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

that he was particularly fond of. He found himself regretting being so agreeable, since doing whatever people told him to do seemed to cause either trouble or personal grief. Pinning the source of his frustration did not make him feel human, but rather intelligent, and that still pleased him. The man walked to the register and began pushing buttons and said: “So with the jacket, the pants, and the vest, with a ten percent combination discount, then a fifteen percent class tax, not to mention the Italian designer tax of eight percent, and the money you owe me for my help and information, the total comes to $4500. Will that be cash, check, or charge, sir?”

“Oh,” said Death, smiling and tapping his forehead with his palm. “I haven’t gotten my Freepay check yet. Why don’t I take the suit and pay you back later?”

The man laughed heartily and waved his hand in the air. “That is hilarious. Pay me back later? Why, I never. I’d have to be a madman to let you just run off with the suit. That is a good one, sir.”

“Run off with it?” asked Death. “Why would I do that?”

The man flared his nostrils. “Well then, I will have my suit back, thank you very much,” he shouted, taking hold of Death’s shoulders to remove the jacket. “And you can just—“ His eyes went wide as he leaned forward and fell face-first into the counter, cracking his forehead on it and crumpling against the floor. Blood began pooling around the newly-reaped man as Death stood frozen to the spot, feeling awkward.

“Oh, damn,” he said, sidestepping the blood as it soaked into the brown rug below his feet. “I was so close to finally buying something like everyone else does, too.” Wearing his new suit, he decided to go to the HaffCaff before he could cause any more trouble.

Sure enough, Tim was in the usual seat. “Derek, buddy, wasn’t expecting you. You’re looking good.”

“Thanks,” said Death, sitting down.

“Don’t get the new French Dip Sandwich. They say it comes with real beef gravy but it’s just this runny crap. It’s false advertising.”

“Oh, is it?” asked Death. “I’d like to try bacon. You know, God loves bacon so much that he put in the Bible that those who eat it go to Hell, just to see what people would say. He never expected they would actually obey him for—“

Death could not finish because every single window of the HaffCaff Café shattered in unison as men dressed in black swung in on ropes. They were holding machine guns and wearing helmets that said ‘S.W.A.T.’ on them. Screams echoed through the café as people dove beneath tables and behind the counter. “No, it wasn’t my fault,” shouted Tim. “I had to do it, there was no choice. Hear me out, please!” He slid beneath the table as Death tried to figure out an appropriate reaction.

“We got him here,” shouted one of the armed men. He was running towards Death with his gun ready to fire. “Get him to the ground, he’s armed and dangerous!”

The man lunged over the table and crashed into Death’s chest. He went limp and rolled off the table, crumpling to the ground with a thud. “We got a man down! We got a man down!” shouted another one. “We have a ten double-zero, I’m going in.” He attempted to grab Death’s shoulder but only grazed the sleeve of the new suit before falling onto his comrade.

“Wait, please stop,” said Death, as he accidentally reaped three more at once. He slid out of the booth and tried to run for the door, but was impeded by the rather persistent team.

Sirens blared outside as the Hair Police Department burst through the front door of the HaffCaff. “That’s the one, boys,” shouted a grizzly old man with a grey mustache. “They’ve been tracking him for weeks, he just murdered the clerk at Fitzgerald’s.”

“My wife was on that bridge, buddy,” screamed an officer as he rushed forward.

They came to Death in waves, doing their best to engulf and subdue him, but naturally to no avail. Death thrashed about and tried for the door or a window, but the officers would neither let him explain nor try to escape. They shot at him, dove at him, and tried to surprise him from behind, which was enough to make Death finally lie down and give up. An hour later, the HaffCaff Café was covered in the corpses of local police officers, a SWAT team, and even some members of the National Guard. Slowly, in the intense silence, people began standing up and looking around as though they had been in a hole for weeks and had forgotten what the outside world looked like. Tim stood up, too, and gazed at the grim scene around him before his eyes landed on Death, who flushed.

“I…wow,” said Tim. “That was something else, huh?”

“Get out of here,” shouted an elderly woman in a pink apron. “Never, ever come back. Ever.”

“Aw, shoot,” said Death as he and Tim left the café. The door jingled behind them for what was to be the final time. “I didn’t mean to get us banned from the HaffCaff.”

“Yeah, well, that was your bad,” said Tim, shoving his hands in his pockets. “We’ll have to tell Maria we found a new place. I have to admit that going to those lengths to get out of paying the next bill was really something else. We can just call it even, since it looks like there’s no more police force in Hair to deal with. The money should roll in by the truck-load for me now.”

“Oh, okay,” said Death, shifting around in his stiff new suit. “Well that sounds…good, then.”

A Last Chance

TELEVANGELIST: HEAVEN CLOSED, BUT VALHALA STILL OPEN

Hollywood, Florida: Television evangelist and ex-Baptist minister Michael Zarn made more controversial statements on Tuesday, declaring Heaven to be ‘closed off.’

“In light of recent events, God has spoken to me and