A Tale Of Two Reapers

by Jack Wallen

  From my usual spot, I watched Johnny devour the pizza like it was his last meal.

  That thought made me chuckle…sadly, of course.

  Johnzilla shoved the final bite into his gullet, gave Louis a nod, and forced his way through the crowd to leave.

  Show time.

  “Tomorrow, Louis,” I shouted.

  “Tomorrow,” Louis replied.

  Johnny stood on the sidewalk, trying in vain to light his last cigarette. I felt bad for the guy…bad enough that I pulled out my Zippo and offered him a flame. Without a word of thanks, Johnny sucked the cig to life and exhaled a lungful of smoke.

  I always loved a good foreshadowing.

  To get past this man’s fleshy defenses, I’d need a lengthy run up. A quick calculation had me racing across the street. In this instance, timing would have to be perfect. I couldn’t chance dashing through someone with an unblackened aura. Who knew what catastrophe might befall humanity should that occur? The taking of a soul before the Universe was ready to give it up had happened before. Those of us in the know called it 2016. The year Ziggy rose to the heavens through a deluge of purple rain.

  I waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  The sea of humans finally parted and I sprinted off to reach terminal velocity before crashing into a wall of man.

  Johnny’s aura tasted of sour milk and salt. I wasn’t completely sure if I’d be able to hold the putrescent stench in my lungs long enough for him to expire. Knowing Johnny like I do—which isn’t really well, truth be told—he’d probably fight off the big sleep for one last meal. With my luck, he’d struggle to his knees, stumble to the nearest dirty-water hot dog vendor, order a dozen, and dine al fresco as his heart chugged to a stop.

  The smell of Johnny and the taste of greasy lunch lashed out against my gag reflex, causing me to inadvertently belch out a puff of black smoke. The contrail of aura snaked its way through the air back toward its rightful owner. I had to, at all costs, stop the writhing blackness from returning to Johnny.

  I grabbed the nearest trash can—one that wasn’t chained to the sidewalk—and slammed it into Johnny’s meaty spinal column. The man dropped, face planting into cement. I hopped onto the prone Johnny, spun on my heels, and sucked the aura back into my burning lungs just in time.

  As the large man expired, I made as graceful an exit as a New York Reaper could.

  I should so start a gang.

  Out of nowhere, the mournful refrain of a cello greeted my ears. I instantly recognized the melody as Gabriel’s Oboe, by Ennio Morricone. I spun on my heels to see the sign for Juilliard. A lone female was seated behind her instrument on the steps leading to the entrance of the hallowed halls. The look on her face was beautifully tragic. She was lost in some otherworldly moment, seeing God smile down on her as she thanked him for his gift.

  Every so often, I happened upon instances like this when I was reminded how profoundly lonely existence could be. My eternal life had been a perfect parallel to any given piece of Hollywood garbage involving a vampire falling in love with a mortal. He lives only to watch his soul mate age to passing, all the while remaining ageless and angst-ridden. Sparkling and beatific. That was me—sans sparkle—and this music was the soundtrack to every life I’d ever lived.

  The glorious melody danced about the air, seducing all artistic hearts to come break. The cellist played with a perfectly timed vibrato and a tone to rival every master to have placed finger on fret. It was all I could do to keep myself from taking a knee and weeping out the totality of grief I’d walled up inside.

  Once I was able to pull myself from the spell of notes, I glanced around the area to see a gathered crowd, their auras a full color spectrum of life. There was nothing for me here. And yet…and yet, I remained.

  “God, that’s beautiful,” a sweet voice spoke over my shoulder.

  I so badly wanted to disappear. Between the Morricone and the words whispered into my ear, there was no guarantee I wouldn’t explode with an insufferable case of the existential feels.

  “I wish they’d do these impromptu recitals more often,” the woman continued.

  In my mind I pictured her the twin sister of Ashley Williams. She had the same kind of voice, one that laughed and spoke simultaneously. This, to me, was the sound of home and hope.

  “There’s actually a schedule posted on their website,” I said, unable to stop my big fat flapping mouth from getting involved.

  Before I could say another word, my dream Ashley wrapped both arms around my chest and pressed the side of her head into the middle of my back.

  Confusion rattled my brain. This sort of thing never happened to me. In fact, quite the opposite always managed to happen.

  And then it hit me. I knew how Fate worked. I’d turn around, take in the most beautiful smile ever to have existed…only to watch it vanish behind a veil of darkness. I’d done this too many times to fall for the malicious joke again. Instead of turning, I walked away.

  “Hey,” she-who-would-be-Ashley called out. “I didn’t even get to thank you!”

  Without looking, I tossed a half-hearted wave her way. It was a pathetic gesture that didn’t sit well with my conscience. But that was the way of my world. There was no room for finer things like love. Lust, on the other hand…

  What happened next was a clockwork movement that would forever play back in the theatre of my mind, majestically accompanied by Bach.

  I stopped. I turned. I saw.

  Black as coal was the gauzy veil. Never before in my drawn and quartered life had I witnessed anyone wear the fog of death with such beauty.

  “Fuck,” I whispered. “I don’t want to do this.”

  I really didn’t. Taking the life of one so effervescent seemed so undeniably wrong. Her smile begged a joy from those around them, could make the harshest nihilist overflow with the joyful noise of laughter. In the end, I had no choice. When you sign a contract with Fate, there’s no backing out, no Mulligans, no loophole big enough to leap through.

  Resigned to my fate, I approached faux Ashley Williams—God, she was beautiful—and did something I’d never dared do. With the sound of solo cello as my background, I wrapped my arms around the woman, pulled her to me, and kissed her as if I were absolutely certain tomorrow would never arrive. To my surprise, she reciprocated…her lush lips pressing into mine and her warm tongue venturing out to taste a bit of strange.

  The melody swelled, and I tightened my embrace just enough to pass through her nearly perfect body.

  Not-Ashley-Williams’ aura tasted like cupcake batter. I wanted to hold it in my lungs for the rest of my forever life, wanted to be able to tell the children I’d never had stories of how I met their mother on the steps of Juilliard. As her light slowly dimmed, tears welled and spilled from my eyes. As slowly as possible, I released the aura back into the universe so that it could be collected and recycled for the next iteration of she-who-could-be-Ashley-Williams.

  I wiped away the tears, hung my head, and took my leave.

  I hated my job.

  Chapter 3

  My head landed square in the center of a much-needed pillow. Sleep would come easy tonight. And dreams. Many glorious dreams of a grand seduction that would carry me well into forever.

  At least it would have, had my phone not blasted Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper”.

  What’d you expect? Shakira?

  A quick glance at the screen made me want to chuck the device across the room. Instead, like a complete idiot, I answered.

  “I’m not going out tonight, Jonesy.”

  “How’d you know it was me?”

  “I’m a sorcerer. How else would I be able to know the unknowable?”

  Jonesy laughed in that way only he could. “You’re a card, Grim.”

  “And you’re a dumbass, Jonesy. When was the last time you called this late in the day and I agreed to join you for a round of booze-fueled lechery?”

  “
I’ll take never for two hundred dollahs.”

  “Ding, ding, ding!” I sang.

  Another bout of laughter; this time Jonesy punched it to eleven.

  Jonesy was a special friend. That word—special—is many-layered. The guy was my only true pal. He was also mentally challenged…handicapped…fuck, I still don’t know the name of Joney’s malady, nor do I care to find out. You see, I treat Jonesy like he’s just a regular guy. I think that’s why he enjoys hanging out with me. I’m probably the only human who doesn’t behave around him as if he were a breakable ten-year-old, or the butt of every elementary school playground joke. To me, Jonesy was just Jonesy. For my benefit, he never asked questions. There was never any “What do you do for a living?”, “You married?”, “How’s your 401K?” We always skimmed just along the surface. We laughed, joked, stared at pretty women, got a little drunk, and went our separate ways.

  “All right,” I capitulated. “I’ll meet you in…”

  “I’m already there, chump,” Jonesy giggled.

  I hopped out of bed, propped my phone between shoulder and cheek, snatched my pants from the floor, and said, “On my way.”

  During my nighttime Jonesian escapades, I always gave myself a pass with the auras. Unofficially, I was off the clock. Officially, if Fate found out about my ruse, it would…to be honest, I had no idea what it would do. What I did know was that Fate had zero appreciation for me taking time off. According to Fate, I have one and only one job…reaping. A social life was not in the job description, and the punishment for such a waste of time was a level of retribution I would only tempt for Jonesy. Fate be damned. Fortunately, my interaction with Fate was infrequent. I was far too busy bending the time-space continuum in order to reap a planet full of souls. That’s right, Santa isn’t the only one with that level of trick up his sleeve.

  However, on the rare occasion that I did have cause to step into the NetherRealm, shit went downhill for me fast.

  “Hey, punk ass punk.” Jonesy pulled off his headphones and shouted as I strutted clownishly toward the table. I always like to start the night off by making the man laugh.

  “What are you listening to inside of a bar that’s playing bad music so loud you can’t hear yourself drink?” I asked.

  “The Butthole Surfers,” Jonesy said with a titter.

  “You listening to them because you like their music, or because you like to say their name?”

  Another explosion of awkward laughter. “Both.”

  I offered up a fist for Jonesy to bump. The nuances of normal living never failed to bring a glow to my friend’s cheeks and a twinkle to his eyes.

  I leaned in close and asked, “Whatcha drinking, Jones?”

  “Coke,” he answered with a wink. He always like to play it sly…like there was some secret sauce in his soda.

  “Dude, you’re hitting it hard tonight.” I always played along. Why wouldn’t I? “I’ll be right back with a refill.”

  I weaved my way through the thick crowd and leaned into the bar. By some miracle of wonder, the bartender immediately spotted me and nodded. “What’ll it be?”

  “Whatever IPA you’ve got on tap and a Coke for my buddy.” I pointed back to the table.

  I pulled out a wad of reaped cash and paid for the drinks. When I turned back to the table, my every muscle stiffened. Standing around Jonesy was a group of “bros”, clearly giving him a hard time. I hoisted the drinks over my head and rushed back to intervene.

  “Okay, guys, time for you to find another playground to piss on,” I said with as much bravado as I could muster.

  The leader of the gang looked my way and sneered. “What’s wrong, big guy, did we hurt your husband’s feelings?”

  Jonesy slammed a fist down and shouted, “Leave him alone, butthole.”

  The trio guffawed until their faces were beet red.

  I set the drinks down and focused all of my attention on the leader.

  “What are you grinning at, ass-monkey?” the lead douche barked.

  His aura was purest black. It looked like Fate had decided to throw me a bone for once. I quickly surveyed the area and concluded there was only one option. “Outside, you and me…now!”

  Bro number one grinned wide. “Nice. It’s been awhile since I’ve crushed another man’s skull.”

  Like a moron, the leader spun to make his exit. I took the opportunity to punch my way through him and inhale an aura that tasted of overcompensation and Polo cologne. I couldn’t take a chance on looking even slightly guilty, so I continued on as if nothing had happened. Once the crowd unleashed a wave of confusion and terror, I made my way around the perimeter of the room and doubled back to Jonesy, puffing the aura of disappointment into the air above me.

  It only took a moment for cries of help to ring out. As a small percentage of the bar went ape-shit, while I returned to the table to bond with the only bro who really mattered.

  “What happened?” Jonesy asked. “Did you give him what for?”

  “I sure did, my friend. I sure did.”

  “Oh, my gosh,” Jonesy shrieked.

  “Shit!” I cried out, instantly dropping into protection mode. “What is it?”

  “Look at that hottie in the short dress.” Jonesy couldn’t help but point. I grabbed his arm and gently lowered it. “Did you see her?”

  “I did, buddy. Best not to point in these kinds of situations.”

  “How else would I show you which pretty girl I’m talkin’ about, ya lunkhead?”

  “Describe her to me,” I said calmly.

  “She’s a girl.”

  I shook my head and grinned. Jonesy was dicking me around. He loved making me look stupid…and I was happy as hell to oblige the man.

  “What does she look like?” I urged.

  Jonesy blushed and hung his head with a laugh. These moments I would cherish for decades. With this special man, I enjoyed being a regular Joe for a change. Gone was the pretense of life and death; in its place was two dudes sharing drinks and laughs. When I looked at Jonesy, I didn’t see aura…I only saw friendship. On those rare occasions when I did intentionally gaze at his personal fog, what I saw never ceased to shock and confuse me. Jonesy’s aura was black as night, but woven throughout the fabric of his roiling shroud were twinkling lights…like stars in a wondrous galaxy. There was no explanation for his aura…it just was. I never questioned it and never acted on it. Should those miraculous stars ever fade, I’d lose what remained of my mind and fight Fate to the bitter end to leave this special guy intact.

  “She’s in a red dress that’s so tight…” Jonesy paused to think.

  “How tight is it?” I nudged.

  Jonesy blushed. “I can see her nippies poking through.”

  I raised my glass to him. We toasted to beautiful women and sucked down our respective beverages.

  A rare lull in conversation settled between us, during which Jonesy’s eyes grew wide as billiard balls.

  “What is it?” I asked, afraid he was about to choke or stroke out.

  “What are two handsome guys like you doing alone?” A voice, delicious as wine, rolled over my back and down my front. I spun on my seat to see the lady in red shifting her gaze between Jonesy and me.

  “I…I…like your dress,” Jonesy said before breaking down into gales of laughter.

  “I like your hoodie,” the strange and lovely woman replied before turning her attention back to me. “My name is Soni. I wanted to tell you how much I appreciate what you did for your friend. My brother is…”

  Soni fell silent.

  “…Was. Sorry.” It took her a moment to gather her wits. “My brother suffered from multiple sclerosis. People took every opportunity to torment him. Any time I see someone brave enough to—”

  I stopped Soni in her tracks. “It’s not bravery…it’s humanity. Besides, Jonesy’s my best friend; there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him.”

  Without warning, Soni leaned in and hugged me. Her scent was far more int
oxicating than the booze. A hint of vanilla and perspiration tickled my nose and aroused my libido like I was any given pimple-faced junior high schooler witnessing his first pair of boobs in the flesh…as it were.

  Soni then grabbed my hand, produced a pen out of seemingly thin air, and inked her number on my upturned palm. She then leaned in and whispered, “No three-day rule. I want to hear from you by tomorrow at the latest.”

  With a quick kiss to the cheek, Soni spun on her patent red heels, and snaked her body and legs back to her friend’s table.

  Jonesy squealed. “What did that pretty woman write on your hand?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh at Jonesy’s innocence. A small part of me wanted to school the man in the ways of barroom flirtation. At the same time, the disappointment that came with such things wasn’t something Jonesy needed in his life. Even so, I couldn’t lie to my best friend.

  I leaned in and shouted over the thub-tumping frat-boy music, “Her phone number.”

  “Why did she do that?”

  And there’s the rub.

  “So I could call her,” I answered.

  “For a date?” Jonesy’s reply caught me off guard.

  “How’d you know…”

  A devilish smile iced its way across Jonesy’s lips. “I know a thing or two, young man. Believe it or not, I’ve been on a date.”

  “Shut the front door!” I cried out.

  Jonesy glanced over to the bar entrance. “But it’s—”

  “A figure of speech,” I cut in.

  “Are you gonna call her?”

  And we have rub the second. Years ago, I’d taken dating out for a spin. A woman approached me at a bar very much like this one. We wound up closing down the joint chatting and laughing. After the staff finally sent us packing, we found ourselves walking through Central Park until the sun rose. She gave me her number, as well. I called it the next day and, to my surprise, she answered. That was the start of a spell-binding relationship that concluded with her at the end of a mugger’s gun barrel. It was the first time I’d witnessed an aura as bright and alive as hers fade to black within the span of a single heartbeat. I was helpless and broken. After that loss, I promised myself I’d never date again. Since that ill-fated moment, I realized courting romance was nothing more than playing Russian roulette with tragedy. Accepting a contract of eternal loneliness was one of the most challenging choices I’d ever made. It had to be done. There was not room enough for love in a Reaper’s life.