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

told me that he has closed off Heaven and Hell because they are full,” Zarn said. The ‘recent events’ to which he refers is the statistical anomaly of a zero death rate for the past month across the entire globe, with the exception of the city of Hair, Massachusetts.

“God has told me that Catholicism is now closed, but he has spoken to Thor, who has agreed to open Valhala for the time being,” Zarn said.

The only way into Valhala is to die in battle, so the U.S. Military has supported Zarn’s statements and updated their slogan to: “Don’t Piss Off Thor, Sign up for the Military Today.”

Zarn himself has refused to convert to Viking Mythology. “Well, Heaven has had a spot reserved for me,” he said. “I should be good.”

Efforts to contact Thor or God about the matter were unsuccessful.

“Listen, Mr. Derek, we here at FreePay Brothers are going to give you one final chance.” Death was on the phone with Mr. Donald FreePay, president and co-founder of FreePay Brothers Incorporated. “Just because you were promoted to a position that allows you to do far less work than the under-paid people around you, doesn’t mean you don’t have to show up. There is a meeting today in Boston at four o’clock, about paying all FreePay employees in bags of potato chips instead of money. If you aren’t there today, we will have no choice but to terminate your employment with the company. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” said Death meekly. “Of course.” Mr. FreePay hung up the phone and Death looked at the clock, which read 11:30. He thought that he should not mess around anymore, since his job was in serious jeopardy. Obviously, getting to Boston as quickly as possible was his main priority for the day. So, he found the first bus to the Westboro airport.

“I need a ticket to Boston,” said Death to a confused airline associate at the baggage check. “You know, Boston? The big city in Massachusetts? I need a ticket there.”

“Yeah, I know what Boston is,” said the associate. “We don’t have any planes that go to Boston.”

“Excuse me?” asked Death. He did not expect his plan to fall through so quickly. “But all of your commercials say you go to every major city in the country. Boston is a major city.” Death stood back and pointed accusatorily. “False advertising, that’s what that is. False. Advertising.”

The associate did not seem impressed with Death’s allegation; in fact, he looked fairly disgusted. “Yeah, we do say that, and it’s true. But Boston is, like, a half hour drive from here. Going there by plane wouldn’t make any sense.” He crossed his arms and glared at Death, who was crestfallen.

“Okay, that’s interesting,” said Death. His entire body felt hot and prickly. “Okay, well how about this? What’s the closest city to Boston these planes go to?”

“Pittsburg, Pennsylvania.”

“That’s the one,” said Death happily, slapping the countertop. “One ticket there, please.” He figured Pittsburg must be close to Boston, and from there he could probably just walk.

The associate printed the ticket, handed it to Death, and said, “That’ll be one hundred and ninety dollars.”

“A hundred what?” asked Death, looking at the ticket. There must have been some mistake. “No, I just want to go to Boston.”

The associate sighed deeply and clasped the bridge of his nose. “I understand that, sir, but then you asked for a ticket to Pittsburg. That ticket costs a hundred and ninety dollars.”

“Oh, well, you’ll have to take it back,” said Death. “Have any free tickets?”

At this perfectly innocent question, the associate could not keep his sarcasm in order, “Oh, you were looking for the free tickets. And here I was, thinking you wanted tickets that cost money. Of course, sir, let me bring up the free tickets for you. Oh, here we are. Here’s a ticket to Pittsburg not for a hundred and ninety dollars, but it’s free. How lucky.” He printed off a boarding pass and slapped it on the counter.

“Wow, that is lucky,” said Death, taking the pass. “Thanks a lot.” To the associate’s stunned surprise, Death walked off to the security gates.

After waiting two hours in a queue that snaked down a long hallway lined with police officers, he walked through a metal detector and red lights flashed in his eyes.

“Sir, what do you think you’re doing?” A large police officer with a head one could mistake for an eyed squash appeared before Death, an arm outstretched. “Get back, sir. Get back.”

“What? Oh, sorry,” said Death. “Is this not the right line?” Death found the man smelled slightly of beef and cologne, a strange but not wholly unpleasant aroma.

“The right line?” asked the officer, confused as to whether the suspect was befuddled or just stupid. “You set of the security detectors, sir. Step off to the side.” Death stepped over next to two police officers who were clutching their guns in their holsters. The big officer walked up to him, a wry smile on his face. “Would you happen to have anything metal in your pockets? Any liquids? You know, things you may be,” he raised his eyebrows and his cheek twitched slightly, “smuggling.”

“I don’t think so,” said Death, not quite understanding the question.

“Remove your jacket,” said the officer, his patience waning. Death took it off and handed it to him as he plunged his hands into the pockets.

“Uh oh,” said the officer. Death was growing nervous, feeling harassed. “What do we have here?” He pulled out a small comb with a silver metal handle. “And what do you think you’re doing trying to get this on a plane?”

Death looked at the comb, wondering if it could ever double as anything else. “I guess I would…comb…my hair?” asked Death.

The officer placed the comb back into the jacket pocket and looked at Death with narrowed eyes. Then he smiled, a malicious grin. He retrieved his wallet from his back pocket and pulled out a small square piece of paper. “We’re going to The Room,”