Death in the City

by Kyle Giroux

  “I’m passing out. I’m going to pass out,” said Brian. Famine swung open the door with too much force and it crashed into Brian’s face. He reeled backwards towards the couch, showering Death in blood before turning back and collapsing into his room. Famine shut the door slowly behind him, and sat back down on the couch.

  “Sorry about that,” he said.

  “I…I think I’ll need a new suit, now,” said Death, wiping Brian’s blood from his lapel.

  When Famine returned to his duties, Death made his way to the nearest men’s clothing shop, Fitzegerald’s. He walked in, still covered in blood. “Sir?” asked a man. He was straightening out the hem of a pair of pants on a headless manikin. When he stood up he looked Death up and down with eyebrows raised and lips pursed. “What happened to you?”

  “My roommate bled all over me and now I need a new suit,” said Death.

  “Well, here at Fitzgerald’s, our policy is ‘no questions asked,’” he said nervously. “What are you looking for?”

  “I guess a…suit,” said Death.

  “Yes,” said the man, closing his eyes and sighing, his smile still plastered on. “Of course. But what kind? Tailored?”

  “Yes,” said Death.

  “Three button or—“

  “Yup, three.”

  “Black, Bl—“

  “Black, that’s the one.

  “Vest?”

  “Yes, vest,” said Death. He felt an odd need to not look like a fool—a very human desire.

  “Wonderful, let’s find you something nice,” said the man. “Ah, here we go, a nice vest for you. A single-breasted pinstripe by Giorgio Armani. The polyester and rayon combination give it a relaxed yet classy feel. Along with the button-front is a left chest pocket and two side pockets, and an adjustable buckle on the back waist. I have a vision for you, sir, a vision of the perfect suit. You will…not…be…disappointed.”

  “Wow, great,” said Death. He took hold of the vest and placed an arm through one hole, then struggled to wrap the rest of the vest across his body. As he thrashed about, the man could not take it anymore.

  “Sir, sir,” he shouted. “What are you doing?” He seized the vest from Death’s grasp and looked as though he had just witnessed an unspeakable crime. “You are going to rip it.”

  “I guess it’s too small, then,” said Death, shrugging.

  “Uh, no, it’s not,” said the man. “You’re simply putting it on wrong.”

  Death felt sweaty and prickly and blurted out, “Then how do you put it on?”

  “Like this,” said the man. He swung the vest around his back and put both arms in their respective holes at the same time, pushing it onto his back and buttoning the front. “See? I didn’t put any stress on the back waist like you were.”

  “Okay,” said Death flatly. He put the vest on properly.

  “There you go, perfect,” said the man, his hands on his hips. “Let’s get to trying on the rest of the suit.”

  Minutes later the man helped Death put together a full suit. It was not one that he was particularly fond of. He found himself regretting being so agreeable, since doing whatever people told him to do seemed to cause either trouble or personal grief. Pinning the source of his frustration did not make him feel human, but rather intelligent, and that still pleased him. The man walked to the register and began pushing buttons and said: “So with the jacket, the pants, and the vest, with a ten percent combination discount, then a fifteen percent class tax, not to mention the Italian designer tax of eight percent, and the money you owe me for my help and information, the total comes to $4500. Will that be cash, check, or charge, sir?”

  “Oh,” said Death, smiling and tapping his forehead with his palm. “I haven’t gotten my Freepay check yet. Why don’t I take the suit and pay you back later?”

  The man laughed heartily and waved his hand in the air. “That is hilarious. Pay me back later? Why, I never. I’d have to be a madman to let you just run off with the suit. That is a good one, sir.”

  “Run off with it?” asked Death. “Why would I do that?”

  The man flared his nostrils. “Well then, I will have my suit back, thank you very much,” he shouted, taking hold of Death’s shoulders to remove the jacket. “And you can just—“ His eyes went wide as he leaned forward and fell face-first into the counter, cracking his forehead on it and crumpling against the floor. Blood began pooling around the newly-reaped man as Death stood frozen to the spot, feeling awkward.

  “Oh, damn,” he said, sidestepping the blood as it soaked into the brown rug below his feet. “I was so close to finally buying something like everyone else does, too.” Wearing his new suit, he decided to go to the HaffCaff before he could cause any more trouble.

  Sure enough, Tim was in the usual seat. “Derek, buddy, wasn’t expecting you. You’re looking good.”

  “Thanks,” said Death, sitting down.

  “Don’t get the new French Dip Sandwich. They say it comes with real beef gravy but it’s just this runny crap. It’s false advertising.”

  “Oh, is it?” asked Death. “I’d like to try bacon. You know, God loves bacon so much that he put in the Bible that those who eat it go to Hell, just to see what people would say. He never expected they would actually obey him for—“

  Death could not finish because every single window of the HaffCaff Café shattered in unison as men dressed in black swung in on ropes. They were holding machine guns and wearing helmets that said ‘S.W.A.T.’ on them. Screams echoed through the café as people dove beneath tables and behind the counter. “No, it wasn’t my fault,” shouted Tim. “I had to do it, there was no choice. Hear me out, please!” He slid beneath the table as Death tried to figure out an appropriate reaction.

  “We got him here,” shouted one of the armed men. He was running towards Death with his gun ready to fire. “Get him to the ground, he’s armed and dangerous!”

  The man lunged over the table and crashed into Death’s chest. He went limp and rolled off the table, crumpling to the ground with a thud. “We got a man down! We got a man down!” shouted another one. “We have a ten double-zero, I’m going in.” He attempted to grab Death’s shoulder but only grazed the sleeve of the new suit before falling onto his comrade.

  “Wait, please stop,” said Death, as he accidentally reaped three more at once. He slid out of the booth and tried to run for the door, but was impeded by the rather persistent team.

  Sirens blared outside as the Hair Police Department burst through the front door of the HaffCaff. “That’s the one, boys,” shouted a grizzly old man with a grey mustache. “They’ve been tracking him for weeks, he just murdered the clerk at Fitzgerald’s.”

  “My wife was on that bridge, buddy,” screamed an officer as he rushed forward.

  They came to Death in waves, doing their best to engulf and subdue him, but naturally to no avail. Death thrashed about and tried for the door or a window, but the officers would neither let him explain nor try to escape. They shot at him, dove at him, and tried to surprise him from behind, which was enough to make Death finally lie down and give up. An hour later, the HaffCaff Café was covered in the corpses of local police officers, a SWAT team, and even some members of the National Guard. Slowly, in the intense silence, people began standing up and looking around as though they had been in a hole for weeks and had forgotten what the outside world looked like. Tim stood up, too, and gazed at the grim scene around him before his eyes landed on Death, who flushed.

  “I…wow,” said Tim. “That was something else, huh?”

  “Get out of here,” shouted an elderly woman in a pink apron. “Never, ever come back. Ever.”

  “Aw, shoot,” said Death as he and Tim left the café. The door jingled behind them for what was to be the final time. “I did
n’t mean to get us banned from the HaffCaff.”

  “Yeah, well, that was your bad,” said Tim, shoving his hands in his pockets. “We’ll have to tell Maria we found a new place. I have to admit that going to those lengths to get out of paying the next bill was really something else. We can just call it even, since it looks like there’s no more police force in Hair to deal with. The money should roll in by the truck-load for me now.”

  “Oh, okay,” said Death, shifting around in his stiff new suit. “Well that sounds…good, then.”

  A Last Chance

  TELEVANGELIST: HEAVEN CLOSED, BUT VALHALA STILL OPEN

  Hollywood, Florida: Television evangelist and ex-Baptist minister Michael Zarn made more controversial statements on Tuesday, declaring Heaven to be ‘closed off.’

  “In light of recent events, God has spoken to me and told me that he has closed off Heaven and Hell because they are full,” Zarn said. The ‘recent events’ to which he refers is the statistical anomaly of a zero death rate for the past month across the entire globe, with the exception of the city of Hair, Massachusetts.

  “God has told me that Catholicism is now closed, but he has spoken to Thor, who has agreed to open Valhala for the time being,” Zarn said.

  The only way into Valhala is to die in battle, so the U.S. Military has supported Zarn’s statements and updated their slogan to: “Don’t Piss Off Thor, Sign up for the Military Today.”

  Zarn himself has refused to convert to Viking Mythology. “Well, Heaven has had a spot reserved for me,” he said. “I should be good.”

  Efforts to contact Thor or God about the matter were unsuccessful.

  “Listen, Mr. Derek, we here at FreePay Brothers are going to give you one final chance.” Death was on the phone with Mr. Donald FreePay, president and co-founder of FreePay Brothers Incorporated. “Just because you were promoted to a position that allows you to do far less work than the under-paid people around you, doesn’t mean you don’t have to show up. There is a meeting today in Boston at four o’clock, about paying all FreePay employees in bags of potato chips instead of money. If you aren’t there today, we will have no choice but to terminate your employment with the company. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Death meekly. “Of course.” Mr. FreePay hung up the phone and Death looked at the clock, which read 11:30. He thought that he should not mess around anymore, since his job was in serious jeopardy. Obviously, getting to Boston as quickly as possible was his main priority for the day. So, he found the first bus to the Westboro airport.

  “I need a ticket to Boston,” said Death to a confused airline associate at the baggage check. “You know, Boston? The big city in Massachusetts? I need a ticket there.”

  “Yeah, I know what Boston is,” said the associate. “We don’t have any planes that go to Boston.”

  “Excuse me?” asked Death. He did not expect his plan to fall through so quickly. “But all of your commercials say you go to every major city in the country. Boston is a major city.” Death stood back and pointed accusatorily. “False advertising, that’s what that is. False. Advertising.”

  The associate did not seem impressed with Death’s allegation; in fact, he looked fairly disgusted. “Yeah, we do say that, and it’s true. But Boston is, like, a half hour drive from here. Going there by plane wouldn’t make any sense.” He crossed his arms and glared at Death, who was crestfallen.

  “Okay, that’s interesting,” said Death. His entire body felt hot and prickly. “Okay, well how about this? What’s the closest city to Boston these planes go to?”

  “Pittsburg, Pennsylvania.”

  “That’s the one,” said Death happily, slapping the countertop. “One ticket there, please.” He figured Pittsburg must be close to Boston, and from there he could probably just walk.

  The associate printed the ticket, handed it to Death, and said, “That’ll be one hundred and ninety dollars.”

  “A hundred what?” asked Death, looking at the ticket. There must have been some mistake. “No, I just want to go to Boston.”

  The associate sighed deeply and clasped the bridge of his nose. “I understand that, sir, but then you asked for a ticket to Pittsburg. That ticket costs a hundred and ninety dollars.”

  “Oh, well, you’ll have to take it back,” said Death. “Have any free tickets?”

  At this perfectly innocent question, the associate could not keep his sarcasm in order, “Oh, you were looking for the free tickets. And here I was, thinking you wanted tickets that cost money. Of course, sir, let me bring up the free tickets for you. Oh, here we are. Here’s a ticket to Pittsburg not for a hundred and ninety dollars, but it’s free. How lucky.” He printed off a boarding pass and slapped it on the counter.

  “Wow, that is lucky,” said Death, taking the pass. “Thanks a lot.” To the associate’s stunned surprise, Death walked off to the security gates.

  After waiting two hours in a queue that snaked down a long hallway lined with police officers, he walked through a metal detector and red lights flashed in his eyes.

  “Sir, what do you think you’re doing?” A large police officer with a head one could mistake for an eyed squash appeared before Death, an arm outstretched. “Get back, sir. Get back.”

  “What? Oh, sorry,” said Death. “Is this not the right line?” Death found the man smelled slightly of beef and cologne, a strange but not wholly unpleasant aroma.

  “The right line?” asked the officer, confused as to whether the suspect was befuddled or just stupid. “You set of the security detectors, sir. Step off to the side.” Death stepped over next to two police officers who were clutching their guns in their holsters. The big officer walked up to him, a wry smile on his face. “Would you happen to have anything metal in your pockets? Any liquids? You know, things you may be,” he raised his eyebrows and his cheek twitched slightly, “smuggling.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Death, not quite understanding the question.

  “Remove your jacket,” said the officer, his patience waning. Death took it off and handed it to him as he plunged his hands into the pockets.

  “Uh oh,” said the officer. Death was growing nervous, feeling harassed. “What do we have here?” He pulled out a small comb with a silver metal handle. “And what do you think you’re doing trying to get this on a plane?”

  Death looked at the comb, wondering if it could ever double as anything else. “I guess I would…comb…my hair?” asked Death.

  The officer placed the comb back into the jacket pocket and looked at Death with narrowed eyes. Then he smiled, a malicious grin. He retrieved his wallet from his back pocket and pulled out a small square piece of paper. “We’re going to The Room,” he said. “Follow me.” He spoke slowly, darkness etched into his words. Death followed him into a very small, entirely white room. “Sit,” he said, gesturing towards a lone plastic chair. Death obeyed.

  “I’m sorry, I’m just trying to get to Boston,” said Death. The officer snatched the boarding pass from him and looked it over.

  “Boston?” He took the boarding pass from Death’s hand and gazed at it. Then he locked the door. “I’m not going to pretend I don’t know who you are. You’re a wanted man.”

  “I am?” asked Death, flattered. “Thanks.”

  “We all have pictures of you. They’re just grainy street-side surveillance shots but I have a good eye for this stuff. You thought you could take out an entire city’s worth of police and get away with it?”

  “Oh, no. I mean, yes,” said Death. “I mean, I have a meeting in Boston today. If I don’t get there, I’ll be fired.”

  “Boston?” asked the officer in mock curiosity. “Boston…Africa?” He tossed the boarding pass back to Death.

  “Africa? No,” said Death. “No, no, Massachusetts. I can’t be in trouble for
some deaths, that would just be silly.” He stood up and put the boarding pass back into his pocket, making his way out the door. The officer swung his gun out of his holster and stood at the ready, finger on the trigger.

  “Get down now! You’re dead, buddy!” He rushed at Death, who tried to get out of the way. But he could not; the officer took hold of his arm and fell right to the ground, reaped.

  “Oh, damn,” said Death, backing away from the motionless body. “No good at all.” He took his jacket that the officer had dropped in the fall and put it back on. When he exited the room, he nodded to two other officers standing next to the door and made his way to the terminal.

  “Hello, sir, how are you?” asked an assistant at the gate. She was blond and had very little evidence of a chin beneath a tight-lipped smile. When Death gave her the boarding pass she said, “Oh, goodness, you’d better hurry. That plane is just about to take off. This hallway will lead you right to it. Hurry now, hurry.” Death heeded her advice and ran down the hallway. A stewardess on the plane checked his boarding pass and stamped it before he stumbled down the rows to find his seat.

  When he arrived at seat 6A he sat down and relaxed, wiping sweat from his face. He looked over at the man sitting next to him—a large Arab in a tunic and turban. Death smiled (a gesture which was unreturned) and looked around. Quickly he noticed the whole plane was full of people who looked just like the man next to him. The men wore traditional Muslim headwear, while all the women were dressed in hijabs. They were each in their own unique tunics and all spoke in a language Death was well-versed in: Arabic. The “Fasten Seatbelt” light switched on as Death grew suspicious that something was amiss.

  “Hello ladies and gentlemen,” said a voice from the PA system. “We’ll be in Marrakech in about six and a half hours, so just sit back and relax and enjoy the flight. Thank you for flying with Westboro Air.”