I've been working what I call the graveyard shift for at least a couple dozen years. I've lost count. But [even?] a dozen years is a long time to spend collecting the souls of the dead. I'm a grim reaper and I work the "stupid accident" beat. And yeah, it is as bad as it sounds.
"Soup's on."
If the bimbos weren't still in shock, they probably would've jumped out of the socks they weren't wearing (they weren't wearing anything for that matter). The five of them were standing around the hot tub staring at their own dead bodies. They certainly wouldn't have expected a man dressed in black leather pants, a black silk shirt, a thin, black leather tie, and a black leather jacket.
Okay, I admit that it isn't the coolest thing to be wearing. Nor is it all that fashionable, but it was the shit back in the eighties when I started this gig. And don't look at me like that. Things were like that then, remember the country made Reagan president. Besides they wouldn't let me wear a robe and carry that thing with the funny blade on the end; they said it freaked out the dead people.
Yeah, like being dead didn't freak 'em out already.
Anyway, the five were standing around the hot tub staring at themselves and wondering what happened. Like the cord leading to the space heater that was with the bodies in the hot tub wasn't a dead give away. I swear that Miss Clairol is the second leading cause of acquired stupidity behind the Fox News Channel.
"Let's go girls. Eternity awaits, but the grim reaper don't. I have an appointment with a bunge* [it's either bungie or bungee] jumper."
"We're...we're...we're...?" started the only natural blonde of the lot if her bush was to be believed.
"..scheduled for harp lessons. Let's get a move on it."
"But I was about to come," said this one buxom looking thing that could've been a jet liner with that black box.
I sighed, This one was going to be a tough one.
"Listen, you five are dead. Soon your hubbies will be home and find out that you went lezzie because the fingers in your snatches aren't yours. And while we stand here and watch you not go anywhere, because if I may remind you, you are dead, I have a 'dude' wandering around wondering why his mountain dew is going right through him. Let's get a move on."
The boxom one started to cry.
"But I was about to cum."
One of the brighter ones (even the Stooges had Moe) looked at me. She smiled that smile of someone about to play Monty Hall.
"Can we just finish up here?"
I sighed and nodded my head. The good thing about most bunge* jumpers is that they had to spend a while looking at their brains going "whoa" a lot (this is also the bad thing about bange* jumpers). I guessed I had a little time.
"Just get into a daisy chain and get a move on it. I haven't got all day, just because I'm dead you know."
The five sexy house wives got into a pentagon and began to lick at a box [you mean the next box to them? a little unclear]. I sat down and saw a copy of "Outdoor Life." Seeing this as a chance to catch up on being bored, I started to read an article on making the perfect jig for catching medium mouth bass.
"Oh, Mr. Death."
The smart one (like I said, Moe) had to say it a second time before I realized that she was talking to me. I looked at her.
"What?" I didn't see need to correct her about the name.
"Could you may be give us a hand here. We can make it worth your while. Maybe even enough to have you do us another little favor."
I stared at her for a moment. This made either the sixth or sixth through tenth time today that some dame had tried this on me. It gets old, and there isn't anything that I could do anyway. At first, I tried to explain that. Then I would get mean and say something like "this ain't no traffic ticket, you whore." Now I just say....
"Sorry, I'm as queer as a three dollar bill."
That worked again and soon the five were done and dropped off. It was a good day. The bunge* jumper was still standing above his body on the rocks, staring at his brains, going, "Whoa, dude, look at that.
© 2003 Kenny N Gamera