Sunday, October 28, 2012

Dear Grim Reaper > Death Inc. > Page 2


Death Inc.

Dear Grim Reaper, 
I am having trouble with some folks in my dorm room. I just had my computer stolen, it's getting really bad. Well, not just in my dorm room, but also everywhere in college, and in life. I don't know how to deal with them myself. Could you give me some suggestions or maybe even lend me a hand? It would be nice to dispose of them "neatly", if you know what I mean. 
Thanks a billion,  

  The Reaper flicked the letter into the enormous fireplace towering above his desk. Letters like these came by the thousands. Everyday, a large file cabinet would appear in front of the study, crammed with envelopes. Some of them were suicide notes. And, that was another thing. When would people realize that suicide notes were not to be adressed to the Reaper himself. Fox had one task, and one task only: to sort through the letters. Yet, somehow, stray papers announcing some desperate individual's self destruction wound up with the regular mail. It would be nice to have someone else read these and take on the task of "helping" the dead and living. Although, sometimes it was quite nice to hear the screams of tortured souls writhing in each others misery.

  When it was time for a human to die, their name was simply rayed off the list and - blam! - alive no more. Afterwards, whether or not they went on to other worlds or remained trapped on earth, condemned to wander the planet bodiless for an indefinite period of time, was completely undetermined by him. It was like giving people presents. Presents of death and subsequent doom.

"Just like Santa," he chuckled to himself.

Death Inc. - Death's headquarters.

On to the next letter. After having read Al's, he decided he would answer their request at a later date, for this soul had apparently not yet realized they were, in fact, dead and simply reliving moments from their previous life instead of moving on.

Dear Grim Reaper,
I'm going to get straight to the point. I am currently the CEO of "Counter Social", a startup company gone public due to it's explosive success. How would you like a partnership? This is a once in a lifetime offer! "Counter Social" has a recent history of high stock market value, and is estimated to become exceedingly profitable within the next few-

The Reaper balled the paper up, before casually tossing it into the dancing flames. How did these business guys even get ahold of the adress to his PO Box? Not to mention, this one was definitely living, and would probably be sending more.

  When he deemed a request or inquiry regarding a dysfunctional situation concerning living and dead to be unsolvable on its own, then and only then would he intervene. His job was to keep the dead in place, ensuring a separation between Afterlife and "Presentlife". Disruptive ghosts tended to be the problem, so he would bring them back to the Underworld. He could take on many animal forms during his visits to earth, all of them male. He was assigned one gender, unlike some of his counterparts. Being a western Death God, he was in charge of only certain areas, most notably western Europe and certain parts of North America. Most of what happened was usually not very exciting: hauntings, and occasionally a few invocations gone wrong by some hapless kids or misinformed adults. The exorcists had all the fun. At least demons didn't come with pointless human drama. Anyway, next letter.

Dear Grim Reaper, 
I love you.

I know. Who doesn't love Death? he mused, throwing the paper in with the culminating pile of ashes. Man, he sure would love an assistant. Sort of between an apprentice and a secretary. Less hassle than an intern, but someone who could use the experience without screwing everything up. People had been sending letters to him for centuries. Not to mention, time in the Underworld was significantly slower. Mainly based off of rumors, both living and dead exchanged stories of mailing a blank envelope, causing your letter to be picked up by a dead mailman, who would then deliver it to the Reaper. This was true, and the mailman's name was Paul. Perhaps Paul could read letters for him, and write a report? No, he was much too dim witted for that. Then, as if to answer his request, the black cloaked Death God pulled out an unexpected piece of stationary from the steel cabinet.

  The envelope was pink, covered in an embossed white pattern. Upon closer inspection, he recognized it as the letter M printed in uniform fashion along the candy colored surface. He ripped the top open, only to be attacked by a waft of puckishly scenting stationary. The contents of the letter, which included two sheets of peach smelling paper, and one Polaroid picture, had fallen onto the desk. With the tip of his gloved fingers, he lifted the first sheet. The same letter "M" was printed on the upper hand left corner. This was not the first time he'd received such a tasteless choice in office supplies, nonetheless, he was surprised by one thing: the letter had been sent from the Underworld. But, it was from a live human being... Had they managed to break access into the Afterlife without dying? That was both physically and spiritually impossible. He decided to read the message, which went as follows:

Dear Grim Reaper, 
Do I really have to say "dear"? I mean, it's not like I know you personally or anything. Okay, guess that doesn't matter right now, and I don't want to spend forever on this shit. As you may/ may not/ probably do know I AM DEAD. I MEAN SERIOUSLY LIKE D-E-A-D. Excuse the all caps, but it's like MY FUCKING HEAD'S CHOPPED OFF! There's blood spilling out of it, and I'm in this weird room with all these dead people. Some old lady told me to write you, so I did and OMG pleeease HELP. I have been here for like days/ weeks/ forever and I'm BORED. I have been carrying my head around, because you know it's like OFF AND STUFF. 
Please help asap,  
Madison Wades 
P.S: The "Underworld/ Netherworld/ Nederlands / Whatever you call this damn place" is not cool. Dead people, like wandering around. The sky is red kinda gross too, like ew red sky. Not cool. I want out pronto. 
P.S.S: Maybe this is a dream. If it is, you probably won't be reading this. 
P.S.S.S: I died with stationary in my pocket? Geez what a dork.

Second sheet:

Dear Grim Reaper, 
Totally psyched! Back on earth! Boyfriend still has a bullet hole in his head, but that's cool cause funeral's tomorrow! I met these three awesome girls that fixed me up!  Sewed my head back on, brought me back home yay! Now I'm breathing, eating, and all the good stuff! (Had an onion bagel for lunch, yum!) Sorry for the last message, I can be really whiny oops. Anyhoo, hope I won't be back in Deathland until a long time!
Kisses (erm, maybe not) 

If the Reaper had  been graced with a face, he would have cringed. He inspected the photo: four girls, the middle one holding the camera above their heads, contorting her face to resemble that of a duck's.  That must be Maddy, he thought. The three others surrounding her all wore robes and smiled devilishly at the camera, all with the exception of one, partially hidden by the shadows. The three appeared to be sisters.

"What the..." he suddenly noticed a horrifying trait the three sisters possessed: they weren't human. Some beings of the Underworld had managed to conjure up a way to make "Maddy" alive again. But, at what price? Surely no such thing could come for free, especially in this day and age. Resuscitating  was outlawed. A being could not enter the Underworld only to be set free on earth again. Such stupidity could damage the entire circle of life. Once humans knew for a fact that there was life after death, they would no longer find any use in living.

"This is why we can't have nice things!" The Reaper grumbled, storming out of the study, and grabbing the scythe propped up against the door. But, inside he couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope. A human with knowledge of the Afterlife was too dangerous to wander unsupervised, but if that human were to serve a purpose... He may have found himself a perfect assistant after all, and he was not going to bypass that opportunity. Death was out to get his helper.

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