Death's Dancer

Abel is peculiar. Though perhaps that is mundane to say, as most human beings are peculiar, but Abel is especially so. One too many times he has stumbled close to mortal peril, tempting fate quite scandalously, to which fate herself has replied on ten occasions. On those ten occasions Abel has, of course, dropped dead. Fate, when she does bother, sure loves a challenge. Alas, with someone always at hand to assist him, Abel never stays dead. He performs a U-turn at the black gates and, one could say (after some rest, of course), he practically bounces back. I am yet to decide whether he is lucky, or cursed, or both, because he gets to scrape by another day with a target on his back.

There are simpler things that are different for Abel compared to most folk. While some rotate their wardrobe for the season, Abel alternates his weekly on account of all the clothes that have suffered with him. Suits peppered with bullet holes, a trilby with a cavity where a top should be, shoes with their soles missing, and torn suspender straps galore. His personal effects, too, have taken on the onslaught dear Abel has endured; his cigarette case has taken more than one bullet for him, his dimes and nickels have exploded with him, and his spectacles… well, he doesn’t bother wearing those anymore, to say the least.

In light of such a life, his name is not the only thing they call him. To some he’s known as Go Apeshit Abel, and to other he’s known as Death’s Dancer. I like that one. Abel does indeed dance when bullets are flying like torrential rain at 90 degrees (mathematically speaking), and bits of the roadside diner are exploding like fireworks, and he’s having to throw himself length ways to scurry towards an exit, hoping to not add yet another strike to the tally of his deaths. Then again, who wouldn’t dance like they’re on hot coals if they were in his (now sole-less) shoes, but he has certainly earned his nickname for just how many times he has to do so. Go Apeshit Abel is quite revealing, too, and reminds everyone just how participatory he is in these events. It takes one irksome detail to throw Abel off like, well, an ape, and before anyone knows it it’s showdown time with the gangs from across the way, guns toting.

Interestingly, though, Abel does not fear death. He relishes each resurrection, feeling like he’s one-upped his not-quite-murderer and uses it, in fact, to his advantage. Imagine sitting down for dinner at your favourite joint, feeling like the king of the hill having struck Abel from the Earth, to find that same Abel waltzing up to your table, his hands held wide, a grin on his face. It’s won him something of a dark and eerie reputation and it certainly caught my attention, as a purveyor of all things dark and eerie. I spoke to him, once, as he reached the black gates while his earthbound friends were attempting to revive his battered and bruised body.

“You’re quite the tease,” I’d said. If souls had faces I’m sure his would’ve looked surprised, but he wasn’t afraid.

Keep ‘em guessin’, his soul had replied, in the only way a soul could - through the echoes of its memory. On this occasion it was his father whose words he had chosen. Then he was sucked back out of the darkness. He’d bounced back.

I am yet again waiting at the gates, having heard the excited chatter from my network of helpers and associates, in which they discussed the latest Death’s Dancer scandal. He is yet again caught up in one hell of a fight, I was told. I sit now as a vision of human-like resemblance (newcomers seem to find it a touch more welcoming that way) on a lavish chaise longue, with a teacup and saucer and a fine tune on the radio behind me, turned low. The appearance I have taken is quite fine indeed; a sharp black suit, shiny dress shoes, and silver rings shining on my pallid fingers. When I conjure a mirror into my hand, I find my (oh, my!) hair sits in black waves neatly, and (oh dear) there’s an atrocity on my top lip. The mirror vanishes and with a sharp snap of my finger and thumb, I rid of the drab little moustache, and as I do so I spot it, the fine white light in the dark-blue swirling mists of my realm. A soul appearing. I lean eagerly forward, abandoning my teacup to sit suspended in the air.

I can sense it’s Abel as it draws near. I am drawn into a vision of his scene of death: a smoke-filled room with a strange glow of neon lights through the murk, and a silhouette in a doorway, tall and shapely and wrapped in fur. As the smoke clears I look down the barrel of a revolver, and behind it, I see a woman with a cigarette dangling between her lips. Cold blue eyes look down on me with cool, unblinking contempt. A single shot had done it. No guns toting, nor an eruption of explosives. No fatal car crash from a high-speed pursuit.

“Temptation, my friend,” I said to Abel. “Temptation and the ego, quite the poison. Are you staying?”

He was certainly lingering, shining brighter and brighter, the orb of white glowing furiously. He was livid, and the feeling grew until it was practically irradiating the skin of my temporary husk. And then I heard two more gunshots, as if the lady in fur knew who she was dealing with and was making sure that he stayed dealt with.

“I daresay, there’s no going back from that one, my fellow,” I said.

And finally, Abel popped out, full of holes but otherwise quite in one piece. He had a napkin tucked into his collar and a fork in one hand.

“Damned witch!” he yelled.

“Karma has always found a way, I suppose,” I said, glancing at the fork, which still had bits of food on it.

“I didn’t even – I don’t even know how she. Where the hell did she come from?” Abel shakes his hands (and fork) in the air, his eyes bulging. Then he fixates on me. “Who the hell are you?”

“Of course, you wouldn’t recall. I am Death, dear Abel, and I do believe you are my dancer, as they say. Sadly, that was hardly a dance at all, but do not dwell on that. Consider this place an invitation to dance on forever more.”