There was a moment of silence. Jumbo stared out from behind his saucer, his eyes bouncing back and forth between Death and me. I half expected my seat to burst into flame as it dragged me to Hell. The optimist in me hoped he’d at least warn me first. Death took the cup to his hood hole and tipped it until he’d finished the coffee. He pushed his chair out, stood up and hovered over me. His shadow alone cooled the air around me.
“Buck,” he declared ominously. “Stand up.”
I winced, then moved to my feet. Death reached out his arm…and extended his hand.
“We expect a lot out of you, Buck,” Death cautioned. “Welcome to the team.”
My eyes welled up. I shook it off because, well, I’m tough, and macho, and coolheaded. I reached out to grab his hand, but Death quickly withdrew.
“Ah,” Death laughed. “I’m joking. You can’t shake my hand, man. It’ll kill you. Jumbo.” Death turned to Jumbo with a chuckle, to which Jumbo joined in. “You sure about this guy? He almost let me kill ‘im.”
“Test failed,” Jumbo snorted. Death patted his leg while Jumbo held his stomach. “Buck, man, you almost went from six figures to six feet under.” Jumbo’s laugh volume increased.
I stood there in the dining room, shoulders slumped, waiting for the rabid monkeys to stop their comedy act. Ten minutes and thirty bad jokes later, it finally ended. When they were done, Jumbo gave me a packet complete with ectoplasm training, occult studies, and yearly expectations. The pair jabbed and jested between it all, but I just took it. With all that I’ve endured, I was used to it, plus the joy of not burning in Hell really softened each blow. By the time they left, I had to hurry to get Luna.
Beth’s condo was in Logan Square. I swaggered uncontrollably as I walked to pick Luna up, drunk with new job high. I could see from the door’s window that Luna and Beth were playing violins in tandem. Beth strummed her professional instrument while Luna played with a toy one that must have been a surprise. I played the voyeur and ogled the pair, all Ebenezer Scrooge about life post-Christmas Spirits.
Sure, I was a hitman working for the Grim Reaper, but a part of me felt normal again. I’d been given a second chance, and I was going to try and make my life as fulfilling as possible this time around. No more blaming my past or locking myself up in a cell of self-doubt. I didn’t care how I came to be anymore. I was just happy that I was. So, as sentiment and promise made my heart patter, I lifted my knuckles and rapped on the door.
Later that evening, I’d find myself at Gamer’s Pair-of-Dice. I made nice with Darren, which earned Luna an official store t-shirt. Luna wore it while eating her healthy cheeseburger dinner at my side at the role-playing table. No one asked about Freddy; as much as it guilted me, I didn’t press the matter. Together with Nicolai’s barbarian, Karen’s cleric, Atari’s rogue, Beth’s bard, and the mighty wizard, Sarsicus, we stopped Nolan’s undead onslaught known as the Mere of Deadmen. For some reason, slaying vampires, zombies, and other undead should have bothered me, but it didn’t. No, I was far too busy having fun with friends and family to look back or too far into the future.
There you have it—story over. It’s a dime store novel, really. I’m Buchanan Palasinski, but you can call me Buck. I’m a foster dad, war veteran, tabletop gamer…
Oh yeah, and Death’s hitman.
Epilogue
“Don’t you just love the smell of fresh cookies?” Azazel slipped on a pair of oven mitts with prints of Nicholas Cage’s heads on his hands. He opened the stove’s mouth. Smoke rose. “I’m still getting use to Canadian temperatures. It’s Celsius, right? I can never get it right.”
The bald man in the chair blinked his eyes, breathing hard through his nose.
Azazel removed the tray of blackened cookies. “Oh look, some in the middle survived. Those will be mine.” One by one, he exchanged cookies from their tray to a wax papered plate using a spatula. The bald man’s eyes wandered between the kitchen’s chartreuse countertops, mushroom shaped spice jars, and red checkered curtains. An antique radio played accordion in the background. His blindfold had just slipped from his eyes, and he needed to work fast. He spotted a backdoor. The bald man wiggled his hands and legs in an attempt to soften his bindings. Unfortunately, while pressing to free himself, the wood chair he’d been taped to scraped the kitchen floor.
“Gethin.” Azazel removed his baker’s smock, revealing a Black Sabbath t-shirt. “You’re not trying to escape, are you? You just got here.” Azazel sauntered to the microwave and removed a roll of duct tape resting atop. He did a little walk-dance to the polka music and stretched the silver adhesive from its reel. Azazel applied tape generously to Gethin’s wrists and ankles. “Oh, Gethin. Believe me, buddy, I get it. All you want is to be left alone, but no one cuts you any slack. This is your second time being captured, isn’t it?”
Gethin blew air from his nose.
“Yikes, two times in a row. It must be very frustrating. However, until you tell us how to open up that gate, I just can’t let you go.” Azazel stepped back and took a look at his work. Gethin was nearly all silver now. “That should keep you.”
A crash in the sitting room followed by random swearing perked Azazel’s ears. He looked to Gethin and forced a smile. Seconds later, Azazel’s twin walked in the kitchen. The pair were nearly identical except that Azazel’s double wore his hair slicked back and donned a salmon dress shirt complete with matching skinny tie. The suited twin had three scorch marks across his smoking shirt.
“Armen.” Azazel put the tape back on the microwave. “How’s the thing with the thing going?”
Armen took a cookie from the plate and bit in. He spit the treat back out. “Azazel, gross, these are burnt.”
Azazel’s jaw tightened. There was a moment of exchanged glances, as if a wordless discussion was being had. Azazel spun around with a wide smile of a serial killer.
“Sorry, friend.” Azazel clapped to Gethin. “It looks like I’m going to have make another batch. Don’t worry, we’ll feed you eventually. Now, as I was saying, what’re your thoughts on telling us how to open the gate? We just can’t seem to get the dang key to work.”
Armen tucked the tails of his shirt into his dress pants, kneeled down to Gethin’s level, and frowned. “Now, Gethin,” he needled slowly. “I don’t know what my brother told you, but if you don’t inform us how to open up said portal, we’re going to have to give you over to Satan. Now I don’t want to, and I’m sure you don’t want to go back to him, especially after your nasty breakup, so let’s just work together. What do you say, buddy?”
Gethin gave a muffled curse.
“I’m hoping you’re saying so true,” Armen deadpanned. “Though I highly doubt it.”
Just then the screech of tires shrilled from the backyard driveway. A glossy black sports bike pulled up with a rider in a sleek helmet and tight leathers in front of the canary garage. The ternion of devils stared out the kitchen window. A curvy figure removed her helmet, letting a curtain of lavender hair air out. She had dimpled cheeks, sun freckles along her nose, and puffy lips curled in a lazy smile.
Armen shook his head. “Damn succubus,” he chastised before leaving for the sitting room.
The backdoor Gethin had been eyeing opened up and the succubus entered.
“Hey, Sasha.” Azazel straightened out the fifteen bags of chocolate chips on the counter. “Did you bring back vanilla extract?”
Sasha shoved a tiny paper bag into Azazel’s chest, drawing a pained cough.
“Oh no,” he exclaimed in a pitch two octanes higher. “This is Madagascar Vanilla. I wanted Mexican Vanilla.” Sasha wound up her fist. “No, no, Madagascar is fine. Rich and creamy.”
Armen used a sponge to scrub his scorched shirt marks. “How’d your little trip go? Find your sweetheart?” Sasha cracked her knuckles. “Ah, ah, not me darling. Back it up.”
Sasha shook her head before biting the tips of her leather gloves, undressing her hands one at a time. When her fingers were free, she
drew a kitchen stool under the island in front of Gethin. Sasha perched on top, tucking a perfect strand of temple hair behind her rounded ear.
Azazel caught his breath. “Still no progress.”
“Gethin,” Sasha pled in a voice sweet as apple pie. “It’s only a matter of time before we find Thomas. Once we do,” she said, voice soothing, “we’re going to pick him apart like kids with a bug.” Gethin narrowed his eyes. “Now, let’s go over this again. We have your ex’s pitchfork. We have a fairy army and soon Dothur will return with Death’s scythe. All we need is for you to tell us how to use Satan’s little farming tool and we can leave you alone. It’s the trilogy we want, not a lovestruck angel. Help us help you.”
Gethin rolled his eyes, then pointed to his right hand with his Mirren nose. Sasha looked down at his taped hand and noticed he was giving her the finger.
“Why couldn’t I be an Incubus?” Sasha looked up at the ceiling. “This would all be over.” She adjusted her weight. “Okay then, Gethin, how about you tell us where Nedonius is?” Gethin stayed quiet.
Azazel measured vanilla extract in a wood measuring spoon. “Think Dothur will be able to break him?”
Armen reentered the room with Satan’s pitchfork. He held it to the kitchen light as if there were a secret button. The over-the-top trident looked ridiculous in the business-devil’s hands. It had an iron handle charred black with silver sequins stippled up the stem. The neck of the pitchfork had been decorated in boa of flamingo feathers, and the crimson pointed tips were shaped like barbed hearts.
“Think Dothur will know how to work this, too?” Armen canvassed the room. “Say, where is that guy anyhow?”
The greying tailor stretched measuring tape along a pair of strapping arms. He marked the strip’s number with his thumb before stepping to a small table in order to scribble details on paper. The tailor’s handsome customer kept his hand stretched as he balanced himself on a stool in front of a half circle of mirrors. His raven hair was sculpted into a sheen pompadour that crowed over his strong brow. He smiled at his reflection, causing his chiseled jaw to tauten along his cleft chin. The tailor snuck a peak from behind his station, licking his lips.
The bell from the contemporary store’s entrance called. The tailor pushed his blue framed glasses to the bridge of his nose.
“That’s peculiar,” he propounded with Parisian accent. “I locked the door.”
The man on the stool winked. “Better check it out. I wouldn’t want you losing a customer over little old me.”
The tailor smiled, straightened out his trendy vest and pants, then ambled through the white walls of what looked more like a spaceship than clothing store. He pushed the swinging door with a gold octopus emblem on its face.
“Going shopping, Danny Boy?” A raspy man’s voice grated from a nearby suit wrack. The gaunt figure shuffled through sets of million-dollar suits. His epicene face had a mane of green spiraled hair and yellow cat’s eyes. He wore a red Napoleonic soldier’s suit with silver high heels.
“Dothur,” The man on the stool kept locked on his own reflection. “How are my idiots doing?”
“Don’t know.” The Mad Knight wrenched his shoulders. “I came here first.”
The man on the stool’s lips unfolded into a dapper smile. “How’s Canada treating you?”
“Not nearly as fun as the States. Too bad about the orange fat man by the way.”
“No worries. His offspring aren’t going anywhere. They’re twice as awful.”
“The trio of fools have been toying with your pitchfork ever since I gave it over. They feel as if they’re on the cusp of understanding it.”
“Ha, that’s fun. You said they had Gethin?”
“Aye, they did that while I was away.”
“Resourceful.”
“The twins couldn’t pour piss out of a boot if there were instructions on the heel.” The Mad Knight held a blouse to his chest. “The succubus is a clever lass. She may be persuaded to help you.”
“What about you?”
“Me?” The Mad Knight pressed his spidery fingers to his chest. “Body by Fisher, brains by Mattel.”
“It’s not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant, laddie.”
“And?”
The Mad Knight gave his hundred-toothed smile. “Better the Devil you know than the devil you don’t.”
“Well said.”
The Mad Knight limped closer to the set of half mirrors and leaned on one.
“What happened to you?” The handsome man asked.
“Love bite. I’ll be fine.” The Mad Knight winced as he massaged his knee. “Anyhow, Queen Aveline has her forces in Chicago. All I need is to give the word and they’ll strike.”
“How can I trust you, Dothur? I trusted your mother once, and it didn’t turn out well for me.”
“Sounds like you had quite the happy ending,” The Mad Knight said plainly. The man on the stool dropped his arms, fixing an unamused expression onto The Mad Knight through the mirror. Dothur nodded. “Truth is, I can’t even trust myself.”
“True chaos.”
“Yes.”
“You know what they say about gambling with the devil?”
“No higher stakes. I’ll deliver, though. I just don’t want to share the bounty with an entire pantheon of morons.”
The man in the mirror puffed out his chest and winked at his reflection. “I’ll finally get one over on…” he paused. “Him.” The lights above flickered. The pair stared up until the electric returned to its perpetual state. There was a short intermission. The Mad Knight watched as the man in the mirror dressed himself in his custom-fit suit. “You did retrieve the scythe, yes?”
“About that.” The Mad Knight tucked his hands in his pocket and pushed up on his tippy- toes. “What if I told you that instead of just getting the scythe, I retrieved the weapon along with Death’s best personal agent?”
The handsome man turned to Dothur. “I’d say that’s fucking fantastic.”
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Acknowledgments
“I am here to create greatness, not in living legacy, but memories for thereafter... and then I must go.”
When I first started writing “A Dead End Job” in 2019, it was nothing more than an agglomeration of daydreams. The idea of a hard-boiled hitman working for a comical Grim Reaper burrowed a hole in my brain, so I put it down on paper and sent it out. The amazing Parliament House Press contracted the book (No, I’m legally obligated to say that — Why would think that?) and we hit the ground running with edits. However, life delivered a shot to the kisser during the book-butchering phase. I moved across the country, had my second child and then the pandemic hit. I discovered a bovarism in myself, and the world around me, that I didn’t like. I would always still be the dick-joke toting writer, but some very serious allegories weaved themselves into the story while I edited. I want to acknowledge those who helped me recognize these issues.
Thanks to Johnny “A Pair of Dice” Mecha. My best friend since second grade served in the 10th Mountain Infantry Division. His and his army buddies stories helped me not only flesh out crazy ideas like Buck’s nightly rocket attacks, but it also drew my attention to the way we treat soldiers after they’ve served. Veterans have some of the best, darkest sense of humors I’ve ever witnessed, but it’s sometimes a reaction to what they’ve suffered through. It’s time to stop throwing their treatment into the political blender and help them get any treatment they deserve.
Here’s to the fight against racial injustice. My Father was a Chicago born Latino in a time when it cost you your livelihood. He navigated a world unkind to minorities in order to get work, sacrificing his own pride in the process. He shouldn’t ha
ve, but he did it for us. Racism stultifies all progress. Let’s address it.
Finally, I wanted to acknowledge all the weirdos, nerds and grim humored readers out there who pick up my books. When I write, it’s so utterly selfish and yet, somehow, wholeheartedly forged for you. Once I type The End, the story is bequeathed to the reader. Thanks for the substantial support, and please drop me a message on my website if you ever have questions, comments or just feel like reaching out.
About the Author
Justin Alcala is a novelist, nerdologist and Speculative Literature Foundation Award Finalist. He’s the author of four novels including Consumed, (BLK Dog Publishing) The Devil in the Wide City (Solstice Publishing) Dim Fairy Tales (AllThingsThatMatterPress) and A Dead End Job (The Parliament House). His short stories have been featured in dozens of magazines and anthologies, including It Snows Here (Power Loss Anthology),The Offering (Rogue Planet Press Magazine) and The Lantern Quietly Screams (Castabout Literature). When he’s not burning out his retinas in front of a computer, Justin is a tabletop gamer, blogger, folklore enthusiast and time traveler. He is an avid quester of anything righteous, from fighting dragons to acquiring magical breakfast eggs from the impregnable grocery fortress.
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