Authors: Kyle Giroux
As Death ascended back onto the hard earth, back to the human civilization that could be cold and harsh but beautiful and mesmerizing all the same, he thought of what was next for him. Whatever it was, he felt an empty, hollow, peculiar victory, the cause of which he could not quite determine.
A New Suit
UNDERWATER SOCIETY AT WAR
New Atlantis, Michigan – The cult group that refers to themselves as “God’s Chosen Sea People,” have declared a schism in their faction, resulting in a civil war.
Weeks ago, members of GCSP found that they could breathe underwater without the expected result of dying. They subsequently built an underwater society at the bottom of Lake Huron that they called New Atlantis. It seemed to be a freshwater utopia complete with a post office and a church. But last week, a rift occurred within the group.
“We couldn’t agree on the matter of using sea creatures for our own needs,” Leonard Domino, leader of GCSP ‘Freedom Fighters,’ said. “They wanted to abuse the fish and use them for food and transportation.”
The differences in ideology split the six-person cult into two groups of three. GCSP ‘Republiservatives’ are standing their ground in New Atlantis, while the Freedom Fighters broke off and may be planning an attack. “We’re not saying we’re going to attack,” Domino said. “But you should see our cruise missile. It’s awesome.”
“They tried to say that, because fish had heartbeats and very general problem-solving skills, that they should have all the same rights as humans,” Reverend Dick Stool, leader of the Republiservatives, said. “I say that’s a reason that they shouldn’t have rights, because it proves they’re stupid.”
“The fish are our brothers, and are even smarter than humans because they learned to breathe underwater before we could,” Domino said in a clear misunderstanding of evolution. “We owe them. It isn’t the other way around. Ask the fish if they want to be eaten. I doubt they’ll say yes.”
The fish of Lake Huron had no comment, because they are fish.
“I guess I’ll get out of Africa eventually,” said Famine. He and Death were sitting on the couch at 55 Macci Street, sipping tea. “I never really feel like moving around. I don’t know how you and Pestilence do it.”
“I guess it’s just expected,” said Death.
“Oh, yo guys,” said Brian. He stumbled out of his room and stood staring at the ceiling for several seconds before clutching his stomach and saying, “Man, I’m starving.”
“Sorry about that,” said Famine. Brian walked to the kitchen area and began searching through drawers.
“I need to make an egg or something, I can’t even think straight,” said Brian. “Hey, what’s your name man?”
“His name is, uh, Frank,” said Death.
“Mind helping me with the pan up there? I can barely even lift my arms. Oh my God, am I dying? Derek, am I dying?”
“No, definitely not,” said Death. Famine walked into the kitchen and reached up to get the pan from the top shelf of the cabinet. But he lost his grip and it hit Brian between his eyes, opening a bloody wound.
“Dude, what was that for?” screamed Brian, clutching his forehead.
“Oh, dear, I’m sorry,” said Famine. He and Brian bent over at the same time to retrieve the pan and head-butted each other. Both fell backwards, Famine safely into the cabinets. Brian hit a cutting board with a used knife on it on the way down. Death watched as the knife twirled elegantly in mid-air before slashing Brian’s arm. In a daze, he ran to his door, fumbling with the knob. “Let me get it for you,” said Famine as Brian clutched his arm.
“I’m passing out. I’m going to pass out,” said Brian. Famine swung open the door with too much force and it crashed into Brian’s face. He reeled backwards towards the couch, showering Death in blood before turning back and collapsing into his room. Famine shut the door slowly behind him, and sat back down on the couch.
“Sorry about that,” he said.
“I…I think I’ll need a new suit, now,” said Death, wiping Brian’s blood from his lapel.
When Famine returned to his duties, Death made his way to the nearest men’s clothing shop, Fitzegerald’s. He walked in, still covered in blood. “Sir?” asked a man. He was straightening out the hem of a pair of pants on a headless manikin. When he stood up he looked Death up and down with eyebrows raised and lips pursed. “What happened to you?”
“My roommate bled all over me and now I need a new suit,” said Death.
“Well, here at Fitzgerald’s, our policy is ‘no questions asked,’” he said nervously. “What are you looking for?”
“I guess a…suit,” said Death.
“Yes,” said the man, closing his eyes and sighing, his smile still plastered on. “Of course. But what kind? Tailored?”
“Yes,” said Death.
“Three button or—“
“Yup, three.”
“Black, Bl—“
“Black, that’s the one.
“Vest?”
“Yes, vest,” said Death. He felt an odd need to not look like a fool—a very human desire.
“Wonderful, let’s find you something nice,” said the man. “Ah, here we go, a nice vest for you. A single-breasted pinstripe by Giorgio Armani. The polyester and rayon combination give it a relaxed yet classy feel. Along with the button-front is a left chest pocket and two side pockets, and an adjustable buckle on the back waist. I have a vision for you, sir, a vision of the perfect suit. You will…not…be…disappointed.”
“Wow, great,” said Death. He took hold of the vest and placed an arm through one hole, then struggled to wrap the rest of the vest across his body. As he thrashed about, the man could not take it anymore.
“Sir, sir,” he shouted. “What are you doing?” He seized the vest from Death’s grasp and looked as though he had just witnessed an unspeakable crime. “You are
going
to
rip
it.”
“I guess it’s too small, then,” said Death, shrugging.
“Uh,
no,
it’s
not,
” said the man. “You’re simply putting it on
wrong.
”
Death felt sweaty and prickly and blurted out, “Then how do you put it on?”
“Like
this,
” said the man. He swung the vest around his back and put both arms in their respective holes at the same time, pushing it onto his back and buttoning the front. “See? I didn’t put any stress on the back waist like
you
were.”
“Okay,” said Death flatly. He put the vest on properly.
“There you go, perfect,” said the man, his hands on his hips. “Let’s get to trying on the rest of the suit.”
Minutes later the man helped Death put together a full suit. It was not one that he was particularly fond of. He found himself regretting being so agreeable, since doing whatever people told him to do seemed to cause either trouble or personal grief. Pinning the source of his frustration did not make him feel human, but rather intelligent, and that still pleased him. The man walked to the register and began pushing buttons and said: “So with the jacket, the pants, and the vest, with a ten percent combination discount, then a fifteen percent class tax, not to mention the Italian designer tax of eight percent, and the money you owe me for my help and information, the total comes to $4500. Will that be cash, check, or charge, sir?”
“Oh,” said Death, smiling and tapping his forehead with his palm. “I haven’t gotten my Freepay check yet. Why don’t I take the suit and pay you back later?”
The man laughed heartily and waved his hand in the air. “That is hilarious. Pay me back later? Why, I never. I’d have to be a madman to let you just run off with the suit. That is a good one, sir.”
“Run off with it?” asked Death. “Why would I do that?”
The man flared his nostrils. “Well then, I will have my suit back, thank you very much,” he shouted, taking hold of Death’s shoulders to remove the jacket. “And you can just—“ His eyes went wide as he leaned forward and fell face-first into the counter, cracking his forehead on it and crumpling against the floor. Blood began pooling around the newly-reaped man as Death stood frozen to the spot, feeling awkward.
“Oh, damn,” he said, sidestepping the blood as it soaked into the brown rug below his feet. “I was so close to finally buying something like everyone else does, too.” Wearing his new suit, he decided to go to the HaffCaff before he could cause any more trouble.
Sure enough, Tim was in the usual seat. “Derek, buddy, wasn’t expecting you. You’re looking good.”
“Thanks,” said Death, sitting down.
“Don’t get the new French Dip Sandwich. They say it comes with real beef gravy but it’s just this runny crap. It’s false advertising.”
“Oh, is it?” asked Death. “I’d like to try bacon. You know, God loves bacon so much that he put in the Bible that those who eat it go to Hell, just to see what people would say. He never expected they would actually obey him for—“
Death could not finish because every single window of the HaffCaff Café shattered in unison as men dressed in black swung in on ropes. They were holding machine guns and wearing helmets that said ‘S.W.A.T.’ on them. Screams echoed through the café as people dove beneath tables and behind the counter. “No, it wasn’t my fault,” shouted Tim. “I had to do it, there was no choice. Hear me out, please!” He slid beneath the table as Death tried to figure out an appropriate reaction.
“We got him here,” shouted one of the armed men. He was running towards Death with his gun ready to fire. “Get him to the ground, he’s armed and dangerous!”
The man lunged over the table and crashed into Death’s chest. He went limp and rolled off the table, crumpling to the ground with a thud. “We got a man down! We got a man down!” shouted another one. “We have a ten double-zero, I’m going in.” He attempted to grab Death’s shoulder but only grazed the sleeve of the new suit before falling onto his comrade.
“Wait, please stop,” said Death, as he accidentally reaped three more at once. He slid out of the booth and tried to run for the door, but was impeded by the rather persistent team.
Sirens blared outside as the Hair Police Department burst through the front door of the HaffCaff. “That’s the one, boys,” shouted a grizzly old man with a grey mustache. “They’ve been tracking him for weeks, he just murdered the clerk at Fitzgerald’s.”
“My wife was on that bridge, buddy,” screamed an officer as he rushed forward.
They came to Death in waves, doing their best to engulf and subdue him, but naturally to no avail. Death thrashed about and tried for the door or a window, but the officers would neither let him explain nor try to escape. They shot at him, dove at him, and tried to surprise him from behind, which was enough to make Death finally lie down and give up. An hour later, the HaffCaff Café was covered in the corpses of local police officers, a SWAT team, and even some members of the National Guard. Slowly, in the intense silence, people began standing up and looking around as though they had been in a hole for weeks and had forgotten what the outside world looked like. Tim stood up, too, and gazed at the grim scene around him before his eyes landed on Death, who flushed.
“I…wow,” said Tim. “That was something else, huh?”
“Get out of here,” shouted an elderly woman in a pink apron. “Never, ever come back. Ever.”
“Aw, shoot,” said Death as he and Tim left the café. The door jingled behind them for what was to be the final time. “I didn’t mean to get us banned from the HaffCaff.”
“Yeah, well, that was your bad,” said Tim, shoving his hands in his pockets. “We’ll have to tell Maria we found a new place. I have to admit that going to those lengths to get out of paying the next bill was really something else. We can just call it even, since it looks like there’s no more police force in Hair to deal with. The money should roll in by the truck-load for me now.”
“Oh, okay,” said Death, shifting around in his stiff new suit. “Well that sounds…good, then.”
A Last Chance
TELEVANGELIST: HEAVEN CLOSED, BUT VALHALA STILL OPEN
Hollywood, Florida: Television evangelist and ex-Baptist minister Michael Zarn made more controversial statements on Tuesday, declaring Heaven to be ‘closed off.’
“In light of recent events, God has spoken to me and told me that he has closed off Heaven and Hell because they are full,” Zarn said. The ‘recent events’ to which he refers is the statistical anomaly of a zero death rate for the past month across the entire globe, with the exception of the city of Hair, Massachusetts.
“God has told me that Catholicism is now closed, but he has spoken to Thor, who has agreed to open Valhala for the time being,” Zarn said.
The only way into Valhala is to die in battle, so the U.S. Military has supported Zarn’s statements and updated their slogan to: “Don’t Piss Off Thor, Sign up for the Military Today.”
Zarn himself has refused to convert to Viking Mythology. “Well, Heaven has had a spot reserved for me,” he said. “I should be good.”
Efforts to contact Thor or God about the matter were unsuccessful.
“Listen, Mr. Derek, we here at FreePay Brothers are going to give you one final chance.” Death was on the phone with Mr. Donald FreePay, president and co-founder of FreePay Brothers Incorporated. “Just because you were promoted to a position that allows you to do far less work than the under-paid people around you, doesn’t mean you don’t have to show up. There is a meeting today in Boston at four o’clock, about paying all FreePay employees in bags of potato chips instead of money. If you aren’t there today, we will have no choice but to terminate your employment with the company. Understand?”