Death Incarnate
a short story to make up for only having chapter one my other work on display
Death Incarnate
He circles endlessly like some sort of morbid gypsy cab driver waiting for a fare to raise his or her trembling hand. He doesn’t discriminate black or a white, young or old, poor tenement slum to millionaire estate, he’s seen them all. He not only crosses state lines but continents as well. He’s been doing this for as long as he can remember. It’s all he knows, all he can remember. As a shadow in the night he’s ever-present, always about casting doubt, and rarely welcome. Most of us come face-to-face, eyeball-to-eyeball with him everyday yet never realize it. We do our best to ignore him. But you can see him, if you really want to, hanging-out just beyond the outer edges of your peripheral vision. Like it or not, eventually he will come to take you to your final destination.
His dark universe is chuck full of irony, double entendres, metaphors, and the like; so naturally smart writers can’t resist giving him an appearance, more often than not as the main character. Great heroes and villains, historic healers and murderers, Biblical saints and monsters, have all paid him homage at one time or another; as have even the lowest most insignificant scumbags, drug addicts, whores, and thieves.
He’s ridden on the roughest of roads, the stormiest of seas, and the most turbulent flights, yet holds no ticket or license. He’s been to countless hospitals, medical facilities, and clinics, yet he has no health insurance or diploma. He’s been one of the first at many disasters, both natural and man-made, but he bears no red cross. He’s treaded upon many a battlefield, heard endless gunshots and unrelenting cannon fire, but wears no uniform and carries no gun. He’s witnessed untold millions die from plague, famine, fire, and floods; however carries no camera or microphone.
He’s a natural part of life; as unavoidable as taxes, and nearly as dreaded. Nobody wants to talk to him, but eventually they all come round. His name comes up often, but usually in hushed tones, out of respect, or sheer fear of summoning him. As far as official titles go, he’s gone by many: El Muerte, the Forth Horseman, he who rides the pale horse, Izanaminokami, Thanatos, Anubis, Hel, and Yama are but a few. The two you most likely know him by are death and the Grim Reaper.
As Charon, the ferryman across the River Styx, he did collect a toll of one silver coin from beneath the tongue of each of his passengers, but it wasn’t like he’d get to go to the mall and go shopping. Other than extensive travel and briefly meeting people from all walks of life, his job has few benefits. Never a vacation, no pay raises in literally forever, no sick days-in fact they’re often his busy season; no lunch hour, no breaks, not even water cooler gossip to help kill time, that was somebody else’s job.
Some say his job takes a great deal of skill, others think quite the opposite. Both sides have to agree that he is dedicated. His one job requirement is to remain detached; emotions have no place in his line of work. He’s witnessed all the hope the world has to offer melt away to fear, then anguish, without shed of a single one of his tears. He’s been through all the stages and watched them repeat over the years:
• Isolation and denial-“It’s a mistake, it can’t be, not me!”
• Anger, rage, and resentment-“Why God? Why me? What did I ever do to deserve this?” “Damn cruel fate, damn the world!”
• Bargaining-“I’ll do anything you ask, just spare my miserable hide!”
• Depression-“My fate is sealed; I’m doomed, what’s the use in caring anymore?”
• Acceptance-“Time to swallow my fears and face it head-on. Get my affairs in order and so on.”
The order of dealing with death varies, with acceptance always coming last, if at all. Between stages are often: set-in panic attacks, crying jags, prayers, group hugs, temper tantrums, demolition derbies, and sometimes even running away, either physically or mentally, in advanced cases-both.
And then there was the matter of time. Time was inconsequential to him. He didn’t punch in and out on a time clock. He wore no wristwatch, carried no sun dial. He had all the time in the world to do what he had to do. People, on the other hand, never could get enough. They raced to-and-fro always in such a hurry. There just weren’t enough hours in the day, or night for that matter. Rush off to work, then rush back home again, only to rush out to eat or shop a few moments later. They even spend hours a day on cold steel exercise equipment just so they like what they see in the mirror. More precious time spent with machines that gave them about as much love as a thumbtack, than with their own flesh and blood. Never spending time with their family, where it mattered most. Hell most of them even dreamed about work or school, the few that didn’t dreamt of far away lands or flight without airplanes Seemed to him that they were always running away from their lives; then when their time does run out, all they do is bitch and moan about how they should have spent more quality time at home. Finally they suddenly see the light and realize just what a waste of time all that hard work really was.
Human beings are such foolish silly hubris creatures; nothing but a bunch of arrogant ingrates who want to have their cake and eat it too. They bicker and complain amongst themselves like little kids with not enough ice cream to share. Mortals expect everything to be handed to them on a silver platter, and then when it’s not, they just cry about how unfair life’s been. Why the Creator gave those upright apes the keys to the animal kingdom he’ll never understand. All the primitives do is do their best to squander it all. When it’s gone they’ll just complain and blame it all on God, the devil, fate, or just about anything but themselves.
He may not have done it all, but he has seen and heard it all. Come one, come all, he’s an equal opportunity harvester of souls. No one influences him; no one can change his incorruptible mind or sway him from his appointed rounds. No favoritism, preferential treatment, or bribery will corrupt this angel of death. Not even the wealthiest that devoted their entire worldly goods in futile attempts to delay the inevitable. For him king or pauper matters not; neither does going out with the mighty roar of a lion or the tame whimpering of a pup. The ultimate translator, he speaks all tongues with every nuance, perfect inflection and diction. A failure to communicate is never a problem. Whether it is even the tiniest corner of the globe, or in orbit above it, not a single soul is beyond his grasp. In the end souls were just slabs of meat to him, a product to be collected and transported, nothing more.
What a way to make a living he thought to himself, he’d chuckle at the humor in that comment, if he had any sense of laughter. At least political correctness had done away with the ole’ dark cloak, scythe, and extreme dieting; that stupid long handle kept slipping through his bony fingers. Now he typically appeared in a casual yet respectful black suit, wearing dark shades to retain a slight air of mystery and intimidation. Of course every now and again he’d have to put on ye ole’ dead dog and bony pony routine to convince a stubborn skeptic or two.
The daily drudge varied only slightly. He’d go where directed, pick up his charge, and then take him back to the doors. They always had infinite questions. He always had no answers. They always expected so much more. But there was no Gabriel’s horn blaring, no endless Jacob’s ladder or great staircase leading up into the great unknown. No winged angels, no horned demons. No puffy clouds, no fiery pit. The only pearly gates he ever saw looked like two stainless steel elevator doors; just two doors in the middle of darkness, no button to push, no floor numbers, no up or down arrows. He’d just point and shove, uttering, “You go there” in whatever tongue was appropriate. The doors would slide open the passenger would get in, and then they’d close. After that one of two outcomes would occur barely visible through the minute opening between the doors. Either there’d be a bright light and a loud sigh of relief and/or joyous laughter, or there’d be utter darkness followed by agonizing screaming and/or painful crying.
Every once in a very great while he would encounter a runner, someone who just wasn’t ready to accept his or her fate. Whether they managed to squeeze back into their body or someone else’s to squeeze a few more years of life out of it, or whether they just ran free to haunt the earthly plane, mattered little to him. Regardless of their reasons, their delusions of freedom were only temporary. Eventually he’d get to see them again. They would go where they were supposed to, even if it took three or four thousand tries.
Come final judgment there was no way to be certain who would win and who would lose. The odds were always 50-50. Just as many were sentenced to salvation as were sentenced to damnation. Although it became evident certain patterns did emerge. The lowest of the low had a much better chance of getting into heaven than the highest of the high had of not going to hell. Obviously mass murderer, serial killers, child molesters, rapists, despots, and drug dealers went exactly where you’d expect them to. Diseased demented greedy minds went down. Health happy generous minds went up. It also seemed the more prestigious your place was in this world, the greater the likelihood you would be very uncomfortable in the next. C.E.O.s, politicians, lawyers, judges, and stock brokers tended towards downward trends. Where as ironically firemen who were used to the heat, nurses, and children nearly always had upward travel arrangements. You’d be surprised how many clergy, librarians, teachers, doctors, and officers of the peace went the wrong way. Then again, these days, maybe you wouldn’t.
He often wondered if that welcome pearly gate or that despised fiery pit appeared to his charges after those doors closed. He also wondered when or if his time would come. And what about animals, do they have souls? He amused himself by picturing a little grim goat taking care of the flocks. All he knew was that he didn’t have to carry a popper scooper. Hell he even wondered at times if he was a he or a she? But none of that was his business. Fortunately he was always too busy to contemplate the meaning of his existence for very long. His business is what it is, and business is always booming. Nobody wants to discuss or even contemplate the meaning of death any way, they’d all much rather talk about the meaning of life; which is why this story is so short.
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