Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Chapter Five

Death will get you sober – Elizabeth Zelvin





Chapter Five


Death sat at the bar in a so-called Irish Pub after collecting a soul. She was very hungry, and eagerly awaiting the plate of fish and chips she’d ordered. The bartender brought her a gin and tonic, and she drank it as she looked around the bar.


The other patrons of the so-called pub did not notice her. This was exactly as it should be. If she could have gotten beer and food without the bartender noticing her, he would have been oblivious to her presence as well. As it was, when she left the bar he’d have, at best, a vague memory of a polite woman who didn’t talk much.


As she looked around at the various people, she thought heart attack, industrial accident, old age, infection, cancer, massive injuries. She couldn’t help it; the manner of a person’s death was just another distinguishing feature.


She was looking at a table of college-aged kids and saw complications during surgery, an automotive fatality, suicide and a brain embolism.


She looked again at the one who would be a suicide. He looked like a douchebag. Of course, Death’s opinion of suicides was very low, so she thought they all looked like douchebags. She took suicide as a personal insult. Did they think she wouldn’t do an adequate job of killing them? That they could do it better?


Worse, she’d have to listen to them whine, because suicides inevitably realized, too late, that they could have solved all of their problems, except for the problem of being dead.


Morons.


And free will was a real bitch, because it meant she couldn’t do anything to prevent suicides. All she could do was collect their bewildered souls and bring them to the gateway.


Death sighed and turned to face the bar again.


Where are my damn fish and chips? I’m starving over here, she thought.


The bartender stopped by and asked if she wanted a new drink. She said yes, and resumed daydreaming.


The bartender brought her a fresh drink, and moments later arrived with her plate of fish and chips. She had just picked up her fork and was about to take a bite when her cell phone beeped, alerting her to another death to attend to. The note told her she would be collecting one David Greene, at 1487 South Promenade, Boston, in the study.


There was no time to wait for the bartender to bring box. She left twenty dollars on the bar, drank her gin and tonic as quickly as she could (which gave her the hiccups), wrapped a piece of cod in a paper napkin and vanished. The bartender hardly noticed she’d gone.


She arrived at David Greene’s home, started her stopwatch and checked the list on her clipboard.


David set a case on his desk. It was about four feet long, twelve inches wide, and maybe four inches tall. He put a key in one of the latches and turned it, then opened the latches.


Inside the case was a pristine Weatherbee .30-06. Its stock gleamed in the light from David’s desk lamp. Death, who had something of a fascination with high quality weaponry, was impressed.


David opened a drawer in his desk and produced a rifle cleaning kit. He opened it, and set it on the desk next to the rifle case. When he had his cleaning swatches, cleaning solution, oil and cleaning rod laid out to his satisfaction, he picked up the rifle and held it between his knees with the barrel pointing up.


He picked up the cleaning rod, and inserted in into the muzzle of the rifle. He rammed it through the rest of the barrel until it came to a sudden stop a bit sooner than he was accustomed to.


Sadly, he had not checked to make sure the chamber was clear. The surprise stop of the cleaning rod pushed the muzzle of the rifle towards him. The gun fired, sending the cleaning rod and a bullet up through his chin, directly through the back of his skull, through the roof of his house and on into the night.


The cleaning rod would be found in his neighbor’s yard the next day. The bullet would not be found.


David’s soul looked over the scene of his demise, and said, “Well, for Pete’s sake. That was just stupid.”


“We all make mistakes,” Death said, helpfully.


“I don’t make careless mistakes like that, though,” David said. “I know better than to clean a loaded gun. I know better than to assume a gun is unloaded.”


“Distractions happen,” Death said. “Would you come with me?”


“My grandfather would be so disappointed.”


“I’m sure that’s not true. Would you please come with me?”


Death’s thoughts crept towards the piece of cod stashed inside her cloak. The sooner she brought this soul to the gate, the sooner she could eat.


“Yes it is. Oh, shit, am I going to have to see him? I mean, will he know how I died?”


“I couldn’t say. Walk with me, won’t you?”


David, however, was not listening. He paced back and forth, looking at the mess he’d left behind from different angles and muttering small statements of disappointment with himself.


“Everyone is going to think I killed myself!” he said. “I can’t let them think that. How can I make sure they know it was an accident?”


“It is no longer your concern what people here think of you. Would you please come with me right now?”


In Death’s mind, the piece of cod in her pocket had become the finest meal anyone in the history of the world would ever consume. Odes would be written to the glory of the fried, fishy delicacy awaiting her, and this guy wanted to linger. It figured. She steeled her resolve, and worked up some compassion for the poor soul. That was, after all, her job.


“It is so my concern what people here think about me. I can’t have my legacy be ‘Oh yeah, he was the guy that killed himself cleaning a rifle.’ It’s a disgrace.”


“It is what it is, try to let it go. Your true friends will understand what happened. Your destiny awaits you elsewhere. Please walk with me.”


David was busy looking at the hole in the ceiling.


“Shit. Someone’s going to have to pay for that repair. And how are they going to sell a house some guy shot himself to death in?”


“Will you please walk away from here with me?”


David continued talking and pacing around. Death decided she might as well go ahead and eat.


“Look, if you need some extra time to come to terms with your death, that’s fine. I’ve got, uh,” she checked her phone, “fifteen minutes until the next death. I’m just going to have a bit to eat, OK? I’m kind of famished. You want some fish? Last chance for fried fish before the great beyond...”


David paid no attention to her. Just as well, she thought. She took the piece of fish out of her pocket and unwrapped it. It was still slightly warm, and smelled fantastic. Her mouth watered.


Just as she was about to take a bite, David stumbled into her, knocking the piece of fish out of her hand and into a puddle of gore and brains on the floor. David barely noticed, still chattering away about the shame of it all.


Death stared down at her prized food. It now looked as though it had blown it’s own brains out.


She stared at David with smouldering fury. On his next pass around the room, she snatched his ear as he walked past, and yanked him out of this world.


“Compassion only goes so far, creep. Do you know how hungry I am? The last time I ate was,” she paused and thought for a moment, “two years ago.”


A bright light appeared in the distance, and rapidly grew closer to them.


“What’s that?” David asked.


“I couldn’t say. And if I could, I wouldn’t tell you because you ruined my dinner. Jeez, I listened to you go on and on and on about how humiliating your final moment was, and then you go and knock my food into a pile of your brains.”


The light was now right next to them, and the gate was opening, inviting David in. He looked utterly bewildered.


“I suggest you get your ass in there before I decide to mess with you,” Death said.


David, finally clearheaded, considered his options. He decided taking his chances on the far side of the mystical, glowing gate was a far better choice that staying here to learn what kind of punishment Death might have in store for him.


“Well, I’d better get going. Thanks for listening to me. Good luck finding something to eat,” David said, and stepped quickly through the gate.


The gate promptly vanished, and Death returned to the real world. Her cellphone beeped immediately to let her know another death was imminent. She sighed, and travelled immediately to the scene of a soon to be forklift accident.


What I wouldn’t give for a slice of pizza, Death thought. Even a crummy pizza. Domino’s would be fine. Cheap frozen pizza from a gas station would be fine. A bean burrito from a gas station would be fine, for that matter.


Death was nothing if not professional, however, so eating would simply have to wait. She had a job to do after all, and she took great personal pride in doing her job well.


She appeared in a warehouse in St. Paul, Minnesota, and started her stop watch. Thirty seconds and counting to a fatal mishap involving an improperly parked tractor trailer and a four ton forklift.


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