Death's Bad Day

 

Death was having a bad day.

 

He woke up to his neighbour, Lust, listening to ‘The Proclaimers’. He didn’t ask WHY Lust was listening to them, instead he listened to the lyrics.

“Well, I would walk 500 miles

And I would walk 500 more

Just to be the man

Who walked 1000 miles,

To fall down at your door.”

 

This song seemed to suggest a pointless, and infinitely exhausting, task. He began wondering about the sanity of the world these days. Shaking his head sadly, he pulled on his robes, wished he had ears to plug, and went to work.

 

Now, you can TELL it’s going to be a bad day when you accidentally reap your boss’s fish. Goldie had denied death, with a bit of Fate’s help. Death had walked in the door, tripped on the doormat (‘Welcome to hell’ Death rolled his eye sockets at Fate’s imaginative capacity, and wondered why he was working for such a moron), and proceeded to drop his scythe into Goldie’s tank. The soul floated off into infinity, or wherever the hell it went. Death wasn’t particularly bothered WHERE. It wasn’t Deaths job beyond reaping. All up to Fate. And who knew who Fate’s boss was.

 

Death wasn’t particularly bothered who Fate looked up to at that point, because Fate himself walked through the door.

“Hey boss!” Death tried to be cheerful, and failed. Being Death does have its limitations.

“You reaped my fish.” Fate stated, his eyebrows rose inquisitively.

“Um… Yeah. About that. It was an accident.” Death pointed his scythe at the offending doormat, which turned out to be a bad idea, as Fate’s cat walked through the door. Death shrugged apologetically as the disembodied soul meowed its way upward.

“You reaped my cat.” Fate stated, his eyebrows almost reaching back across his fading hairline.

“It was his time?” Death hazarded, knowing full well…

“No it wasn’t.” Fate snarled.  “You can’t reap whatever you feel like! It goes against every rule I put in place!” suddenly, it hit the chubby sub-ruler of the afterlife.

“You killed my pets!” He fainted. Death ran to help, then remembered the all-too recent accidents, and laid his scythe on the table. Better safe than sorry.

As Fate sat up, Death looked at him worriedly. Fate smacked him. Hard.

“I’m taking your scythe. You are too dangerous with a blade. Just like the last loser.” Fate growled at the bony body leaning over him.

“But Sir! I have people to reap today!” Death pleaded. Fate handed him a stick. “What am I supposed to do with this?” Death asked, knowing full well the answer. Sighing dejectedly (Or as close as you get to a sigh without lungs) Death exited.

 

As he went about his daily rounds, Death was as miserable as he could get. It was even worse than when he’d found out he was destined to spend his life as death in limbo. Limbo isn’t as fun as it sounds.

By the time he reached his sixth reap for the day he was getting exasperated. Many people asked about his scythe, and he’d waste precious time explaining the story. Most people agreed with his side of the story, against Fate, but he wasn’t sure if they were just putting of the inevitable.

 

He entered the house of his sixth target.

“Hi, I’m Death, and you need to die.” Death wasn’t too bothered with images, or fitting the normal image of death. He was carrying a stick. Ruined the whole persona he had.

“You can’t be death!” The man said angrily, Death rubbed his bony forehead with a bony hand. He knew.

“You haven’t got a scythe!” Death clapped his hands sarcastically.

“Well done. This is not a scythe. It’s a stick. Kings get swords, most people get the scythe. You, you get the stick.” With that being said, Death reaped the mans soul, but not before beating him a few times physically with the stick. As the soul drifted away, it managed to jumble a few words together. Death thought it sounded something like

“Dude… It’s a stick!”

Some people.

 

Death hadn’t exactly wanted this job. Too many risks, not enough benefits. Not that you needed healthcare or dental, being halfway dead. But it wouldn’t be that much of an inconvenience for the management (Fate and beyond) to give the option. Free moral boosted workforce for the management, if anything. He had got into the job by accident. Traded in his eternal soul for eternity working. Seemed like a good deal at the time. Really wasn’t. Especially as he heard how the last guy managed to quit the job. Fell on his scythe, ironically. Death was a bit of a klutz, it seemed. Should have been put in the job description.

 

Thinking about it, Death realised being who he was wasn’t the best job for job and life satisfaction. For one, it didn’t really count as a job, because he wasn’t being paid. As far as satisfaction goes…

 

Death finished his rounds, went home, and shoved his head under a pillow. ‘The Proclaimers’ pushed their lyrics through the pillow, muffled slightly, but still audible.

 “Well, I would walk 500 miles

And I would walk 500 more

Just to be the man

Who walked 1000 miles,

To fall down at your door.”

 

“I know how you bloody feel.” Death muttered, and promptly fell asleep.