Death is a Ginger

To kick of the new year, here's a strange short story I've been working on. Enjoy!

                                                         DEATH IS A GINGER

   The man at the door is Death.

    At least, that’s what he says, but I haven’t had my coffee yet so don’t take my word for it.

   “You’re Death?” I say, squinting at him and blinking the sleep out of my eyes.

    “Yes,” he says simply. “I am.” He doesn’t look like death to me. He’s got long ginger hair and large square glasses which look strangely geeky next to his dove gray suit. He’s also wearing a red tie and has a large leather briefcase in his hand.

  Oh well, I’ll play along. “Do I die this morning, then?”

  “What? No! I’m just here to renegotiate your terms and conditions.”

  “My terms and conditions.”

   “Of your death.” He says very seriously. “I was doing the paperwork for the reapers, you see, and I recognised your name from reincarnation and thought I’d take a look, just too make sure things were in order.”

   “And?”

   “Well… I believe you added some terms to your contract regarding your next – I mean, this life’s death.”

  Okay, this has gone on long enough. “This life? Listen man, I’m an atheist. I don’t believe in this crap. I mean, this is a good joke, but can we cut it out now? And who put you up to this? Allan? It was probably Allan.”

   Death sighs patiently. “It wasn’t Allan. Now really, James, I may be reduced to paperwork these days, but I am incredibly busy. People are dying every second and filling out the forms, working out the terms and constantly updating the safety regulations takes a lot of time. So, may I come in? I’d like to get this done quickly.” He glances at his watch, a large flashy thing on a thick black wrist band, and steps neatly through my door.

  “Right.” I say, very aware that I’m wearing only a grimy bathrobe and boxers and that a very well-dressed man who is claims to be Death has let himself into my very run-down apartment. I look at the clock; it’s not even eight yet. “Do I have time to make coffee?”

  “Yes, of course. Nothing like a bit of caffeine to help you make important decisions. And while you’re at it, why don’t you put on some pants?”

  “Right. Pants.” I should definitely put on some pants. "Just go um - into the kitchen?" 

    Death smiles and I run off to find my pyjama bottoms. 

   And now, Death (because I’m just trying to take this in a stride here) is sitting at my dining room table, looking at the pile of crusty dishes sitting in my sink. I make some instant coffee and pass Death a cup. 

  “Now, let’s get down to business,” Says Death, sipping his coffee. “You see, the edit to your contract is physically impossible to fulfil and so we’ve got to make you a new contract. And this error is technically our mistake, because we didn’t review your terms directly before your rebirth, so you’ve got special privileges in this case.” He takes a sheet of paper from his brief case. “This is the page you added the terms too.” He taps the last line on the page.

  The deceased, Alexander Evens, soon to be reborn as James Dylan, will die in a car accident will die in his mansion surrounded by enormous piles of money and beautiful women.

   I look up. “Sounds like a sweet way to go.”

   Death sighs. “James, you can’t die this way. You do not live in a mansion nor do you do not have enormous piles of money. Deaths this specific rarely work because they rely on the choices of the living you. Unfortunately,” Death glances around my apartment. “You haven’t made the choices that could have led to this particular death. Normally, we would just alter your cause of death to something more general, but as this lapse was caused by my own inattention… well the rules state that you may choose your own cause of death. Not the date, mind you, just the cause.”

  “What?”

  “We have several packages you can choose if you don’t have a specific one in mind. The general package is a death without pain, such as dying in your sleep, but unfortunate deaths are also available.”

  “What?”

  “Your death, James, select your cause of death.”

   “Select my cause of - the cause of my - you know what? No.”

   “No?”

   “I mean, this? This is ludicrous. You’re not Death, you're just some guy who needs help or you’re a prank my friends pulled or – or, I don’t know, but you’re not Death. Death isn’t a person.”

   The man who is not Death stands up, his expression dark. “Well, then, I’ll just have the Fates postpone your death date. Generally, I wouldn't be so bold, but just this once I'll call in a favour.” He pulls a business card from his suits breast pocket. “When you are ready to discuss your death, you may call or email me using the information provided here. And since this contract is null and void, we won’t be needing it any more.” He picks up the botched contract and tears it in half. Then he tosses the pieces into his briefcase and slams it shut, knocking his coffee onto the floor. 

   “And since I am not real, James, I won’t be seeing you again.” He smiles grimly. "Not for a long, long time, any way."

   The he leaves, slamming the door shut behind him.

   My apartment is very quiet in his wake. I pick up the business card; it's very crisp and looks a little too clean.

   DEATH, 

   OPEN UNTIL THE APOCALYPSE. 

   FOR MORE INFORMATION CALL, 1(709)XXX-XXX 

   OR EMAIL DEATH@AFTERLIFE.COM

  I toss it under the fridge, so it's out of my sight, though not completely gone. The coffee on the ground is spreading slowly over the linoleum. I've got to clean that up. But I can't move yet.

   First, I've got to convince myself that this hasn’t frightened me at all.