Monsieur Death

2311 West Abbott Road.

67 Perrott Street.

Thornewood Park, Pavilion 3.

There was one thing that every man dreaded: the boss getting your screen name. I glared at the list of addresses that had just appeared onscreen, each one bold, underlined, 26-size font, and in dark red letters on a black screen. I could guess that he was sending a not so subtle hint that if I ignored these addresses I would instantly regret it.

I typed back, knowing that there was little point in it; it’s my three-month anniversary.

It took about a half second for him to respond. Tough.

This was why I couldn’t hold a girlfriend for more than six months. My boss had no respect for the fact that I had a life outside of my job. Instead, he seemed to think that my entire life was meant for the sole purpose of serving him with my body, spirit, and soul.

Which it basically was…

And now I had to deal with Lexi, my girlfriend of three months, and explain to her that I was going to have to miss our anniversary because I had to work. She’d be angry, but would end up forgetting all about it once I handed her my gift. Well, once I’d bought her a present.

Mental note: Buy Lexi a really, really, nice present.

I hurriedly scribbled a note on the back of a bill and left it on the computer desk. Have to go to an appointment for work. I’ll meet you at Luigi’s at six. Really sorry about this. Love you, Rob.

It took me about five seconds to grab my coat and run outside to my little yellow convertible. Another two seconds to back out into the street, narrowly missing the huge potted plants that Lexi had insisted on placing on either side of the driveway. One of these days, I would run over one of them purposely.

Once I felt like ending up penniless and begging favors off my ‘friends’ for lack of a better term.

I glanced at my expression in the rear-view window and winced. My eyes were blood-shot and dark-rimmed from lack of sleep; my dark hair was uncombed… I hadn’t bothered to change my shirt from what I’d worn yesterday and fell into bed in last night. I’d been out late working and had barely made it to the bed before collapsing into welcome unconsciousness.

Whatever. I wasn’t being paid to look my best. I reached back behind my seat and pulled a black knapsack into my lap, which I then began to rummage around one-handed. I tugged a long, black robe out first, which I set on the passenger’s seat to change into once I’d arrived at my destination. I didn’t need people to think that I’d finally lost my mind completely, although most probably thought so already.

If they knew what my job actually entailed and whom I conversed with using instant messaging, they’d probably lock me up in an insane asylum somewhere.

You see, I work for Death.

I’m a grim reaper.

Which yes, I do wear a cowl and carry around a scythe; although the role of that is to convey the right image to the people that we reap, along with the few people with enough psychic ability to see us. Plus, when wearing the cowl, people will automatically assume that we’re actually Death and go along quietly.

They don’t realize that even Death answers to a higher echelon, and that the Death we have now is relatively new to the job. Since the last Death decided to retire and continue to whatever his eternity entails. This new Death is almost as non-terrifying as most of his reapers.

First, refer to him as Monsieur Death. He’s French, or he was when he was alive, and has continued with his accent and outrageously flamboyant mustache into his new role. That’s why it’s a good thing that he always wears his cowl, keeping his face in dark shadows. If he didn’t, no one would take him seriously with that mustache.

Second, Monsieur Death has decided to bring reapers into the future by giving us our ‘appointments’ through the wonders of technology. Meaning that if anyone really wanted to, they could have Death as a buddy on their instant messaging network, or meet up with Death on a chat room.

Now, one thing you should understand before you begin to panic over what’s going to happen to you after your passing is that not everyone becomes a reaper. After all, if all people who died remained hanging around then there would be more reapers than there would be souls to reap. To become a reaper, you have to die in a…shall we say…pathetic way.

Take me, for example. I had a relatively normal life for a guy of thirty-two: a dead-end job working as an insurance salesman, a wife filing for divorce, and two kids caught in the custody battles. Maybe if I hadn’t been worried about all those problems, I would have been more observant and noticed the screaming couple overhead. Or, knowing my luck, probably not.

According to the front-page article in Monday’s edition of the Times, which I bought later in order to learn of what had exactly happened, my death had occurred due to a Mr. and Mrs. Green. This husband and wife were notorious in their apartment building for their violent arguments, many of which would lead to blows and the occasional broken chair. Well, on this specific day, Mrs. Green had become more enraged than usual, grabbed her husband’s laptop, and threw it out of the fifth-story window. This laptop, a dark blue Dell, then flew through the air at a ridiculously high speed, and proceeded to bash into my head. However, this, in fact, is not what killed me. That was the bus I then stumbled in front of…

It takes a moment to reawaken into your new status as dead. When I did, Death was already standing above me, his black cowl and incredibly sharp, pointy scythe appearing exactly as I’d always seen in pictures.

His first words immediately threw me for a loop though.

“Want a job?”

I’m not sure if it was the words or the fact that he had a French accent that confused my recently dead mind more. Probably some combination of the two.

What I really don’t understand is why I agreed to become a Grim Reaper. Which has its perks, don’t get me wrong. For one thing, I don’t age, so no grey hairs in my future. I also can’t die, will heal instantly from any wound, can travel to all sorts of interesting places, and often meet interesting people. Of course, those people happen to be dead, but every relationship has its flaws.

Ping!

I was really starting to dread that sound. I reached out blindly to the tiny phone fastened to my dash and pressed the largest button. “Hello?”

“You’re late.”

I glanced toward the clock. It was exactly six o’clock; I’d be there within two minutes.

“Patience, patience. I know that Death waits for no man, but come on; don’t you think that’s a little unreasonable?”

I could guess at the look I’d be getting if he could see me. If looks could kill over the telephone, I’d be dead… again.

“Just get here.” And he hung up.

Death is also rather rude, just to inform you…

It actually took me one minute and fifteen seconds to arrive at 2311 West Abbott Road and another eight seconds to pull on my cowl and grab my scythe. The biggest button on the scythe was blinking, which meant it was charged thankfully, so I hurriedly pressed it and instantly disappeared.

From view. I didn’t actually go anywhere. This gadget was useful; the only problem was that it only worked for three minutes, so I had to be speedy getting into the house.

In this case, the door was thankfully already open. I glanced at the tiny digital timer on the handle of the scythe. Eight more seconds… See, what was he worrying about? And the door was already open anyway. I just walked right through and glanced around, searching for my—Oh, never mind… There he was.

He was lying on his stomach on the floor, one hand twitching slightly near the telephone that had fallen on the floor nearby. Although, apparently, it hadn’t fallen close enough for him to reach it. Too bad for him…

Five...

Four…

Three…

Two…

One…

I swung my scythe toward his body, the blade passing through him as if he were a ghost. Which now he was. His body fell entirely still as his spirit suddenly stepped out and stood in front of me. He gazed at me with confusion for a moment and then glanced toward his corpse. “Oh…”

“Sorry,” I offered. I’d never really figured out what to say to the dearly departed.

“No, don’t apologize,” he remarked, chuckling. Now that I could see his face, I saw that he was an elderly man in about his seventies or so with kindly, grandfatherly eyes and an easygoing smile. He was smiling now as he stretched out his legs. “Haven’t felt this good in years.” He then grabbed the free hand not clutching the scythe and shook it rather robustly for an old guy.

Then he was gone.

And behind him stood my boss.

Monsieur Death.

You could tell him apart from the other Grim Reapers like me by his scythe. It was huge, about twice his size and looked sharper than physically possible. His face was entirely in shadows, so that you’d expect a bony skull to peer out when he pushed the cowl back.

Which he did now.

To reveal a rather pudgy face more at home on an accountant than on the bringer of death to all mortals. And his mustache…

Oh, the mustache.

That mustache was something else. Huge, luxurious, perfectly combed, not a hair out of place…

In other words, the most distracting thing on earth.

“I got here with time to spare,” I stated calmly, trying to ignore that insanely out of place mustache. “You don’t need to follow me around to all of my jobs…”

“You’re on probation,” he replied. “This is your punishment for that stunt you pulled last week.”

Stunt. He meant when I had been two seconds late to one of my assignments. It wasn’t as if anything had happened. The guy just had two seconds of not quite life… Wasn’t anything he couldn’t deal with in wherever he was going…

“Here,” Monsieur Death suddenly shoved a stack of papers into my face. “Annie’s sick today, so I need you to take over her assignments.”

“It’s my three-month anniversary! I already had to skip out on one and two because of work.”

I could have told you his answer before he even stated it.

“Tough.” And he was immediately gone.

Mental note: find a hotel room. There was no way Lexi was letting me back in the house after this.

A/N: One of the weirdest plot bunnies I've ever had. I kept getting this image of a Grim Reaper with a huge Poirot-like mustache. So I wrote this...

*shrugs* My muse is a tad eccentric.

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