The Envoy

The neon tabs of millions of files poked out on every inch of the wall in the room. Stacked up against the walls were even more files. Lee shivered knowing one of the files held the intimate details of his passing. They were still in the process of digitalizing them all, but no one wanted to touch the files. Reaper's back was turned away from Lee, quietly shuffling a pile of papers. 

There were no lights on in the room, so he scurried passed the desk to open the curtains to let the sun pour into the vast office. He turned back expectantly to meet the Grim Reaper's gaze.

The Grim Reaper did not wear a long black hood and cape, or have a skull as his head, or have red eyes, or have lungs that spewed fire. He was a slight man, baby-faced, eye-bags, who wore a fake mustache. He couldn't grow his own mustache, but men with mustaches were automatically hardcore. He did not wear a smart suit, but adorned slacks that hid his skinny frame. The light from the window made the dark circles around his eyes prominent. Death was no business - it was just inevitable. Lee wasn't exactly sure when the Reaper was able to sleep - or if he ever had the chance to. He did have a huge scythe though, to which Lee was wary and gave it a wide berth.

The death lord gave no sound of acknowledgement. Lee gulped. 

“Dr. Lee.” the Grim Reaper suddenly called out to the gardener. He straightened himself up in his chair and turned to face him. His eyes had always made Dr. Lee's toes curl in fear. 

“Where is Shaym?”

Lee flinched. Uh oh. Not again. “Maybe he went out to play?” he said.

“Well, today is a nice day and all...” he added, but then quietly berated himself for sounding dumb.

“Dr. Lee. I have 1:30 appointments with Mrs. Mathilda Faust for natural death, Mr. Conner Gomes for lung cancer, and Mr. John Hilliard for falling into a manhole. None of them have arrived. Why is that?” Reaper said softly, which did not clash well with his harsh voice.

“...because there is bad traffic?” he replied, nervously laughing. Mr. Reaper's mustache twitched.

“Uh...is it because Shaym isn't doing his job?” Dr. Lee 'guessed' once again.

“What is my duty, Dr. Lee ?” the Reaper said.

“To judge which souls pass through the underworld and which souls pass through the black fire pits?” 

“And what is Shaym's duty?” He clasped his hands together, knuckles turning bone white.

“To send in clients for you to judge, heh heh?” Dr. Lee's laughed meekly. His white shirt dampened with the sudden cold sweat that appeared all over his body.

“And are the clients here?” Reaper asked, spreading his arms wide, making Dr. Lee flinch again.

“No.”

“Can I do my job without the clients?”

“Well... no.”

“Dr. Lee, your ward has broken his own record in the amount of time it takes to get me pissed off,” Mr Reaper said, and with a snap of his fingers, a margarita appeared on his desk. He examined his filed nails.

“Doctor, If he doesn't bring those souls, I'll get bored. And I kill people when I'm bored,” he looked up over his glass and directly into Lee's eyes. 

“He means no harm! He's just misunderstood!” Dr Lee exclaimed, but immediately sighed and shook his head.

“Who am I kidding, he's the biggest punk the underworld has ever seen,” Dr. Lee took a change to glance up at the Reaper to see him grinning (and quite a horrifying sight it was).

“Margarita?” the Reaper said, raising his eyebrow towards the glass.

Dr. Lee shook his head. Too early for that. The Grim Reaper took a slow sip.

“He's useful though,” he thought out loud. Dr. Lee made a sound in agreement. "Only because there is no one like him."

“At least this time he didn't replace your mustache with a rabid squirrel, right?” Lee tried to joke, but Reaper stiffened up. Oops. Too soon.