A Tale Of Two Reapers Page 3

  Pathetic much?

  Jonesy and I spent the rest of the evening chatting about what a date with Soni might be like, punk rock, his favorite television shows, and comic books. All in all, it was one of the most pleasant times I’d had in a very long while. I arranged an Uber for Jonesy and decided tonight was as good a night as any to hoof my way back home. New York was one of the best cities for walking. The sights, the sounds…the smell of urine on a hot Summer’s eve.

  When my head crash-landed on my pillow, I was out for the night, prepared to dream of all the things Soni and I would probably never get to do together.

  Have I told you lately how much I hated my job?

  Chapter 4

  Wake.

  Coffee.

  Why do I bother?

  Shower.

  Accidentally wash off the phone number from the previous night’s outing.

  Son of a bitch.

  Clothes.

  Reap.

  The ritual of being Grim was comforting. The familiarity brought about a clarity that little else could achieve. It helped to balance out the random static of reaping—of not knowing the sum total auras I’d have to deep-throat on a daily basis and how many of them would scatter the order of my mind.

  Chaos.

  They say the simple flap of a butterfly’s wings could have such a profound effect on the existing world. The initial conditions in which a small change in one state of a deterministic, nonlinear system could result in large differences in a later state. I often wondered how reaping applied to the Butterfly Effect. When I take away an aura here in New York, is it felt in, say, Zimbabwe? Or does the draining of a single life matter to the universe…in a grand scheme kind of way?

  Every so often I waxed philosophical. It helped pass the time and reminded me that, at one point in my life, I showed genuine promise as a gentleman and a scholar. Unfortunately, that time had long since passed. Now a chimp could do my job with as much panache and flourish as I.

  I pulled my apartment key from my front pocket to find a folded up napkin. Written on the napkin was Soni’s name and a phone number. My first thought was how impressive a pickpocket the woman would make. That was quickly followed by the ridiculous idea that Fate had decided it was time to let ol’ Grim have and eat the slightest bit of cake. Sadly enough, I knew better than to believe the universe had any desire to meddle in the affairs of such an insignificant race of creatures.

  Did I say that out loud? I hope the fuck not. There are certain secrets that must remain tucked away from the living. That was one of them.

  The delightful distraction would come to nothing. Business and pleasure mixed in unfortunate ways when your job insisted you know when people were about to buy the farm. Love might as well be a bucket of nuclear waste for me.

  Sometimes I like to pretend I know the answer to the biggest question of all—What is the meaning of life?—is something other than 42. But then, don’t we all want to spend the whole of our waking hours making believe we’re something much bigger than we are?

  When I was a little boy, I wanted to be an astronaut. That’s laughable, as the notion of outer space hadn’t even been conjured by the most brilliant minds in existence.

  Unless you count the rebel Descartes.

  I reap, therefore I am.

  Through the exit of my slumpartment, I stood in the middle of the bustling New York sidewalk. Some days there was nothing better than remembering you lived in the greatest city in the entire world.

  And then the clouds open up and unleash a fresh deluge on your head.

  Like magic, a hundred buskers scurried away like cockroaches and a thousand hustlers appeared on the street, each and every one of them selling umbrellas for ten dollars. It was going to be one of those days.

  “Reaping in the rain. Just reaping in the rain,” I sang out and took a light pole for a spin. The problem with that otherwise classic move is that, these days, everyone assumes your dance of choice is stripping. WWGKD?

  The problem with inclement weather was that it dimmed the auras of most people. Sure, there were a scant few who relished a thundercloud symphony, but for the most part a rousing storm made my job strategically more challenging. A blue aura could soon pass as black, so I had to err on the side of caution.

  Red.

  Green.

  Pink.

  Fuchsia.

  Burnt umber.

  Orange.

  Blue.

  White.

  Blue.

  Navy.

  Chartreuse.

  Taste the fucking rainbow.

  Black.

  “Gotcha!” I shouted, and immediately wished I could retract my statement. The war cry brought a level of creep to my craft that I wasn’t comfortable owning. Ego in check, I focused on the owner of the onyx fog.

  My heart dove deep into the depths of my gut.

  “Fuck!” I shouted.

  No one noticed.

  Standing before me, shrouded in darkness, was a child…a young girl. Clad in a light-blue princess costume, she stood with a pride that belied her tiny bald head. A man in scrubs protected the moppet from the rain with an umbrella the size of a tent.

  “Please don’t make me do this,” I whispered, knowing the act of stripping the soul from this youngster would haunt me for years. Yes, I knew it was part of the job…and children died every day…but it didn’t make the prospect any easier. Ending adults was one thing—they had plenty of time to ruin their lives, grow jaded, have affairs, hate, lose their tempers and wits, vote against their best interests, listen to shitty music, and sleep with the wrong people. Children, on the other hand, hadn’t had the misfortune of experiencing life. They were the purest form of innocence, and ending them made me feel an unshakable loss.

  She’s suffering, I thought. I would be doing her a favor.

  And then, just as my mind and heart were about to sync up to one another, the mother stepped out of the car, knelt down, and planted a kiss on the young girl’s head.

  I can’t do this. My heart revolted. Before I realized it, I had spun around and was walking away. My hands and my jaw quivered so hard I was certain they’d fall from my body and inch their way back to the black-veiled girl to do my job for me.

  I reached the other side of the street and a massive roll of thunder rumbled above me.

  “Fuck you,” I whispered, averting my gaze to the street below.

  I turned to hail a cab, and a bolt of lightning crashed down from the sky and wrapped itself around my wrist.

  In the blink of an eye, I was no longer in New York. In place of the dirty, wet city were the black mirrored walls of the NetherRealm.

  Today was starting off on all the wrong damn feet.

  “Grim,” a James-Earl-Jonesian voice rumbled.

  I stood, in absolute silence, as abject terror tickled the synapses within the core of my brain.

  “Do not ignore me, Reaper!” the voice boomed.

  “Fine. Fine,” I snapped. “Hi.” I tossed out the snarkiest wave possible. “Is now when you tell me you are my father?”

  My jokes always brought about a chorus of crickets.

  “Why have I brought you here, Grim?”

  “I don’t know, Fate. It’s been a while since I was sent to the principal’s office.” I folded my arms over my chest. “Did you miss me?”

  “Enough!” Fate roared. “I’m growing weary of your insubordination.”

  My arms reflexively shot up into the air. “What the hell do you mean? I do everything you ask of me.”

  “Reaper, you have one and only one job,” Fate’s voice slowed. “Failure to meet the responsibilities of said job are…how shall I describe such consequences?”

  Fate sighed. I’d not heard that sound in a very long time, and wanted to avoid its repetition at all costs.

  “When have I failed you? Name one instance…” I realized the question was a mistake and wanted so badly to retract, recant, and renounce.

  Before
I could, Fate had its verbal way with me. “I need only cast my memory back once to find your greatest failure. A single soul that escaped because you were too busy flirting with a particularly busty blonde.”

  Starkweather. Fate was always quick to bring up that particular botch on my part.

  “What was I supposed to do? When Monroe is flirting with you, it’s not something to be taken lightly.” My voice grew sharp.

  Fate tensed. “I don’t care if the most beautiful woman in the world is—”

  “Exactly.” I cut Fate off.

  “Do your job, Grim.”

  “Oh, blah blah stuffy stuff blah,” I dared to mock.

  “Grim…” Fate fell silent for a moment. The tension almost solidified the air around us. I’d crossed a line and I knew it. “Why is your job so important?”

  “There are only a finite number of souls,” I mumbled.

  “That is correct. And why are you not allowed to judge who lives and dies?”

  My head fell back and a moan escaped my lips. “Goddammit!” I cried out.

  A bolt of lightning struck down from the glass ceiling above and ripped into my chest. The pain—something I hadn’t felt in decades—was gloriously excruciating. So bad was the punishment, I couldn’t even muster up the energy to scream. I rose inches from the black floor and flailed about like a coked-up puppet.

  The bolt of electricity released its hold on me and I collapsed, broken, on the floor.

  “I will ask you again. Why are you not allowed to judge who lives and dies?”

  “Be—” I couldn’t form the words. My lungs refused to draw in enough air to form the second syllable.

  “Speak,” Fate roared.

  Oxygen finally managed to wind its way in and, in a desperate gasp, I said, “Because judgment can only be made once infinite wisdom is achieved.”

  “And is that something you can claim, Grim?”

  “You know the…”

  “Is that something you can claim?” The voice of Fate rang in my ears.

  “No!” My voice echoed from one wall to the next until it finally faded to dread-silence.

  “Grim,” Fate said in an almost fatherly tone. “Consider this your final warning. Should you refuse to reap another soul, I will have no choice but to banish you to the Null.”

  Emptiness. A vast, barren nothingness…a space that would make Locked-In Syndrome a veritable party.

  I rose to standing, my head light and my legs weak. “Fine. Fine. No more shenanigans from this guy. Send me back and I’ll reap the child.”

  An explosion of light raked across my eyes to send a blinding pain down my spine. When the wall of white faded, I had been returned to the rainy street, standing close enough to the little girl and her mother that I could hear them chatting.

  “It’s your last treatment today, sweetie,” the mother said with a false bravado.

  “I know, Mommy. Maybe now my hair will grow back and I can be like all the other girls.”

  A cliché smacked me upside the head and I wept at the thought of my next action. Children were a challenge to reap. Their bodies were so small that I couldn’t simply run through them. A modicum of creativity had to be employed.

  In a stroke of luck, the mother released the daughter from the hug and stood by her side. Now was my chance. I wiped the tears from my cheeks, took in a deep breath, and did the only thing I could to get my body through the child’s…a forward roll.

  Needless to say, I wasn’t a gymnast…even on an ironic level. The awkwardness of the moment collided with the tragedy to ensure I’d wind up heading straight for the bar.

  The girl’s soul tasted of bubble gum and dreams of unicorns and talking cats. I wanted to hold the smoke in my lungs for eternity, but knew the flavor would soon sour. The last thing I wanted was to taste innocence gone bad.

  With my tuck and roll complete, I stood and continued onward, away from the mother and the soon to be…

  The shriek was all the confirmation I needed that it was time to exhale.

  For whatever fucked-up reason, I expected the heavens to open up and a million beams of light to shine down on the moment in celebration of an angel’s ascension.

  As if it worked that way.

  Sorry…another trade secret.

  My feet carried me onward…straight through the doors of O’Halloran’s. I wasn’t always particularly fond of the Irish, but when you need to drink away what ails you, where better to go than an Irish pub? It was the only place I could escape where the existential angst of a nation blotted out the collective aura of life.

  At O’Halloran’s, every aura was a lovely shade of green.

  Or so I told myself.

  To be honest, I only ever visited this place after an especially nasty reap. The job I’d just pulled required a healthy dose of booze.

  “Start ‘em coming, Mugsy,” I shouted the second I entered.

  This was one of those everybody knows your name joints. Nearly everyone in attendance was always in attendance. Minus yours truly. At most, for me, this was a once a week thing; so very few knew my name. Yet.

  A server in a form-fitting green tee shirt and painted-on jeans dropped a mug onto the table before me, somehow managing not to spill a single drop. I nodded and offered that fateful gesture for keep ‘em comin’. She answered with a wink before winding her way back to the bar.

  I tilted the mug to my lips and guzzled the bitter liquid down as quickly as possible. The wash of cold down my throat took the edge off my tension. The memory of the little girl, on the other hand, remained intact. I’d have to get goat-faced drunk to let this dog of war slip my memory.

  The server slammed down another frosty mug and scooped the empty onto her tray. I watched the rhythmic sway of her hips as she threaded her way through the throng of patrons. As my eyes followed her path, my gaze fell onto the very thing I wanted so badly to hide from.

  “Son of a bitch,” I hissed.

  Seated alone at a table in the corner of the bar was a woman surrounded by a soul as thick and dark as one would find in a Myers-Briggs ISTP personality. That’s ninety-nine percent chocolate dark. So dark was this fog I could barely make out the woman’s features beneath.

  She wore a black dress made entirely of lace. The style was clearly Victorian. Her eyes were rimmed with a thick smudge of kohl black eyeliner and her lips were the deepest burgundy. Somehow I’d managed to stumble upon the only living Irish goth in New York, and her aura was ripe for my reaping. There was a poetry in this that helped to shuffle away the unrest of the child. In the cavernous folds of my mind, I imagined the tragically hip goth would gladly welcome the soothing balm of death.

  I stood on trembling legs and made my way over to the table in the corner. The woman was seated in a booth, so there was no way I could easily walk through her. This move had to be executed carefully, otherwise I’d wind up with another failed reaping on my hands. Considering my last interaction with Fate, this was the last thing I needed.

  There was only one path to take….one move to make.

  I fell into the booth, steeled my will, and threw myself sideways into the woman.

  Something was wrong. I took in my usual deep breath—to hoover in the aura—and found no taste tickling my tongue. There was also a hauntingly lonely feeling to being inside the woman. At first I attributed that to the existential ennui that went along with being goth. When the woman shuddered hard enough to knock me out of her, I realized my mistake.

  “What the fuck?” the woman hissed. “Did you just…oh, my God!” She pulled a chain from around her neck, on which was attached a whistle. She brought the whistle to her lips and drew in a breath deep enough to draw my attention to her ample cleavage.

  Which was extraordinarily bad timing.

  “Wait,” I barked.

  Gothy lowered the whistle. “I’m listening.”

  “You’re not dead?” I asked.

  “Not for lack of trying.” The woman lowered one arm to reveal a
checkerboard of scars on her wrist. “But no. I’m very much alive.”

  “That can’t be.”

  “I assure you, Captain Creepfest, much to my chagrin, I am still alive and kicking.” She lowered the whistle. “Care to tell me what you’re getting at with this?”

  To be honest, I wasn’t sure. This had never happened. Generally speaking, when I passed through the living, their next major act in life was dying. And then there was the issue of her aura not having a smell. That, in and of itself, is a massive red flag.

  “I’m waiting,” Goth Girl huffed.

  “You ever hear of auras?”

  “Who hasn’t? Still waiting.”

  “I’m not sure how to tell you this.” I paused and opted to go the direct route. “My name is Grim.”

  “Like the TV show?”

  “What?”

  The woman laughed. “You can’t not have heard of Grim. It’s one of the most amazing television shows…”

  “I haven’t,” I interrupted. “Your aura is black.”

  “I know.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked abruptly.

  “I call it my Veil of Angst. It’s surrounded me since I was, like, five. By the way, that happens to coincide with the year I first watched the film Beetlejuice. I blame Tim Burton for all of this.”

  In conjunction with me opening my mouth to confess my hidden truth, an all-too-familiar bolt of lightning cracked down from the ceiling and enveloped me like Frankenstein’s monster. I almost expected to hear a rousing cheer of It’s alive!

  “What have you done?” The sonic boom of Fate’s voice roused me from my electro-statically charged grand mal.

  “Son of a bitch!” I shouted through the pain. “Can’t you channel your inner Star Trek and transport me?”

  “Answer the question.”