Updates have been quite infrequent on Undead Machinery for the past months. This is due to a new blog, Dining with Dana! This Fat Bat, Rabid Reader and Sweet Chef blogs about alternative subcultures through art, words, taste and sound. Check it out here:
ask the Reaper questions and read his comics here. Read the new Dear Grim Reaper story while Tea Time of the Dead is in the works. Most of all, creep on creepin' on kids!
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Introduction: After accidentally releasing the entire Underworld's population, the Reaper is banished to Earth, forced to work amongst the living. With the help of his teenage cheerleader assistant, Madison, he must fetch the undead and deceased who roam the planet.
A Holy Message
"Aha!" Lucifer yelled as he slayed the Reaper at Mario Kart,"Who d’ya worship now?"
"Whatever…" the Reaper grumbled. "I’ve got work to do."
"Bruh, you said that, like five hours ago. Besides, I put Hot Pockets in your microwave."
"Last one to the kitchen is a Demigod!" the Reaper dashed through his fresh-out-of-the-can suburban home.
In a bite of a Twinkie, a flash of light erupted from the ceiling before he could reach his beloved goal. Three all too familiar figures emerged from the brightness, beginning their slow descent to the ground, as the fun, relaxed atmosphere in the house instantly evaporated…
“What now?” he asked the three angels that stood before him. Michael, Israfil and of course, Gabriel, clip board in hand stood there with identically sleepy grins.
“Greetings from the Celestial Council, Mr. Reaper,” enunciated Gabriel, flipping through the pages of his clipboard. “We bring an important announcement from the Holy ones.”
“Fun's over,” he heard Lucifer scoff before the ground suddenly caved in and he disappeared back into Hell. The angels expressed mock relief as he left.
|"Aha!" Lucifer yelled as he slayed the Reaper at Mario Kart,"Who d’ya worship now?"|
“Let me guess,” sighed the Reaper, “I'm in trouble.”
“Yup,” answered Michael. He was intensely admiring his reflection in his sword. “You've got a few ghost problems on your hand.”
“As in?” If the Death God had a forehead it would have creased. What could have possibly happened in one lazy afternoon?
“It seems the dead are procrastinating... their death,” Israfil scratched his ear, visibly embarrassed.