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

that they could breathe underwater without the expected result of dying. They subsequently built an underwater society at the bottom of Lake Huron that they called New Atlantis. It seemed to be a freshwater utopia complete with a post office and a church. But last week, a rift occurred within the group.

“We couldn’t agree on the matter of using sea creatures for our own needs,” Leonard Domino, leader of GCSP ‘Freedom Fighters,’ said. “They wanted to abuse the fish and use them for food and transportation.”

The differences in ideology split the six-person cult into two groups of three. GCSP ‘Republiservatives’ are standing their ground in New Atlantis, while the Freedom Fighters broke off and may be planning an attack. “We’re not saying we’re going to attack,” Domino said. “But you should see our cruise missile. It’s awesome.”

“They tried to say that, because fish had heartbeats and very general problem-solving skills, that they should have all the same rights as humans,” Reverend Dick Stool, leader of the Republiservatives, said. “I say that’s a reason that they shouldn’t have rights, because it proves they’re stupid.”

“The fish are our brothers, and are even smarter than humans because they learned to breathe underwater before we could,” Domino said in a clear misunderstanding of evolution. “We owe them. It isn’t the other way around. Ask the fish if they want to be eaten. I doubt they’ll say yes.”

The fish of Lake Huron had no comment, because they are fish.

“I guess I’ll get out of Africa eventually,” said Famine. He and Death were sitting on the couch at 55 Macci Street, sipping tea. “I never really feel like moving around. I don’t know how you and Pestilence do it.”

“I guess it’s just expected,” said Death.

“Oh, yo guys,” said Brian. He stumbled out of his room and stood staring at the ceiling for several seconds before clutching his stomach and saying, “Man, I’m starving.”

“Sorry about that,” said Famine. Brian walked to the kitchen area and began searching through drawers.

“I need to make an egg or something, I can’t even think straight,” said Brian. “Hey, what’s your name man?”

“His name is, uh, Frank,” said Death.

“Mind helping me with the pan up there? I can barely even lift my arms. Oh my God, am I dying? Derek, am I dying?”

“No, definitely not,” said Death. Famine walked into the kitchen and reached up to get the pan from the top shelf of the cabinet. But he lost his grip and it hit Brian between his eyes, opening a bloody wound.

“Dude, what was that for?” screamed Brian, clutching his forehead.

“Oh, dear, I’m sorry,” said Famine. He and Brian bent over at the same time to retrieve the pan and head-butted each other. Both fell backwards, Famine safely into the cabinets. Brian hit a cutting board with a used knife on it on the way down. Death watched as the knife twirled elegantly in mid-air before slashing Brian’s arm. In a daze, he ran to his door, fumbling with the knob. “Let me get it for you,” said Famine as Brian clutched his arm.

“I’m passing out. I’m going to pass out,” said Brian. Famine swung open the door with too much force and it crashed into Brian’s face. He reeled backwards towards the couch, showering Death in blood before turning back and collapsing into his room. Famine shut the door slowly behind him, and sat back down on the couch.

“Sorry about that,” he said.

“I…I think I’ll need a new suit, now,” said Death, wiping Brian’s blood from his lapel.

When Famine returned to his duties, Death made his way to the nearest men’s clothing shop, Fitzegerald’s. He walked in, still covered in blood. “Sir?” asked a man. He was straightening out the hem of a pair of pants on a headless manikin. When he stood up he looked Death up and down with eyebrows raised and lips pursed. “What happened to you?”

“My roommate bled all over me and now I need a new suit,” said Death.

“Well, here at Fitzgerald’s, our policy is ‘no questions asked,’” he said nervously. “What are you looking for?”

“I guess a…suit,” said Death.

“Yes,” said the man, closing his eyes and sighing, his smile still plastered on. “Of course. But what kind? Tailored?”

“Yes,” said Death.

“Three button or—“

“Yup, three.”

“Black, Bl—“

“Black, that’s the one.

“Vest?”

“Yes, vest,” said Death. He felt an odd need to not look like a fool—a very human desire.

“Wonderful, let’s find you something nice,” said the man. “Ah, here we go, a nice vest for you. A single-breasted pinstripe by Giorgio Armani. The polyester and rayon combination give it a relaxed yet classy feel. Along with the button-front is a left chest pocket and two side pockets, and an adjustable buckle on the back waist. I have a vision for you, sir, a vision of the perfect suit. You will…not…be…disappointed.”

“Wow, great,” said Death. He took hold of the vest and placed an arm through one hole, then struggled to wrap the rest of the vest across his body. As he thrashed about, the man could not take it anymore.

“Sir, sir,” he shouted. “What are you doing?” He seized the vest from Death’s grasp and looked as though he had just witnessed an unspeakable crime. “You are going to rip it.”

“I guess it’s too small, then,” said Death, shrugging.

“Uh, no, it’s not,” said the man. “You’re simply putting it on wrong.”

Death felt sweaty and prickly and blurted out, “Then how do you put it on?”

“Like this,” said the man. He swung the vest around his back and put both arms in their respective holes at the same time, pushing it onto his back and buttoning the front. “See? I didn’t put any stress on the back waist like you were.”

“Okay,” said Death flatly. He put the vest on properly.

“There you go, perfect,” said the man, his hands on his hips. “Let’s get to trying on the rest of the suit.”

Minutes later the man helped Death put together a full suit. It was not one