whirling grey smoke into the cool evening air. “Today was one of the nicest days I’ve had in a while. But it’s back to work for me.”
“Agreed,” said War. “I have a conflict in central Africa to take care of. Lord knows they’re nearing a peace treaty by now.”
“But…” started Death. He felt completely hopeless. “Okay,” he conceded.
“Ah, come on buddy,” said Famine, patting his hand on Death’s shoulder, gently pushing him back and forth. “You’ll see your way clearer, too. I hope you will, anyways. It just isn’t the same without you.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” said Pestilence. “Really hope you’ll come back.” War nodded in agreement. “We’ll get together again soon.”
Pestilence put out his cigar on the arm of the bench as he, Famine, and War stood up. The last wisps of smoke vanished into the darkening air, and the Horsemen were gone. Death was alone.
Death Finds Religion
At Freepay, a young blonde woman with a baby carriage and heavy makeup wanted lobsters for her cookout, so Death helped her. He reached into the tank with a set of plastic claws, but when he took hold of the lobster to put it into the paper bag, the creature died. He tossed it aside (since Bobby had told Death that shellfish could not be sold dead) and tried for another, but it too died. A third one died, then a fourth one, and Death was flustered. He looked at Al, who was watching what Death was doing instead of helping the five other customers at the counter. He had a gruesome scowl on his face and shook his head every time Death had to throw another lobster away.
“Can you help me, Al?” asked Death, sweat forming on his brow. Al shrugged.
“Help you? Why?” he asked. “Can’t do it? Are you stupid or something?”
Death, feeling hurt and taken aback by the hostile comment, said, “Why do you have to be that way?”
“Be what way?” asked Al, puffing out his lips. Bobby, who had heard the exchange, rushed through the back door and up to Al.
“Al, I’d better not be hearing you talk to another employee like that, ” he shouted. The woman at the counter brushed her hair aside, interested in what was happening but trying to seem indifferent. “You aren’t half the employee he is. Help him.” Al leaned back with his hands in the air and eyebrows raised. “Like now ,” screamed Bobby, his voice booming through the store.
Al placed a sizeable lobster into the bag and handed it to the woman. With a heinous glare, he silently walked over to help the rest of the customers. Death turned to Bobby, whose face was red and lips pursed.
When his shift was finished, Death picked up his check ($249) and gave it to the man outside the door, who jumped up in happiness. Death began walking back to his apartment, but he was stopped by the sound of bass-driven music growing closer to his ears.
Then they turned the corner. Death had been growing accustomed to seeing them every day on Maine Street. They all wore bright pink vests and harem pants and played an assortment of instruments. Some danced about while others handed out fliers. Both the men and the women had shaved heads and looked sickly and eerie to other people, but not to Death. He was mesmerized by their clothes, and found their tunes to be righteous and catchy.
Death, assuming these people were part of a band trying to sell compact discs (as so many other street performers did in the city, particularly on Maine Street), wanted to get one, so he walked up close.
“Um, excuse me,” said Death, waving one man over. He was tall and gaunt, his face full of wrinkles, and he smelt of cabbage. “Where can I get your music? I’d like to buy some.”
The man, as though Death had asked a perfectly rational question even though he had not, responded with, “Why, you can get our music from the great Lord Backspace, which is where we get ours.” He spoke as though he had rehearsed to get the correct groovy inflection. He held his arms high
“Agreed,” said War. “I have a conflict in central Africa to take care of. Lord knows they’re nearing a peace treaty by now.”
“But…” started Death. He felt completely hopeless. “Okay,” he conceded.
“Ah, come on buddy,” said Famine, patting his hand on Death’s shoulder, gently pushing him back and forth. “You’ll see your way clearer, too. I hope you will, anyways. It just isn’t the same without you.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” said Pestilence. “Really hope you’ll come back.” War nodded in agreement. “We’ll get together again soon.”
Pestilence put out his cigar on the arm of the bench as he, Famine, and War stood up. The last wisps of smoke vanished into the darkening air, and the Horsemen were gone. Death was alone.
Death Finds Religion
At Freepay, a young blonde woman with a baby carriage and heavy makeup wanted lobsters for her cookout, so Death helped her. He reached into the tank with a set of plastic claws, but when he took hold of the lobster to put it into the paper bag, the creature died. He tossed it aside (since Bobby had told Death that shellfish could not be sold dead) and tried for another, but it too died. A third one died, then a fourth one, and Death was flustered. He looked at Al, who was watching what Death was doing instead of helping the five other customers at the counter. He had a gruesome scowl on his face and shook his head every time Death had to throw another lobster away.
“Can you help me, Al?” asked Death, sweat forming on his brow. Al shrugged.
“Help you? Why?” he asked. “Can’t do it? Are you stupid or something?”
Death, feeling hurt and taken aback by the hostile comment, said, “Why do you have to be that way?”
“Be what way?” asked Al, puffing out his lips. Bobby, who had heard the exchange, rushed through the back door and up to Al.
“Al, I’d better not be hearing you talk to another employee like that, ” he shouted. The woman at the counter brushed her hair aside, interested in what was happening but trying to seem indifferent. “You aren’t half the employee he is. Help him.” Al leaned back with his hands in the air and eyebrows raised. “Like now ,” screamed Bobby, his voice booming through the store.
Al placed a sizeable lobster into the bag and handed it to the woman. With a heinous glare, he silently walked over to help the rest of the customers. Death turned to Bobby, whose face was red and lips pursed.
When his shift was finished, Death picked up his check ($249) and gave it to the man outside the door, who jumped up in happiness. Death began walking back to his apartment, but he was stopped by the sound of bass-driven music growing closer to his ears.
Then they turned the corner. Death had been growing accustomed to seeing them every day on Maine Street. They all wore bright pink vests and harem pants and played an assortment of instruments. Some danced about while others handed out fliers. Both the men and the women had shaved heads and looked sickly and eerie to other people, but not to Death. He was mesmerized by their clothes, and found their tunes to be righteous and catchy.
Death, assuming these people were part of a band trying to sell compact discs (as so many other street performers did in the city, particularly on Maine Street), wanted to get one, so he walked up close.
“Um, excuse me,” said Death, waving one man over. He was tall and gaunt, his face full of wrinkles, and he smelt of cabbage. “Where can I get your music? I’d like to buy some.”
The man, as though Death had asked a perfectly rational question even though he had not, responded with, “Why, you can get our music from the great Lord Backspace, which is where we get ours.” He spoke as though he had rehearsed to get the correct groovy inflection. He held his arms high
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