Author's Commentary
I'm redoing an old story of mine, Sympathy for the Reaper, and this is the first part of it; a sort of preview, if you will. Enjoy.
People have always cringed when I say that;
“Yeah, I’m Death. The Grim Reaper; you know, collector of souls?”
They’re surprised at first; I appear as a normal Caucasian accountant with a few pimples on his chin.
Then they look closely; pale skin, red pupils, dark clothing, an uncanny ability to wield a seven foot scythe in one hand.
And so they say;
“Oh. Well, isn’t that very interesting.”
I chat about the Lord, Lucifer, Jesus, Saint Peter, Tupac, and the thrill of coming down to Earth to finally tell my autobiography to the mass populous. (Hint: I’m at a publishing party for my debut and I’m nervous as hell)
Then the extent of my conversations runs thin; what am I supposed to talk about?
“Yeah, this one time I snuck up behind this guy looking at the rhinos in the zoo, and I after I threw his wife and kids inside by destroying their fleshy resistance to solids, he jumped in and got speared through the chest instantly.”
If you ask me, that’s not exactly a good way to make friends here.
Unless it’s with sadistic ten year olds.
Anyway, as I said, I have no idea what I’m supposed to say. I don’t even know what chair I should sit in; am I even allowed to sit in chairs when I’m the publishing author? Let’s trail back a few seconds to what my wife just said, and you realize my panic;
“He’s very diligent about his job; sometimes he brings me some jewelry from around the world…”
Now I’m a thief, in addition to being the most parodied figure in popular culture.
Great.
Everybody looks uneasy; I can see sweat rolling down Jesus’ face already.
“I told you book writing is lame, dude; now you know why I had the Apostles scribe everything for me.”
Him and I retreat to the couch most distant from the party center.
“Well, I’m used to doing everything myself, man; you realize how much work I have to do on a day to day basis?”
“Pssh, I died for these people’s sins; that’s pretty stressful, if you ask me.”
“Only because I killed you.”
“Well; yeah, you’re right.”
We let silence take control for a little while; I watch the guests mingle, fake smiles piercing my sight, laughs bellowing emptily throughout the gargantuan room.
Rather, three gargantuan rooms; one for lounging, one for eating, one for Metallica (I’m having them for the end of the celebration; I’ll be able to sneak out while they’re doing a seventeen song set).
“Grim, come over here! I’d like to introduce you to…”
My wife beckons from far away; I have only one option for escaping introductions now.
Here goes nothing.
“Yes, sweetie? Oh, Lord…”
I feign vomit, while green liquid spills out my mouth.
I run (not exaggerating) to the nearest bathroom.
My guests are in shock, mouths agape.
I wipe the slime from my lips, peering into the mirror, grinning.
Those carbon-monoxide pills always do the trick.
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