0 comments
“Larry? The crows are calling again.”
“Mm. Are they now?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Mm.”
“Are you awake?”
“No.”
“Larry.”
“What.”
“Larry. Would you listen to me?”
“No.”
“Larry! Get up for God’s sake. Can you not hear them?”
“I ignore them, dear. Now let me sleep.”
“I would if I could sleep! They keep flapping against the window, cawing and screeching like the nasty little things they are. And they just keep pecking. Pecking, pecking, pecking. I can’t take it, Larry.”
“Bloody hell—tell them to bother someone else. Tell them I’m busy.”
“They require your presence, dear. Isn’t that always the case?”
“Humph. Why’d you have to turn on the lights?”
“To get you up. Now, off you go.”
“And you get to stay in bed, huh?”
“Yes, dear. You’re Death. Not me.”
“Right.”
“Now will you go and do your job so I can sleep?”
“Right. So you can sleep.”
“Mm-hm.”
“Humph. Why do humans have to die anyway? Let them live or be immortal for all I care. I don’t give a crow’s left nostril about—right. Alright. Fine! Don’t look at me like that.”
“Thank you, dear. And don’t forget your scythe.”
“Don’t forget my—who do you think I am?”
“My everloving husband of course. Don’t you remember the last time you forgot that thing? I had to get the Devil himself to fling it over to Earth.”
“I was in a rush.”
“No matter. I helped you out, didn’t I?”
“Humph.”
“Squaw.”
“Like I said, dear. They require your attention.”
“Humph. Alright you, stop your yakking. What is it?”
“Squaw.”
“Mike Woodsworth, huh? About time that old fart had it.”
“My you can be cruel.”
“And my you can be grating. I thought you were going to sleep.”
“I am sleeping, dear.”
“Humph.”
“Squaw.”
“Eh? I killed George ages ago!”
“Squaw.”
“You have got to be—nevermind it. I’ll do it again if I have to. God and the Devil blaming me!”
“For what this time, hm?”
“This time? There has never been another time! I have never made a mistake. I am quick. I am precise. I am—“
“The best, hm?”
“Yes, in fact I am, Bernice.”
“Then what is it that has even God and the Devil making a fuss over you?”
“There is no fussing! Merely, a minor inconvenience.”
“Minor, hm?”
“Yes. Minor.”
“Mm-hm.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh nothing; only that minor usually means major in your case. Isn’t that right Mr. Crow?”
“Squaw.”
“Humph! I didn’t ask for your input—or yours you little pests.”
“Squaw! Squaw!”
“Oh my, it seems you’ve ticked them off dear.”
“And? I do the dirty work around here. Not them, and certainly not you.”
“Well. Then what ever did you do to anger your superiors? You of all beings should understand their desire for perfection.”
“I do know. It’s just—well. This wasn’t my fault.”
“Mm-hm.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Well? What happened then?”
“Do you remember George Giovanni? The little man with all those flower tattoos? He, uh... he came back to life.”
“Mm, really now?”
“Oh stop your laughing. It must have been some kind of fluke. I struck him down and watched his soul follow me back to the Underworld.”
“Don’t look so distressed. Trust me, I’m sure it’s—would you stop pacing like that? You’re making me anxious.”
“Am I now? Well I’m sorry, dear, because I am anxious, okay? I am Death. I am supposed to make every kill a work of art. A masterpiece! A swift, clean stroke like the very hand of Van Gogh himself.”
“Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic?”
“Dramatic! I take my work very seriously, Bernice. Very seriously.”
“Right. Well. Why don't we figure this out then?”
“Humph.”
“You’re pacing again, dear.”
“Humph.”
“Maybe you didn’t realize he got lost? His soul could have gained consciousness and he wandered back to his body again.”
“No. No. I’m telling you, I don’t make mistakes.”
“I don’t know dear, it seems like you did indeed make, well, a mistake.”
“I didn’t though!”
“Maybe you’re getting too old for this. Letting a human come back to life? Are you sure you shouldn’t go after yourself this time, dear?”
“Humph! Look at you, laughing at me. I’m leaving. I’m going to figure this—“
“Squaw!”
“Oh shut up, you! I’m going to do what Death does best—wreak execution on all who dare outlive the swing of my scythe! You watch. Forget the crows. Forget the Devil and God and those pitiful souls. I create death! I wear the robe! I name who is immortal and who isn’t! I—”
“That’s nice, dear. Now will you please go so I can get back to sleep? You’re going to wake up Benny with all that senseless yelling.”
“I am making a valid point, Bernice. That cat can get eaten by the crows for all I care.”
“What is the matter with you, you old grouch?”
“I’ll tell you what’s the matter—I’m being blamed for something that isn’t my fault.”
“Then whose fault is it?”
“Not mine. Not mine at all.”
“Mm-hm. Because it’s Santa’s job to make sure they stay dead.”
“That may very well be, dear.”
“You are ridiculous.”
“Maybe so.”
“What on Earth are you doing?”
“Finding George’s Death Receipt.”
“I’ll be surprised if you find anything in that mess.”
“Humph. I’ll find it.”
“Mm-hm.”
“Dave. Marta. Lennon. Walter. Fred. Pam—aha! Here it is. Alright. Let’s see. Mm-hm. Yes. Yes. Good… Oh.”
“Oh?”
“Oh.”
“What’s the matter, my darling?”
“This isn’t funny.”
“Oh I know; but it is quite satisfying because you were wrong.”
“I can’t afford to be wrong! I’m going to God right this minute.”
“Thank God.”
“And to think you loved me.”
“Oh I do, Larry, trust me. I’m just so very tired. Your poor wife needs her beauty sleep, and you and your pesky crows are depriving me of that.”
“Poor wife? My crows? Depriving?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Humph. That’s it. I’m going to go figure out this nonsense.”
“Mm-hm. Have fun in your deathly ventures.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Good. And goodnight. Dear.”
You must sign up or log in to submit a comment.
0 comments