How to Save the World and Other Illegal Shenanigans

Death Was Really Bad At His Job

Death was really bad at his job.

I mean, it's not really the most desirable job to begin with, but there's some level of importance that makes is meaningful work. A lot of times it's just button pressing; all of the buttons labelled, too, so really it's just a matter of tapping them off when they light up.

Despite all of their labels, none were in the only language he could read. He's not entirely sure what the language is called. It involves lots of crossing circles and lines, and at first glance it looks suspiciously like someone is summoning a demon. That language is easy to read, and very descriptive, he might add. But these English, Arabic, and Russian characters all just look a mess.

Maybe, all of those years ago when he took the job, "completely literate in all languages" should've been a requirement. Or maybe it was on the application, but it was in really small print. No one ever reads the small print. He knows because there's a button for that, too.
While he might not be able to read the buttons, he's made a list of what they all do. He sees all of the reactions they cause, and has pieces together why they start flashing in the first place.

The one on the far left starts a volcano in Hawaii; most of the leftwards buttons deal with destructive weather that might possibly kill people. Most of the buttons in the center deal with what actually comes out of everyone's mouths. If he were to press one little yellow button, some politician would say something so controversial it started riots. He figured this one out the hard way when he first started; one second, the president was giving a kind eulogy, the next, he was bashing their existence. No one really liked that button.

Sometimes, when he wheeled his chair back-- The Powers That Be were kind enough to give him a rolling chair-- he could reach the other three desks and press their buttons too. They had a much more interesting selection, not quite as broad and ominous as his. He feels a bit guilty pressing their buttons, but sometimes he doesn't meet quota on his own, so he gets some help.

The three of them had went on strike eons ago, insisting that they belonged in the field.

"No," said The Powers That Be. And that's all they said. No one argues with that, except these three broads, apparently.

They packed their bags and left. Of course, they had asked Death if he wanted to go. At the time, still young and acne-ridden in his starter job, he'd declined. He didn't want to intrude on the adults' fun vacation. Now, slightly older, he really wishes he could've gone.

Through the static of one of the news feeds he briefly hears about some sort of international summit. He wonders what they could possibly be talking about now; they've already gone through climate change seventy three times, and saving the environment seventy two. There were plenty of meetings about nuclear war, and he'd almost pressed the big red button on his desk. He thinks it starts with the English character "A", but he's not sure.

He's not really sure about a lot of things. For nearly the billionth time, Death thinks that it was a really bad idea to put a young adult at the wheel of the world.