Death Sucks

by Andrew Mallen

  Bobby closed his eyes, tight, he only wished he could do the same with his ears. Van Holt’s muffled cries, Indiwongga’s grunting, Jones’s cheering and extremely detailed coaching, Bobby tried so hard not to hear it but it was useless. Not hearing proved almost as impossible as forgetting surely would. Twice Bobby caught himself starting to pray but thankfully Jones was too wrapped up to notice. When at last he gave Ortero the order to finish Van Holt, Bobby felt a wave of relief roll over him. The guy was an asshole, a racist, murdering, cowardly, asshole, but he died badly, twice. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for him and for Indiwongga.

  “That kind of thinking will get you killed Mr. Grant,” Jones snapped from where he suddenly stood at the edge of the stage right in front of Bobby. “Sympathy is for the weak. He would feel none for you. If it was you up here, he would eagerly volunteer to skull fuck you. Don’t be weak Mr. Grant, don’t be such a pussy. You’re not hooded yet boy, oh no, plenty of time to fuck yourself right up.”

  Bobby nodded and bowed, hoping it would be enough.

  “A round of applause for Mr. Ortero! Brilliant job Mr. Ortero, brilliant!” Jones commanded and clapped feverishly at the blood spattered cowboy. “And, of course, for Mr. Indiwongga. Jolly good show Mr. Indiwongga, damn good of you to step in when needed. Now put that thing away before you hurt someone.”

  Indiwongga glanced down at his still hard, blood coated prick with pure disgust.

  “Right you are, an oversight on my part,” Jones squealed unconvincingly, and with the flick of a finger released Indiwongga from his state then him toward the steps.

  “Another round for these two,” Jones demanded. “They fought well but, more importantly, they listened and they obeyed. Learn from it you lot.”

  Bobby clapped, as did his traumatized classmates. Hell was a lot worse than any of them imagined.

  *

  “And now, the moment we’ve all been waiting for, the final match, Mr. Kjeld, Mr. Indi, come on down!”

  Indiwongga walked back up the steps he’d just come down. Mr. Kjeld followed.

  “Karl ‘The Viking” Kjeld, six foot two inches and a sturdy two hundred and thirty-six pounds might just have a few tricks in store for our current champion. Our Danish friend got all hopped up on meth at a speed metal concert, whipped out a beautifully crafted bearded axe of his own making and hacked twenty-three of his fellow revelers to death before his heart exploded under the strain of the drug and the thrill of the slaughter. There is promise there I’d wager. And, of course, Mr. Indiwongga. He needs no introduction but might actually need to break a sweat this time, folks.”

  Kjeld faced Indiwongga, if he was scared, he hid it well.

  “Weapons!” Jones called and the scythe obeyed.

  Jones’s need for carnage outshined his love of hearing himself rant, the short introductions proved it. “Kill or be killed!” he roared and scurried out of the fighter’s way.

  Kjeld charged. Indiwongga crouched, twirling his staff so the blade rose to meet the Dane from below as he approached. Indiwongga’s smooth strike opened Kjeld from navel to neck before burying itself in the soft skin beneath his chin. Kjeld froze, the point of Indiwongga’s blade protruded from his gaping mouth like an iron tongue.

  “For fuck’s sake Kjeld, that was pathetic!” Jones cried.

  Indiwongga pulled his blade free, stood quickly and swung neatly. Kjeld’s head popped into the air, spun momentarily, then fell on his crumbled corpse. Indiwongga stood, waiting.

  “You’re as thick as you are fierce, my black warrior. If it were anyone else, I’d carve them up myself but as you’ve already provided us with such excellent entertainment, I will give you and this sorry excuse for a man one more chance. Now straighten him out and stick that ugly head back where it belongs.”

  Indiwongga obeyed. Jones watched intently. Once Kjeld’s head was in place

  Jones wiggled his finger and Kjeld responded with a scream, howling until the healing was complete.

  “On your feet you waste of meat, you’re to get another chance although it’s against my better judgment,” Jones hissed at the bewildered metal head.

  Kjeld rose slowly to his feet, his eyes darted wildly as he tried to make sense of what made none. He fingered his muscled chest for the wound, then his throat, trembling like an old man with Parkinson’s on Adderall all the while. “What the fuck is going on?” he whispered, hoarse from screaming.

  “You lost,” Jones replied.

  “How? What?” Kjeld wasn’t catching on.

  Indiwongga waited, unmoving.

  “You sucked, as the Yanks like to say. Mr. Indi cut you down with two strikes. You should be ashamed!”

  “No way, not by him.” Kjeld seemed to think it was a joke of some sort.

  “Another dimwit!” Jones cried out, exasperated. “Listen you dense prick, you died! A lamb to the slaughter, no competition, not even a threat. Mr. Indi here deserves better! I deserve better! Now pick up your scythe and impress me!”

  Kjeld studied Indiwongga while walking to where his scythe lay, stepping over the puddle of his own making as he went. “Indi,” Jones hissed. “Don’t make me punish you. We know you’re a force to be reckoned with but if you dispatch this big dope without providing the entertainment I so desperately deserve then you will leave me no choice”

  Indiwongga, recognizing the threat, bowed.

  “Jolly good. Now gents, let’s try this again shall we?”

  Kjeld readied, baring his teeth and growling, flexing every muscle of his incredible physique. Indiwongga crouched, stomped, and let out one short grunt.

  “That’s more like it!” Jones cried, his excitement rekindled. “Now, kill or be killed! Kill for the Master! Kill! Kill! Kill!”

  Bobby was glad he’d never have to hear that stupid catchphrase again.

  Kjeld learned from his last mistake and approached Indiwongga slowly, his scythe at the ready.

  Indiwongga waited, his eyes tracking every step. Kjeld struck. Indiwongga blocked the mighty blow with ease. Kjeld struck again and again, high then low. Indiwongga parried each one. Kjeld tried again, high, high, low then high. Indiwongga was faster, wielding his scythe as if born with it in his hand, he blocked every one.

  Kjeld lunged. Indi sidestepped, swiped and sliced Kjeld’s from shoulder to hip as he stumbled passed. Knees bent, feet pounding, Indiwongga grunted and spun in a tight circle, giving the Dane time to recover. Kjeld’s muscles bulged, pushing through the torn skin that once covered them. He winced, teeth grinding, turned and advanced toward Indiwongga again, scythe out in front and level with the floor. He sprung and spun, whipping his blade around to catch Indiwongga from the side. Indiwongga swatted it aside and drove the butt of his staff into Kjeld’s gut. Kjeld folded and stumbled. Indiwongga whacked him on the ass the flat of his blade, sending him staggering across the stage. Roaring in frustration, the Dane turned and charged, his blade high, his midsection exposed.

  Dumb ass!

  Indiwongga crouched, adjusted his grip and waited.

  Kjeld swung, driving his blade toward the Aboriginal with enough force to cleave him in two. Indiwongga stepped aside a moment before it did and Kjeld’s blade struck the floor with a reverberating clatter. Indiwongga opened the reeling Dane’s side with one short, seemingly effortless swipe. Kjeld howled, stumbling like a drunk before regaining his balance and turning to face his opponent once again. The cold confidence that once lived in his eyes was gone, evicted by fear and resignation. The best he could hope for was to die well enough to avoid any last-minute interference or retribution for failing to do just that. He charged, swinging wildly. Indiwongga ducked beneath the blow, rose and sliced him across one arm, cleaving him to the bone above the elbow. Kjeld’s right arm dangled, the muscles and nerves needed to control it severed. Holding his scythe by the very end of its long handle, he spun like the windmills his nation are so famous for, desperate to land a blow. It was pointless. Indiwongga crouched and lashed out
, severing both of the Dane’s feet just above his thick ankles. Kjeld roared and crashed to his knees, somehow still holding on to his weapon and his will to fight. With only one limb intact, he continued to fight, swiping weakly at Indiwongga as he circled ominously, searching for the perfect strike. He found it and struck, amputating Kjeld’s intact arm with surgical precision.

  Floundering on the gore slicked stage, The Dane refused to surrender. Pushing himself with feet that weren’t there, reaching out with an arm that couldn’t, Kjeld squirmed toward Indiwongga, snapping and seething like a rabid dog.

  Jones hooted and skipped, thrilled with the Dane’s efforts, intoxicated by his resolve.

  Indiwongga waited, his eyes on Jones but the fiend was too busy enjoying Kjeld’s suffering to notice. Indiwongga struck, taking Kjeld’s already damaged arm off just below the shoulder.

  Kjeld roared.

  This is nasty!

  Kjeld’s legs, what was left of them, still sought purchase to propel his whittled body toward Indiwongga but slowly, his strength fading as his blood pumped from the stumps. Poised to strike, Indiwongga’s eyes tracked Jones instead of the decimated man at his feet, waiting for the order to kill.

  “Wonderful effort Mr. Kjeld! Damn brave and damn impressive!”

  Kjeld spat at the madman, the bloody glob barely cleared his lips, catching in his beard where it hung like a bad Christmas ornament.

  “Oh my word,” Jones cried, impressed by the Dane’s fortitude. “You are quite the tough son of a bitch of course I mean no disrespect to your mother, I’m sure she’s lovely. Pity to see you on the wrong side of Mr. Indi.”

  Kjeld lay staring up at Jones, he had nothing left.

  “Go on Mr. Indi,” Jones gave the order.

  Kjeld closed his eyes and bowed his head, offering his executioner an easy target. Fearing Jones might change his mind, Indiwongga didn’t hesitate and swung, decapitating Kjeld, ending his final battle as he had the other three.

  “Good show Mr. Indi,” Jones golf clapped at the warrior. “Now go on down and join your fellow champions.”

  *

  The stage floor opened, a scorched fork bearer gathered Kjeld’s pieces while Jones gathered his composure. Once the stage was clear, Jones approached its edge, examining the five who’d survived. “So, I suppose you lot are expecting congratulations, perhaps a medal. Well, you’ll get none of that rot from me. What you will receive, what you have earned, is far greater than any prize or any reward ever before.”

  He stared at them, his eyes alight with infinite madness. They stared back, their own filled with the terror of anticipation.

  “You will serve the Master!” he roared so loud they winced.

  Jones didn’t notice. Arms wide, head back, he clearly thought he was gifting them with something brilliant, something beyond their ability to recognize. “You have earned your hoods boys and girls! You have earned the right to join the ranks of the greatest army any world has ever seen. Welcome Reapers to your new life! A life of endless possibilities, a life of worth, a life in which the chance to bring the glorious vision of our Master to fruition!”

  Bobby didn’t know how to react and judging by the silence, he wasn’t alone. Jones lowered his gaze. “I will assume you are all too awestruck to rejoice, but once you realize the magnitude of your accomplishment, please feel free to celebrate.”

  Bobby began to do so at once, screaming and jumping around as if he single-handedly won the Super Bowl. Ortero and Indiwongga began to cheer wildly. Haneef howled, it sounded more like insanity than revelry. Rachkovsky squeezed one nipple and rubbed herself.

  Whatever floats your boat, I guess.

  Jones joined the madness, skipping and flailing his arms, and whooping all the while.

  “Enough!” he boomed suddenly and spun to face them. “We still have a few more things to cover before you are truly ready to serve.”

  The five silenced at once, eager to be done with his madness. “Remember the rules!” Jones warned, his long finger wagging.

  “One, never remove your hood in the living world, never! They will see you. If you’re seen, the Master will not be happy.”

  They nodded.

  “Two, never let go of your scythe.”

  More nodding.

  “Three, never speak to the enemy. Kill them, torture them, do whatever you want to them but do not talk to them. Doing so will cause pain so unimaginable you will beg for the Flames and the Master’s tormentors. Four, never forgive. The Master will punish those who do.”

  “Five, never stay in the living world once the soul is claimed. I will tolerate no dilly dallying and no sightseeing. Any Reaper who overstays their welcome will be hunted and brought back here for just punished.”

  Bobby raised his hand.

  This is a bad idea.

  “A question from the rambling mind of Mr. Grant,” Jones announced and all eyes turned to Bobby. “Go on, this should prove interesting.”

  “What if they, the dead person, is revived, you know, brought back to life or whatever?”

  “Well now Mr. Grant, who had you been talking to?” Jones asked, eyebrows perked.

  “Murphy.”

  The guy’s already fucked.

  “Right, the Irishman, he carried a Reaper with him in life as I recall. And what did he tell you?”

  Bobby summarized the Irishman’s long-winded tale, “He said he drowned when he was young and when he did, he saw a Reaper kill an Angel but then he was being brought back to life. He said the Reaper stayed with him, he said it haunted him.”

  “Right you are, as was Mr. Murphy, and thank you for reminding me of that pesky little detail.” Jones grinned at Bobby, it gave him goosebumps. “If, on the rare occasion, a soul is returned to life while you are in their presence then you will be tethered to that person until they die again. It’s usually a short-lived affair, all you need to do is drive them mad and have them kill themselves, and you’ll be free in a jiff.”

  Bobby nodded but with a frown of confusion not lost on Jones. “And?” Jones sighed.

  “Murphy said it haunted him for like forty years or something like that.”

  “Unfortunately for Mr. Murphy, yes. His Reaper, a uniquely wretched fellow, wanted to have another go around in the living world. He loved to kill, loved it so much he disobeyed the Master’s rules to do so, poor chap. I don’t blame him really, there’s nothing quite like killing the living, but we are here to serve the Master not to enjoy ourselves. That fellow paid dearly for his disobedience, still is mind you.”

  Bobby nodded.

  “Suicide, that’s the ticket if you’re stuck. Suicide. The enemy will let you have the recruit if they off themselves, the easiest recruit is a suicide, understood?”

  They nodded again, afraid not to, regardless if they understood or not, most didn’t.

  “Very good. As is the tradition, I will send each of you off on your first assignment. It shouldn’t take long, we will wait here together until your scythe signals you. When it does, I will reveal what is required to summon the void. Each is different, a secret password of sorts, and none will evoke the portal unless spoken in your voice to your scythe.” His last lesson complete, Jones pulled his hood over his head, veiling his face in shadow, and said no more.

  11.

  They waited. Nobody spoke. The tension and the fear was so thick Bobby could taste it, bitter and hot, like the piss of a tomcat in heat.

  Indiwongga was first. “Mr. Jones,” he called out, his usually solid voice fragile.

  “Come,” Jones beckoned him to where he waited on the stage. Once beside him, Jones ceremoniously pulled Indiwongga’s hood over his thick mop of black curls. Leaning close, his own hood kissing Indiwongga’s, the teacher gave his prize student his password. Stepping away, he watched as Indiwongga used it. After murmuring something only he could hear, he sliced the air, stepped into the swirling blackness it created, and disappeared as it sealed behind him.

  Ortero went ne
xt and Rachkovsky shortly after him, leaving only Bobby and Haneef to keep Jones company. Bobby turned to the girl. She glanced at him a moment later and shook her head, his attention unwanted. “Good luck,” Bobby whispered anyway.

  Her eyes went wide as a faint smile curled her full lips. Bobby smiled back, but it was a short-lived moment of happiness. His scythe shook in his hand as if possessed.

  Shit! I’m not ready for this! Shit! Fuck! Shit!

  “Come on Grant,” Jones called him.

  Bobby obeyed, he wasn’t about to misstep with the finish line in sight.

  Jones pulled Bobby’s hood up onto his head, it was heavy and itchy and hot but he didn’t care. Jones leaned in. Bobby had never seen him up close. He could have been handsome once but not anymore. His chiseled jawline, narrow nose and smooth brow were wrapped in paper white skin, his eyes encircled by bruises, his lips cracked and seeping.

  “You’re no prize either,” Jones growled.

  Shit. Sor…don’t say it. Don’t say sorry.

  “Don’t make me regret this Grant,” Jones warned in a cold whisper.

  “Sure, no problem.”

  “Doodie burglar,” Jones whispered.

  What did he say?

  “Doodie burglar,” Jones repeated slowly.

  “That’s my password?”

  Jones nodded, their hoods rubbed and rustled.

  “Seriously?”

  Jones growled.

  Bobby stepped back, held his scythe high and whispered, “Doodie burglar.”

  He swiped the air and a portal opened. Every shade of black swirled inside, an animated Daliesque rendering of nothingness.

  Bobby hesitated. Jones didn’t like it, “You can always stay here with me and…”

  Bobby stepped into the void.

  PART II

  A Loser and A Plan

  1.

  Silence quenched the chaos. The nothingness was everywhere, inside and out, and in it Bobby found peace and serenity like never before. It filled his body and mind with intoxicating tranquility but it didn’t last. Peace and serenity weren’t part of the deal. A portal opened before him. Fluorescent bulbs struggled to cast their light through the filth coated plastic that housed them and onto the chipped and stained blue linoleum floor at his feet. Bobby stepped into the living world, and into a shitty old folk’s home in Queens.