Death Sucks

by Andrew Mallen

  Jones nodded his thanks and continued, “Master was the first. Born from nothingness he became. After billions of eons he grew board and made his first and only mistake, he made another. God, Allah, Jehovah, Shangdi, Krishna, Vahiguru, Punjabi, To’Ev, SkyLord, the Great Spirit, he has so many different names it’s impossible to keep account and honestly, not worth the effort. I like to call him G–O–D, God. Why you ask?”

  “Why?” the entire group asked in unison.

  “Simple really. It stands for great old dope, good-for-nothing outdated dumbass, grossly offensive dick or genitalia of donkeys!” he roared wildly and with the flick of a finger forced everyone to join him.

  Bobby cackled like a lunatic.

  He didn’t lift that from the Bible, that’s for damn sure. Mad Magazine maybe, or Satan Weekly.

  *

  “Bullshit you declare Mr. Murphy?”

  “I didn’t say a word like,” a thin, wild-haired man cried out in a heavy Irish accent.

  “Now, now Mr. Murphy, don’t lie to me. Your mind is an open book and I an avid reader. Speak your doubts.”

  Murphy’s eyes darted in their sockets like rabid monkeys in a small cages, terrified and with good reason under Jones’s undivided attention. “Don’t make me ask twice or I’ll inflict upon you more pain than any of the men and women unlucky enough to visit that cellar of yours.”

  Murphy stared, pleading. Jones arched his eyebrows and raised one finger. It was all the motivation Murphy needed. “It’s just that your story is yours, you know. If, let’s say the priest told it, he’d be telling it different. He’d be calling your Master the fool and that kind of thing is all I was thinking sir…your honor.”

  Jones studied the Irishman who shuffled nervously under the glare. “Not very eloquent Mr. Murphy but you’ve made a valid point as I see it. To rephrase, for those who don’t speak donkey, Mr. Murphy is concerned that my version of the truth is tainted by my love and allegiance to the Master. Sound right?”

  “Tis yeah.”

  “I tell the tale as it was told to me. Yes, it is our Master’s story and yes, you may choose to see it as one-sided but to insinuate that the Master would corrupt it is a very bad idea to say the least. Our Master has no need for fallacy, his word is unimpeachable, his heart pure. Truth, he is truth! Our Master is as he always was. Never has he denied his truth. Never has he disguised, denied or condemned his true self. Our Master is truth! Truth is the Master!” Jones was roaring by the time he finished, the power of his sermon riled him into frenzy.

  Murphy stared wide-eyed, trembling in anticipation of the madman’s next move. Jones heaved, trying to calm himself with a breath he couldn’t take. “Tell me you understand.”

  “Oh I do, I do alright sir.”

  “Tell me!” Jones’s roared, shaking the room.

  “I understand.”

  “Make me believe it donkey!”

  “I understand!”

  “Don’t you dare raise your voice to me!”

  Jones flicked a finger and Murphy flew across the room, crashing into the back wall with a sickening wet crunch. Jones shook his head, returned his attention to his students and resumed the lesson.

  “Although the Irishman went about it wrong he did raise a valid point. I am telling a story about one I clearly hold in the highest regard assuming you already know the God’s version. His tale has been told a trillion ways; the Bible, the Sutra, the Kangyur, the Dongkak, the Principia Discordia, the Sruti, the Quran, the Torah, the Konkokyo Kyoton, I could go on and on and never reach the end of his vanity publishing’s.”

  Silence.

  Jones again shook his head, disappointment never failed to disappoint him. “Well, ladies and gents, my point is… you’ve all heard God’s side! You’ve all heard his lies and clearly rejected them or else you wouldn’t be here, would you?”

  Murphy moaned. Bobby knew the reason, the healing was far worse than the cause.

  “Something to say donkey?” Jones asked.

  Poor fucker.

  “Indeed Mr. Grant.”

  Shit.

  “Do you understand what I’m trying to sow in the infertile minds of these simpletons?” Jones eyes locked on Bobby.

  “Yes sir,” Bobby snapped quickly, hoping to stay on the creep’s good side, if he had one.

  “Perhaps if another idiot conveyed the message they’d better understand it.” Jones spoke smoothly, lulling Bobby into his trap.

  Bobby’s odds of avoiding further torture were slim. Not answering was a sure thing, trying and failing was at a long shot, a long shot he had to take. Raising his voice to fill the room, he began explaining the ramblings of a madman to the other madmen and madwomen surrounding him, “The Master is who he is. He doesn’t put up a front, he doesn’t talk shot. God is all about image, all about how people see him. The Master don’t give a fuck what people think, he walks his own walk, to his own beat and doesn’t give a flying fuck otherwise.”

  Bobby waited, fear opened his pores, offering them up to the robes insidious weave. He burned, silently,

  “Crude Mr. Grant, crude but, by the look of their faces, effective.”

  Jones paced back and forth, Bobby realized he was listening to their minds.

  “Oh that’s interesting.” -he spun and smiled at Bobby- “You will be thrilled to know that both Ms. Cinetti and Ms. Rachkovsky both got a little moist as you spoke. You’ve got yourself a little fan club Mr. Grant, bully for you.”

  Jones pointed like a schoolboy at the two women, making kissy faces and grabbing at the place where his manhood used to be. Murphy groaned again drawing Jones’s attention back to where he tried to haul himself off the floor.

  “Mr. Murphy did you hear our good Mr. Grant’s version of the truth?”

  The Irishman nodded slowly.

  “And do you now understand it?”

  Another nod.

  “Very good. Now shuffle back to your place so I may continue.”

  Murphy obeyed. As he limped passed Bobby he nodded his thanks. Bobby returned the gesture.

  “Camaraderie!” Jones cried having witnessed the exchange. “Excellent! Excellent indeed! We are on the same team. Although most of you were loners in the living world it would behoove all of you to get chummy which your fellows because, after all, you will be spending eternity together.”

  Silence.

  “Nod or something you assholes! Show a bit of manners.”

  Bobby nodded, others did as well.

  “Thank you, I was beginning to feel…unappreciated.”

  Jones stood in silence, thinking and listening, before starting again. “We’ve covered history. We’ve covered your responsibilities. We’ve covered the rules….”

  One hand was rose above the ranks, Jones stopped and stared. A small old man, as black as the robe that hung like a curtain from his narrow shoulders, held one hand high like a preschooler waiting for permission to go potty.

  “Mr. Ghede, or should I say Bokor Ghede, what can I do for you my baby sacrificing little friend?”

  “What tongue do we speak sir?” there was not a drop of fear in his voice.

  “Was I not clear on that point?” Jones mood changed in the blink of an eye.

  “No,” Ghede replied.

  “Brave of you Bokur but rest assured you are not under any protection here. No Loa watches over you, Bondye has left you to us.”

  Ghede shook his head, unfazed by the threat.

  “No, as in you are unaware you’ve been abandoned or you disagree?”

  “I understand this is my path sir, and I accept it.” Ghede said, bowed and smiled.

  “Oh goody.” Jones brightened immediately, his moods were as unpredictable as a bipolar schizophrenic. “You know you’re the first Voodoo Bokur I’ve encountered in life or in death. Such an interesting field, we’ll have a chat, you and I, I’d love to hear the logic behind all the bloodletting you’ve done in the name of Bondye.”

  Ghede smiled wide revealing a
full brace of perfect teeth.

  Jones returned it, his teeth were few and far between. “Now to restate what I’ve already said, this is a kindness for you Mr. Ghede because of your manners, we all now speak a language that no living creature has ever heard and thusly never received a proper name. If you must fix to it a title let’s just call it Hish.”

  “Hish?” Ghede repeated with a frown.

  “Hish, I don’t know, it’s just a name! Call it Blah if it pleases you, its inconsequential.”

  “Very good sir,” Ghede bowed again. “Thank you.”

  “You are very welcome my polite little friend.” Jones was obviously thrilled to have found someone in the group worthy of conversation. “Is there anything else I can clear up for you Mr. Ghede?”

  “If you don’t mind sir,” Ghede was taking full advantage of Jones’s attention, a risky endeavor. “The rules sir, I thought you said there were five but noted only four.”

  Jones brewed, everyone waited for an explosion of anger, a violent assault, a fit of laughter, anything and everything was possible.

  “If you would be so kind as to tell me what it is you already know Mr. Ghede.”

  Ghede replied quickly but there was a tremble in his voice, fear was creeping in to replace his cool confidence. “Number one was… is no F word.”

  Jones who nodded.

  “Number two, do not fail.”

  “More of a suggestion, free advice if you will.”

  “Number three is to claim the souls.”

  An emotionless stare.

  “Number four, do not talk to the enemy.”

  Same stare.

  Ghede began to twitch nervously. “Number five… I did not hear it sir. Please, punish me for the disrespect.”

  “Well, well, Mr. Ghede.” Jones studied the old man with mild surprise. “You are quite the enchanting fellow I must say. I humbly accept your generous offer.”

  Ghede relaxed, a smile of relief spread across his face but it only held for a moment before panic undid it, and him. Jones raised him high into the stifling air above the chamber with his finger and set him to spin, head over feet, at such a speed the old man was no more than a spinning blur. “Pay attention you lot, Mr. Ghede, our resident Voodoo priest, was an adept ass kisser but much like his religion, his respect was a fraud. True hate tickles me, fake admiration does not. Make a note or you’ll all end up a human centrifuge like our feeble friend up there. Now, did anyone else have questions in regards to the five…six rules?”

  Silence.

  “So you all know them.”

  Shit!

  Bobby heard only one before Jones decided to beat him off the floor like a wet mop, and spent the remainder of the lesson in a cocoon of excruciating pain as he healed.

  “True Mr. Grant, you were quite busy,” Jones turned toward him, Bobby flinched, Jones smiled. “Easy boy, I will be fair. You were busy as a result of my actions so therefore I cannot, in good conscience, hold you responsible.”

  “Thank you.” Bobby meant it, he was, but fear and the tension remained, he had no faith in Jones’s kindness.

  “One more time then, in no particular order, they carry the same weight. One, never forgive. Two, never release your weapon. Three, never speak to the enemy. Four, never stay in the living world longer than is required. Five, never remove your hood in the living world.”

  Forgive. Weapon. Enemy. Hurry. Hood. Forgive. Weapon. Enemy. Hurry. Hood. Forgive. Weapon. Enemy. Hurry. Hood.

  “Understood?”

  Silence.

  “Understood!” the word shook the room.

  “Yes,” echoed in a chorus of fear.

  “Very good. That about does it for this lesson I’m afraid. When next we meet we will take on the arduous task of learning the ins and outs of traveling to and from the living world as well as the art of combat using our beloved scythe.”

  He snapped his fingers and Ghede crashed in a heap on the hard floor. Jones smiled. “One last thing before you go my little spineless shite eaters. It is a tradition of my own device to name someone as ‘Pupil of the Day’ at the closure of each lesson and to reward him or her for their contribution with a prize of my choosing. This class made a very poor showing but I’m obliged to keep the tradition alive and so…drumroll please!”

  Everyone, with two finger of each hand, began drumming on the head in front of them, hard and fast. Jones roared in hysterics at his orchestrated scene. “The winner is… Mr. Grant!”

  Everyone stopped, turned to Bobby and applauded, Jones included.

  “Any words Mr. Grant?” Jones asked while pointing an invisible microphone at Bobby with his outstretched hand.

  “Umm…Uh….thank you?”

  “Bully Mr. Grant! Great show!” -Jones danced a wild dance- “You’re not out of the woods just yet my boy, you must decide upon a prize as there are two, each eager and readily available.”

  Bobby shrugged, nodded and prayed.

  “Behind door number one,” Jones spoke with all the overdone enthusiasm of an American talk show host while holding his invisible microphone to his smiling face. “The ravishing Ms. Cinetti. Take her, do what you wish, her mouth, her ass, her ear if that’s what puts wind in your sail, she’s all yours until our next class!”

  Bobby’s heart sank, the idiotic smile of pure enjoyment plastered on his face he kept in place.

  “And behind door number two, the sexy, the mysterious, the deadly Ms. Rachkovsky. Yes she’s got some hard miles on her but a few tricks that’ll curl your toes!”

  Bobby hopped up and down with the excitement he knew Jones expected, golf clapping rapidly as he did. Jones responded in kind, and with a grin of utter satisfaction. Running to Bobby’s side, draping one arm across his shoulders, he whispered loudly into the nonexistent microphone, “Well young man, tell us, which one is going to be lucky enough to ride the pupil of the day tonight?”

  Bobby played along. “It’s a tough decision Mr. Jones. The Russian chick is superhot and super sexy but she’s kinda scary.”

  “Very true Mr. Grant, but some people pay a lot of money for that kind of thing.”

  Jones wiggled his pinky, the audience laughed and clapped.

  “I gotta go with the young hottie!” Bobby cried, fist pumped, and jumped up and down like a rube who just won a brand-new double wide.

  Jones jumped alongside him, his invisible microphone still tucked under Bobby’s chin, “Tell us why.”

  “Young, wicked tits, great ass, the complete package Mr. Jones, the complete package!”

  “There you have it ladies and gents. Ms. Cinetti is going to get some tonight. Don’t worry Ms. Rachkovsky, as a consolation prize, we don’t want anyone going home disappointed, you get to come back to my place and see what I can do without a cock.”

  Rachkovsky lowered her head.

  Jones snapped his fingers, the doorways and the guards appeared in the back wall beckoning the recruits. The remaining seventeen, minus Ms. Rachkovsky, filed out of the chamber and into the endless hallways. Cinetti never looked at Bobby, he didn’t blame her. Her mind was no doubt as blown as his own. Rachkovsky was the one Bobby really felt sorry for, her Hell just got a lot worse.

  *

  “How was your first day y’all?” the guard asked over his shoulder without stopping.

  None of the four replied. “Answer me,” he hissed menacingly.

  “Good,” Bobby said quickly.

  “Quite the understatement Grant. From what I’ve heard you were the star pupil, even earned yourself a prize, a pink star or a chocolate starfish depending on your preference, if you catch my drift.”

  Cinetti did and dropped her head even lower.

  “Oh don’t fret now Ms. Cinetti., I’m sure Grant will take it easy on you. He seems like a good old boy, might even sweet talk you a bit before he gets down to business. Shit, you’re better off than that Russian chick, Jones will have her howling for mercy in no time. She’ll be lucky if she goes mad before he gets w
armed up.”

  There was admiration in his voice as he spoke of the Englishman’s abilities, and pride. Bobby shivered, even under the fiery sky and wrapped in a thick robe, the chills of revolt covered him with goose bumps.

  “Ooow, a spunky bitch you got here Grant, she’s fixing to choke you out before you even make an introduction.” The guard halted and turned to face them, shaking his head and wagging a long finger at Cinetti. “Now girl, I understand, I do, but ya see, you’ll do anything Grant here tells you to, that’s just the way it goes. Your mind will scream but your body, well, it’s going to obey, like it or not, it’s going to do anything that lucky son of a bitch wants.”

  Cinetti closed her eyes. The guard bent down close, his nose pressed against her as he whispered in her ear, “You will feel it girl, yes mam, every thrust, every slap, every pinch, everything. Umpf, good god damn! If I was him you’d come out of their limping girl, limping and shitting funny for a week.”

  Cinetti shuddered, her armor showing its first cracks.

  “What do you say Grant? You gonna ride boy?”

  “Yes sir!”

  Cinetti began to sob.

  “She’s already shaking son! Better get you two love birds to your nest before she goes and blows a load!” With that he turned and marched onward with a new spring in his step.

  Tennen, the Goth kid, was first to get dropped off. He peered through his jet black mane at Bobby as he crossed the threshold into his cell, his eyes were as dead and cold as an action figures. Dulvic was next, her departing glance burned with loathing. She turned once inside her cell and flipped Bobby the double bird.

  Making friends wherever I go.

  “Jealousy Grant, that’s all,” the guard said. “Keep up the good work boy and you’ll do alright, might even get yourself a sweet gig like this one.”

  “Thanks,” Bobby replied, suppressing his real thoughts behind a white wall.

  “Yep, gotta stick together you know, us naturals. We gotta watch each other’s backs.”

  The only thing Bobby wanted was to bury an axe in it but nodded instead.

  “I had you pegged wrong Grant, had you down as a pussy,” -the guard stopped and turned to face Bobby and Cinetti- “but I gotta admit I was wrong. Now you go on in there and do us proud boy. Get this bitch screaming real good and loud.”