The Reaper

part i

part i

Death heaved a sigh and tore a bite out of his doughnut.

"Screw this."

He leaned back against the railings by the hot foods stand, chewing. The businessman next to him, dressed in a similar dark suit and tie, smirked.

"Tough day, buddy?" he asked. His voice was sunny and nasal, and he was swapping his paper coffee cup from hand to hand to stop it from scalding him.

Death just snorted. Traffic sped by, and rain hammered down on their umbrellas.

"What's the deal?" the man pushed.

"Oh, just..." he waved a careless hand. "Work."

The man let out a barking laugh. "I feel you, bud! Whereabouts are you tied to, then?"

Death picked a green sprinkle off his donut. "Hell."

Another distressingly loud laugh shot out of him like gunfire. "Ah, tell me about it! Me too, buddy!"

For the first time, Death turned to look at the businessman. The man was tanned and greying – at about the age when men started taking up cycling and smoothie-based diet plans. He was, in every way, unremarkable.

"Hell?" Death pushed.

"London," he grinned. "Same thing."

Death would have begged to differ.

"It's crazy though," said the man. "Sometimes you go through the worst stuff for the sake of routine and a pay cheque. Makes me wonder why we all don't pack up and quit, huh?"

Death stared at the man.

"So, what's the boss got you doing today?" the man asked, blowing on his drink. The steam danced off the surface and into the rain.

Death took another bite of the donut, and said with his mouth full, "The old bastard's got me to blow up a plane mid-flight this morning, severely burning anyone trapped in the explosion and drowning those who escaped the raging metal inferno." He swallowed. "They all died horribly."

The man's blinding smile flickered and died. When it eventually returned after the longest of silences, it was stretched and uncomfortable. "That's...real nice, buddy. Sounds like the sort of job you ought to quit, huh?" He chuckled uneasily.

"Would if I could, mate."

"Ha, that's familiar. Hope I'll bee seeing you round," he lied, tossing his half-full cup into the bin and hastily grabbing his briefcase from the ground.

"Wait," Death said before the man could step off the wet pavement. It was an order.

"Yeah...buddy?"

"What's your name? Just to check?"

"Michael Cunningham. Why's this?"

"Just checking I have the right guy."

Michael Cunningham's brow had creased, and his lips had just had time to form the beginnings of a question. He didn't get to ask it.

A garbage truck slammed into his body.

Death sighed, wiping the doughnut glazing remnants off his fingers and folding his umbrella. Michael Cunningham's limp body had made a nasty, red mess on the pavement. Another day's work.

-

Most people, when Death came to call, were overcome with emotion. Some wept, some screamed, some begged, and some were too shocked to move. Rosa Delgada, however, was not in the mood.