Death Sucks

by Andrew Mallen

  “This is your weapon.” Jones raised his scythe high once again. “It is long and heavy, unbalanced and crude, but, make no mistake, deadly. You will learn to slice heads from shoulders, to impale, hack, cleave, dismember, disembowel, to… to…” -having worked himself into an orgasmic state, clinging to his scythe like a lover, he finished in more ways than one- “…to kill in the name of the Master!”

  Did he just…? Holy shit, he did, he nutted.

  Reclaiming his composure, Jones began teaching the fundamentals of combat using the scythe he so obviously adored. In painstaking detail he demonstrated every stance and position, every parry and guard, every strike and counter. Prowling the ranks, heralding the benefits of balance and nimble footwork, he hammered every foot he found out of place, leaving a trail of hobbled fighters in his wake. Diligently degrading those who faltered, he was an exceptional teacher, save his antics and cruelty, or perhaps because of them. Ignoring the pain every misstep insured, soaking up the knowledge behind each blow, Bobby learned fast and he learned well. To escape his afterlife, he first had to embrace it. He had to be deadlier and more ruthless than all those around him if he ever wanted to step foot in the living world again.

  Jones finished his instruction and returned to the stage. Standing in silent contemplation, listening to their thoughts, searching for any sign of weakness.

  “Good. Now as part of what comes next, I must first amend the rules of your existence. Don’t fret, I’m not about to Harry Potter you into a hedgehog or an eel, just a simple tweak that will allow you to quickly regrow any appendage you might misplace during the hands-on part of the lesson.”

  Oh shit.

  “You’ll never shit again Mr. Grant, save a fortune on toilet paper.”

  Shut up stupid.

  “Excuse me?” Jones growled.

  Oh shit. No, not you, me. I was telling myself to shut up.

  “Good advice, I’d listen if I were you Grant.”

  Bobby nodded. Jones shook his head and sneered as if Bobby was a lame horse he would soon have to put out of its misery.

  “Now, each of you must defeat at least two thirds of your classmates in combat to move beyond this point. Killing ten before falling five times will prove, not only your skill, but whether you possess the killer instinct required. Simple enough, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Only five will survive this test?” Ghede asked.

  “Yes.”

  “The others?” Ghede pushed.

  “Well old boy, if we let just any fool become a Reaper we’d be chocker block with fuck-wits, wouldn’t we?”

  Ghede nodded.

  “Chin up old man,” Jones cheered. “You might surprise the lot of us, I’ve seen some astounding feats from the most unlikely candidates.”

  Ghede nodded again, more in defeat than agreement.

  Aggravated by the old man’s apparent resignation, Jones sucked his teeth and wiggled his finger. “Fuck it, we have an odd number anyway.”

  Raising Ghede into the air, he thrust him across the room. Robes fluttered as he whizzed above the crowd, his own left behind by the force and speed of his propulsion. Ghede pulverized the stone, and himself, a man one moment and a stain the next. The floor opened, a single creature emerged and scurried to what remained. Hissing, he scraped what he could into a pile, scooped it into his arms and hurried back the way he came, dripping bits and pieces of the voodoo priest with every step. He disappeared into the Flames and the doorway sealed behind it.

  “Let’s be honest here shall we? He was an easy kill for just about every one of you and had already resigned to fail. Better to spare the time his failure would require, am I right?”

  Fourteen voices quickly confirmed his theory.

  “One more caveat, this one is by far my favorite, as I’m sure you will agree, you must fight naked, in the buff, the full Monty, your birthday suits if you will,” Jones announced, licking his lips

  You gotta be fucking kidding me!

  “Oh I never kid about that.”

  Bobby cringed but kept his mouth and his mind shut.

  Jones turned his attention toward Dulvic as she shook her head in protest, “Yes you will my dear.”

  She dropped her gaze under his. Jones turned, winking a devious wink at the mustached gaucho, “I agree Mr. Ortero, a little fatty but delicious.”

  Ew.

  “Quiet!” Jones commanded, bored by the unspoken chaos only he heard. “Too much chitchat people, shut your minds up before I do!”

  White wall. White wall. White wall.

  “Listen and listen well, or it may very well be the last thing you hear. I don’t want to hear your thoughts, your wretched pleading, your useless praying, or your incessant whining. It’s not real! Please make it stop! Help me Jesus! Allah save us! Blah, blah, fucking blah! It is real! I am real! It will never stop! Fuck Jesus and fuck Allah! Fuck them hard like they fucked you! You keep it up and I will take great pleasure in providing you with something far more pressing to contemplate. Do not test me. I have been patient and vastly more tolerant than perhaps I should have. No more. We have something to accomplish here and we will see it you through with professionalism and efficiency!” His words echoed like thunder.

  He waited. Listening.

  White wall. White wall. White fucking wall!

  “So…where were we?”

  “Naked,” Volte whispered.

  “Naked! Yes, of course!”

  A variety of startled cries erupted from the class as their robes abandoned them. Torn from their bodies, as if the by the hands of fourteen invisible rapists, the insidious garbs floated to hang in a circle above the stage. Jones looked on with delight as the class wrestled to cover themselves.

  “Ahh, the nervous little virgin, embarrassed are you love? Mortified?” Jones crouched to examine Haneef. “Of the lot, you should not be ashamed of your nakedness. Let’s have a look, shall we?”

  Haneef was sobbing, one arm failing miserably to corral her ample breasts, the other hand spread to conceal her unkempt crotch. “What about that lovely ass of yours?” Jones asked with a devious grin. “Van Holt and Kjeld look like they’re going to cum just looking at it.”

  Haneef cried and spun to deny them the view, unwittingly offering it to Jones instead. “My, my, my, so round, so smooth, and just the right shade of brown,” Jones whispered, his voice thick with desire. “Not as hairy as I’d imagined. I understand you lot tend to grow it thick, but that snatch is in serious need of a trim.”

  Haneef spun again, a rat in a cage surrounded by starving cats.

  “Oh, grow up!” Jones lost his patience with her humility. “Let’s all have a good look and be done with this nonsense.”

  Haneef rose above the crowd, her arms and legs spread wide, her hair twisted in a rope above her head so as not to impede the view. Spinning slowly on both axis, every inch of her nakedness exposed.

  “Lovely tits, not too big but more than a mouthful, and the bonus of never being fondled. The nipples are a little too dark for my taste I’m afraid, I like them pink but to each his own. A bit of a belly there dear but it's a good thing, a woman is supposed to be soft. Lovely hips, I could get a good grip on those. Gorgeous ass, nice and round, a bit of cottage cheese but that adds a little extra cushion for those who prefer a more vigorous pounding. Can’t see much of her snatch with all that bush but I’ll bet it’s as tight as a new drum. Good show Ms. Haneef, anything to add?”

  Only her sobbing answered.

  “You can come down when you stop the childishness. All adults here, well Mr. Tennen is one year shy, but he’s a virgin as well the poor chaps has an acorn for a cock!” Jones looked toward him, Tennen dropped his hands from his crotch to his sides, knowing Jones would if he didn’t. Jones grinned a wicked grin, left Haneef to spin, and strolled along the stage, examining the others.

  “Rachkovsky, been there, done that. Volte lovely. Dulvic, now, now, let’s see your goods or you’ll join Ms. Modesty.”

&nbs
p; The middle-aged woman let her massive breasts drop from the cradle of her crossed arms. Her eyes, steadied by hate, glared at the cause.

  “You’ve made a mess of yourself my dear but there’s an ass for every seat I suppose. I’m sure a few of these fools would love a ride on that enormous ass, even if it looks like you’ve been rolling around in gravel.”

  Dulvic pinched her eyes closed, the muscles of her jaw bulged beneath her jowls.

  Jones moved on. “Impressive Indiwongga, quite the dangler. Good shape, well done, Jantjies. Hernandez, Ortero, Kjeld, easy to see none of you are American. Oh, Mr. Shu, so sorry, rice dick is not a myth I see. Mr. Grant, not bad for a Yank. Murphy, a little manscaping is in order. Mr. Van Holt, you fat fuck, can you even see your cock over that gut?”

  Van Holt’s face darkened. “Beer belly,” he growled.

  “A lot of beer in prison is there?”

  Van Holt said nothing and dropped his eyes to study the floor.

  “Take a look around, ladies and gents, get an eyeful. For this lesson, these are your enemies. See them when they have nothing to hide, nakedness holds truth! You will all fight this way; there is something primal about it, something visceral. It takes a certain courage to stand and fight while your balls bounce or your titties flop about. Get comfortable, unless you win you’ll stay that way forever.”

  Bobby looked around as everyone examined each other. Most of the men eyed the women with nothing more than lustful curiosity. The women were smarter, studying each potential opponent equally and purposefully, gauging vulnerability rather than sexual compatibility. Bobby tried to do the same, tits and ass wouldn’t help him, weakness and opportunity would. Even as he pushed himself to remain on task, his eyes wandered up to Haneef. He pitied her misery while admiring her beauty and despised himself for both.

  “Ms. Haneef is ready to rejoin us,” Jones announced. “Is that correct?”

  “Yes,” Haneef replied, her voice weak but steady.

  “Very good!” Jones cried and lowered her slowly onto her feet. “Be a dear and do one final spin for us, arms wide. I need to be sure you’ve banished your bashful ways.”

  Haneef obeyed, chin up, her eyes searching every face. Tennen and Shu folded under her gaze, the rest did not. Bobby nodded to show his support. Haneef took no notice or didn’t care.

  “Very good my magic carpet princess. No more nonsense from you. That was your freebie, next time it’s off to the Flame. Understood?”

  “I understand. Thank you,” Haneef replied and bowed.

  Good girl.

  “So now that that’s out of the way let’s move on shall we?”

  8.

  Seven pairs of strangers, naked and bound only by their sins, stood ready to kill for the privilege of serving an unnamed Master.

  “One pair at a time, I don’t want to miss a moment of it. This is to the death ladies and gentlemen…”

  Shu’s hand shot up. Jones groaned, “Rice dick?”

  “Aren’t we already dead?” Shu asked, beaming with pride at being the first to notice the instructor’s error.

  “Thank you for paying attention Mr. Shu, and for volunteering to take part in our first fight of the evening!”

  Shu turned to his opponent. Haneef closed her eyes, as if the lids could hide her.

  “Come on down!” Jones cried and they floated up to meet him on stage. “As Mr. Shu pointed out, you are all dead so in order to claim victory you must behead your opponent. Nothing else will suffice I’m afraid. Hack, slash and disembowel all you wish but to win you must remove their head.”

  Lowering them about ten paces apart, smiling from ear to ear, eyes as hungry as a spoiled child’s on Christmas morning, he roared, “For the glory of the Master! Kill or be killed!”

  *

  Shu didn’t hesitate and sprinted toward Haneef, his scythe high, ready to cleave her in two. Haneef looked frozen, her dark eyes wide with fear. Shu struck, suspecting the small woman to stand and wait for his blade. She didn’t, deftly sidestepped as it fell, spun her scythe and buried the blade in his back as he stumbled passed. Crying out, more in surprise than pain, Shu collapsed to his hands and knees.

  Jones clapped like a madman, hooting and hollering while hopping from one foot to the other.

  Wrenching her blade free, Haneef spun in determined silence, guiding the outer edge of its curve toward her target. Tapping into her overflowing well of fury and desperation, her face drawn tight, she heaved and sliced Shu’s head from his shoulders. It tipped and rolled from its perch and landed with a thwack. Wild with fear, Shu’s eyes darted everywhere, searching for answers they would never find.

  “Well done, not the result I was expecting but I am damn impressed my little sand bunny, damn impressed!” Jones bowed as he complemented and insulted her. “Be a dear and grab his head for me.”

  Haneef obeyed as Jones turned to the stunned audience. “There’s a lesson or two to be learned from Mr. Shu’s pathetic display. The first, never underestimate the enemy. They, like you, are fighting for their eternal lives. They consider themselves far superior to you in every regard, use that. They are convinced they are the good guys,” –finger quotes, Bobby almost laughed, Jones was too busy to notice- “use that as well. The Angels will fight with all they have, you must do the same.”

  Jones walked to Shu’s scythe and stomped on one end, flipping it nimbly into his hand with style and grace. “He lost his weapon. This, ladies and gents, is an error of dire consequence.”

  Holding Shu’s head in her hands, Haneef stood, chin high and eyes unwavering, as Jones approached.

  I wish I had balls that big.

  “Toss it to me,” Jones instructed.

  She did without hesitation.

  Beautiful, smart and a badass, you go girl.

  As Shu’s head arched Jones tossed Shu’s weapon aside, grasped his own scythe with both hands, and swung with the skill and power of a major league slugger. His aim was true, the staff struck the falling head squarely, sending it high above the crowd toward the far wall of the chamber. A hole opened beneath it as it fell, flames reached out to make the catch. Shu’s head disappeared, as did the hole that swallowed it. Another opened on stage, a malformed creature scampered out, its pike at the ready. Jones stepped aside to reveal what it sought. The creature skewered Shu’s body and returned the way it came. Jones shook his head, as if his new puppy had shit on his pillow. “Some mistakes cannot be overlooked.”

  Silence.

  “Understood?”

  Twelve voices replied as one, Haneef nodded.

  “Good.” Jones switched back to his cheerful self. “Now let’s get two more up here.”

  Haneef scurried from the stage, Jones smiled at her back, “Don’t go too far, you’re not out of the woods…or the desert just yet.”

  Folding his arms and tapping his chin, Jones considered his options. Bobby wished he could shit himself, at least it would take his mind off the fear. “Change of plans, let’s go native shall we, a real jungle brawl, so to speak. Our African mass murderer, Mr. Jantjies, versus our brooding aboriginal, Mr. Indiwongga. That’s quite a mouthful, if it’s all the same to you I’ll call you Indi.”

  “My name is Daku Indiwongga. You cannot have my name, it is my name,” the tall, lean man said, slowly and calmly, his large dark eyes studied Jones from beneath a mop of curly black hair.

  “Now, now Indi, don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Jones warned, there was venom in it.

  Indiwongga said nothing.

  “Indi here is an aboriginal activist.”

  More finger quotes.

  Shut up Bobby! Keep it together. White wall. White wall!

  “He killed almost 200 white men over the course of several years down in Oz. Caused quite a stir and had nearly the whole of the country hunting him at one point. The trouble was they couldn’t find him, big country down there and this boy knew every nook and cranny.”

  “I am no boy,” Indiwongga corrected Jones
without a drop of fear.

  Jones’ eyes narrowed and his voice grew cold, “Listen boy, this isn’t the Dreaming or some spirit walk nonsense. Now mind your manners or I’ll make eternity very painful. Maybe the whites were right, maybe your kind are far too primitive to be considered human.”

  “We are the first humans,” Indiwongga proclaimed, raising his chin and raising his arms.

  Jones groaned, swiped a finger, sealing Indiwongga mouth immediately. “We’ll see soon enough how great you are. Do all of us a favor Mr. Jantjies, chop this idiot to pieces, slowly, if you don’t mind.”

  Jantjies nodded enthusiastically.

  “Up and at it boys!” Jones cried out and the two men floated onto the stage to face each other. “Kill or be killed!”

  Indiwongga stomped his feet, a vibrating growl sounded from deep in his throat, despite his lack of a means to voice it. Feet spread and knees bent, scythe level and poised, eyes steady, he waited. Jantjies, a soldier more accustomed to shooting civilians and hacking up prisoners already bound, did his best to look unafraid. Indiwongga stomped closer, driving his feet into the stage with every step. Jantjies cocked his scythe over one shoulder, his fingers wrapping and re-wrapping the shaft, his hesitance as evident as his fear. Jones grew impatient. “Come on, monkey men!”

  Indiwongga turned at the insult, Jantjies took advantage of the distraction and pounced. Even with the element of surprise, the African was easily outmaneuvered. Indiwongga blocked the driving blade with the staff of his own scythe. Pushing it aside he spun and struck, smashing the bladeless end into Jantjies’ face with the crunch of bone and shattered teeth. Jantjies backpedaled, Indiwongga followed. Panicking, Jantjies lashed out. Indiwongga blocked it with ease, locked his blade with Jantjies’, wrenched it to the floor and pinned it there with one callous soled foot. Jantjies yanked hard on his scythe to free it, Indiwongga let him, sending him stumbling, arms flailing. Indiwongga followed, struck again, and slashed Jantjies’ stomach wide open just below the navel. Jantjies screamed as his guts pushed from the gaping wound, his unraveling intestines hung like a curtain of sausages almost to the floor. The Aboriginal continued to stomp and grunt, spinning his scythe in a blur as he positioned himself behind Jantjies. Mesmerized by his innards, Jantjies was lost. Indiwongga froze, pointed his scythe at Jones, raised the blade high and struck hard. The cut was so clean and the strike so precise, Jantjies appeared unfazed, save for fact that his eyes rolled over white and his jaw flopped open as if unhinged. Indiwongga rose to his full height and drove the butt of his staff onto the floor to punctuate his victory. The vibration undid Jantjies, toppling his head as his body crumbled.