrilled at his newfound people-skills.

“I said stop. I’ll shoot you, I scare. I mean, swear.”

Death pounced on the opportunity. “Oh, you’ll scare. Are you scared? Are you going to cry?”

“No,” said the man, tears beginning to roll down his cheeks.

“Looks to me like you’re crying,” said Death.

“I am not,” sobbed the man. “Just shut up already, you’re being really mean.”

“But you’re asking for tips, right?”

“Just because I’m unemployed doesn’t mean you have to be so awful about it,” said the man. On the next stop he ran out of the subway car, covering his face with his jacket as he went. Death assumed he must be doing something wrong with the advice Tim gave him.

As he watched the people shuffle on and off the train, he looked forward to the North Station stop, but it never came up. The clock above the stairs read 5:58 when the train arrived back at Hair. Death was stunned to find he had only traveled in a giant circle.

“Derek, big CEO,” Tim called as Death shut the clanging doors of the HaffCaff Café behind him. “How was the first meeting?”

“Didn’t make it,” said Death, sliding into his usual seat and ordering a coffee from a smiling but tired-looking Maria. He played around contently with a sugar packet as Tim looked at him, confused.

“Didn’t make it? Why, what happened?” he asked.

“I just…never got there,” said Death distractedly, gazing out the window at the crowds of people walking in and out of the station.

“Well…” Tim was at a loss for words. “That’s…that’s probably bad.”

“Yeah,” said Death, as though he had had an epiphany. “Yeah, it is.” He looked up at Tim, his brows furrowed. “What should I do?”

“I guess you’ll have to call and apologize, try to make the next one.”

“Yeah,” said Death, folding his hands on the table and placing his chin on them. “Yeah, I guess so.” He was beginning to feel a certain stress that his job as the Grim Reaper never seemed to cause.

“So you’re going to pay for this one, right?” asked Tim.

“Oh, I don’t think I can,” said Death. “A man on the subway took all my money.”

“Great,” sighed Tim. “That’s just perfect.”

When Death opened the door to his apartment, Brian was lying in the middle of the floor, his legs outstretched, a backwards baseball cap perched on his head. He looked at Death with squinted eyes, smiling and laughing when he came into focus. “Hey buddy,” he said in a raspy voice. He was squirming slightly.

“Hiya,” said Death. He took off his suit jacket and sat down at the kitchen table, expecting conversation. But Brian just lay in the middle of the floor, blinking dumbly. “How…uh…how are you?”

“Pirates won it, man. The Pirates won the, uh, game,” he said slowly and stupidly. “Had to, uh, celebrate.” He rolled on his side to face Death, a large grin covering the entirety of the lower half of his face. “I don’t know, man. My toleration, uh, no. My to-ler-ance, it’s, uh, really built up the last few weeks. I can drink, and drink, and drink,” he began swaying his head back and forth, causing himself to giggle, “and nothing. If I drank this much a few weeks ago, I’d be dead. Now, no dead.” He closed his eyes, sighing deeply.

“Huh,” grunted Death. He looked at Brian, unsure of how to feel.

A Meeting

“You’ve really done it now,” said Pestilence. He was standing at Death’s door, leaning against the frame. “The big man wants to see you. Satan isn’t too happy.”

“Lucifer’s mad?” asked Death.

“Satan, Lucifer, Beelzebub, Kitty, whatever you want to call him,” said Pestilence. “He’s not too happy now that he’s found out you retired. He wants to see you.”

“Okay, come on in first. Let me mentally prepare myself.”

Pestilence sat down as Death put on a pot of coffee. He placed the mugs on the coffee table and sat down beside him. “So how have you been?” he asked.

“I’ve been well,” said Pestilence. Certainly can’t complain. I just—“ Brian burst through the door of his room, cutting Pestilence off.

“Hey Brian,” said Death. “This is my friend, Pes—“

“Wait, stop talking,” said Brian. He was clutching his stomach and his face was positively green. “I need some Rolaids or something, I feel awful.”

“Oh, sorry,” said Pestilence.

“And I’m itchy,” said Brian, clawing at his neck. “I have these red spots all over me. Holy crap, it’s happening. I’m dying. Derek, I am dying.”

“I can leave,” said Pestilence.

“Oh my God,” shouted Brian. Sweat was pouring down his head and he was beginning to foam at the mouth. “What’s happening to me?”

“Brian, it’s fine, we can just leave now.”

“No,” screamed Brian. He looked up at Death with sunken eyes. “I need you to scratch my back.” He turned his back to Pestilence.

“My new thing is making people delirious, my mistake,” said Pestilence.

“Do it, please, please do it,” cried Brian. Pestilence shrugged and put his fingers to Brian’s back. Immediately upon contact, Brian wretched and blew a thick stream of yellow vomit all over the coffee table, knocking the two mugs of fresh coffee to the floor.

“Oops,” said Pestilence. Brian fell down and passed out.

“I guess we can just