On The 7th Day

by Zack Murphy

  The floor was decorated with mosaic tiles depicting ancient civilizations becoming bygone civilizations; the place would give any normal thinking person a good case of the willies. The room at the end of the hall was large and dimly lit by torches affixed to the walls. In the center of the room was a large oak conference table, surrounded by high backed chairs adorned with deep purple velvet cushions. Seated along the table were the Deaths of every spot on the planet with any life on it. Death’s motto was: “If you can live in this god- forsaken part of the world, we can get you out of it.”

  DWCUSiNAH walked in and sat down in his assigned seat at the table. He turned to his right where sat Death of Japan, the Koreas and the Philippines, who was nervously tapping his fingers on the table and blinking in what seemed to be Morse code for “I don’t want to be here STOP Get me out of here STOP. Don’t let the big guy see my blinking STOP”.

  DJKP [If you guessed that DJKP = Death of Japan, the Koreas and Philippines, then you’re really getting the hang of this. Good work!] was, at any given moment, in the midst of some degree of a nervous breakdown. Death was a high stress job, made for low stress individuals. DJKP was here on what was an over-sighted technicality; no one knew about his penchant for nervous breakdowns before he got the job.

  Death was a lifetime appointment; only retirement or, in the worst case scenario, really pissing off The Death, you were here until you said so, and even though many of the other deaths had tried to pull DJKP off to the side and council him on the wonderful world of not being Death, DJKP insisted that he was all right and that tomorrow he’d be just fine. Of course, at last count there had been 250 years of tomorrows.

  “So what do think this is all about?” Whispered DWCUSiNAH.

  “Adjna aux eru kubinanaru,” Mumbled DJKP.

  “Well, he can’t possibly fire us all.”

  “Ba sazo eru kubinanaru.”

  “No, he wouldn’t just fire you.” DWCUSiNAH considered this proposition for a moment, “I’m sure he’d probably bring you in by yourself for that.”

  The Death walked into the room and stood at the front of the table. He perused the faces of his workers. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for all of you come, just you.” He pointed a long bony finger towards DJKP.

  “Shimatta!”

  “Sorry, not you,” said The Death, “I meant you.” His finger turning its point towards the death sitting next to DJKP.

  “Me?” gulped DWCUSiNAH.

  “Yes.”

  DWCUSiNAH’s face crumpled. “Dammit!”

  The other deaths stood up from their chairs and walked swiftly out of the room. DWCUSiNAH could make out some of their whispering to their fellow Deaths, and what he could make out didn’t bode well for him.

  DWCUSiNAH sat still in his chair, a million thoughts racing through his head, though most of the thoughts were stifled. “Oh my, I’m going to get fired, or worse; I’ve really pissed him off!” screamed the loudest, drowning out any good thoughts that may have been trying to reach the top.

  “Come with me,” said The Death.

  “Where?”

  “We have some things to discuss. In private.” The words purred from The Deaths exposed jaw as he walked out of the room. DWCUSiNAH sat petrified, clutching the arms of his chair with the grip of a vice. The Death popped his head back into the conference room. “Coming?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Not at all.”

  DWCUSiNAH stood up, ironed the wrinkles out his robe with his hands and whispered only audibly to himself. “That was what I was afraid of.”

  *****

  Jeremiah was sitting on a bar stool at the local watering hole called, inappropriately, The Laughing Devil, as it was neither particularly evil nor possessed any semblance of mirth. The name had always struck Jeremiah as being very humorous. Jeremiah had learned to love a good pint of ale, and The Laughing Devil had ale.

  It also had an entertaining assemblage of unique locals that used a delicious collection of colorful colloquialisms to describe what they reasoned to be their mundane lives. And even more colorful colloquialisms to describe how they felt about their local football team and its “buggerful” of players.

  He had come to know these people as friends, even if these people found him to be “that barmy chap at the end of bar who wouldn’t know his arse from his knackers”. He liked being near people; he liked people in general, even though he didn’t quite understand them. People were a vast range of neuroses and unpleasant bodily functions. But they were also full of life and great imagination; able to do anything they set their sights on, as long as they could do it by 4pm and it wouldn’t harm their back, since it was already a little tender to begin with.

  He sat at his usual spot at the bar and nursed his ale as he watched the telly. It was an American program where a strange pregnant woman harassed a small child who had refused to attend her school’s Christmas pageant because she was Jewish. The host seemed to be winning the debate because the young girl was sobbing into her mother’s breast while her mother was berating the host for being a bully.

  The host told the woman that she was a godless heathen and declared that she, the host, had won the discussion. Jeremiah found it all fascinating, especially since the pregnant woman seemed to be a bit on the tipsy side during her display of disputing prowess. As he sipped on his beer his ears perked up at what he thought he heard coming out of the woman’s mouth.

  “Did she just say, ‘those damn horns are killing me’?”

  “Yeah, and she looked at her belly when she said it,” said the bartender.

  “Probably giving birth to a goat,” chimed one patron named Charlie.

  “American’s are always giving birth to animals,” supposed Nancy, another regular.

  “Nah, that’s a lie,” said the bartender giving her a look.

  “It’s true,” Nancy rang in, “Don’t you ever read the Sun?”

  “Nah, that’s stuff’s a bunch of rubbish.”

  “’S true,” said Charlie, “One American gave birth to half-boy half-alligator.”

  “S’that right? We’ll I’ll be damned,” conceded the bartender, who was not a great debater. As long as two people said it was true; who was he to argue with mob rule.

  “It’s not a goat!” yelled Jeremiah leaping off his barstool. “It’s something much, much worse!”

  “Worse than giving birth to a goat?”

  “I gotta’ go to America,” said Jeremiah as he hurried out of the pub.

  The bartender and patrons looked at each other, then at the door, then back at each other. They pondered Jeremiah’s statement for a moment and came to a group conclusion; going to America was much worse than giving birth to a goat-child.

  *****

  Actor Jonathan Frakes sat at a booth at the Seattle Science Fiction Convention and Go-Cart Rally, signing autographs for a long procession of fans lined up for a chance to experience the aura of his stardom. He made agonizingly quaint small talk with each one, signing an assortment of collectables that they laid in front of him.

  A small man wearing a bowler and dressed in a dapper tweed suit with bulky coke bottle glasses came up to the table and placed a small book at the foot of the booth. The book was well worn and old, not exactly the piece of memorabilia most enthusiasts wanted to get signed by their favorite television alien organism.

  The book was tattered, with the words The Last Days vol. XII emblazoned with red calligraphy on the leather cover, with the tagline: or what to do when it finally does happen, written in marker many years after the book was first printed.

  “This seems to be a very old book, are you sure you want me to autograph it?” asked Actor Jonathan Frakes.

  The small man coughed, clearing throat, “No, Mr. Frakes I do not want you to sign this book! This book is very special!”

  “Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” Actor Jonathan Frakes was very astute when encountering rabid fans at conventions; he knew what to look out for; and crazy
people with old books that didn’t want them to be signed were at the top of the list. ”It is a very nice book, did you write it yourself?” he said as if speaking to a two year old child. There are two major factors when approaching a person verbally that may have a tough time discerning fact from fiction; one: don’t piss off your paycheck and two: some of those weapon replicas come with terribly sharp points.

  “No, I didn’t write it!” the man took a deep breath and calmed himself. He tried to come at the conversation from another point. “This is real. This book is real. I know it sounds crazy, but believe me, I’m not. This is real!” The man had picked up the book and shoved it front of the star’s face.

  “Look, I don’t want any trouble. I don’t get paid enough for trouble.”

  “You don’t want any trouble? You don’t want any trouble? Do you hear what you’re saying? This tells us that we are knee-deep in trouble my friend.”

  “What do you want me to do about it; I mean, I’m just an actor.”

  “I know you’re just an actor! I told you I’m not crazy!” At this time three towering security guards with more muscle than brain crept up on the shouting little man and grabbed him. They started to lead him out of the convention hall as the man kicked and screamed, writhing and squirming, trying to break free from their control. “Read The Book! Just Read The Book!” the man screamed as he was guided out from the sight of Actor Jonathan Frakes. “Just so you know, I’m usually quite reserved and level-head,” he added to no one in particular.

  After the room had returned to normal [as normal as a room filled with grown people wearing homemade costumes of differing space creatures they’d seen on television programs and b-movies can return to.] Actor Jonathan Frakes returned to signing his name for the hordes of various costumed Martians, demons and bogeymen until the convention was over. As he was readying himself to leave he looked down at the table.

  There sitting ominously was the book, The Last Days vol. XII. He thought twice about picking it up, but finally persuaded himself to see what all the hoopla was about. Besides, he reflected, sometimes these fan-fiction books can be a hoot.

  *****

  Death’s office was in every way an allegory in opposing contrast. One might think that the office of someone whose sole purpose was misery and destruction would be gloomy and dark, filled with recently scalped skulls and paintings of moaning ghosts trying to escape their tortured prisons. You might even wish for a little black.

  But Death’s office was small and cheerful, with freshly cut flowers in on his desk and a brightly woven tapestry on the wall. It was an office more suited for an ex-hippie high school art teacher than the purveyor of mortality. DWCUSiNAH sat, nervously waiting for The Death to put his head on the chopping block of employment.

  He pulled out a book from one of the many bookcases lining the walls: How to influence people and get them to REALLY like you, and skimmed through the thick tome. The Death had spent the last several years trying to soften his image, but it was difficult diminishing the coldness of an eight-foot tall skeleton in a frock wielding a scythe.

  “Oh good, you’re still here,” said The Death, entering his office carrying a large basket. “I made cupcakes, would you care to try one?”

  The Death may have been trying to become a gentler, kinder being, but he was not as yet adept at the finer points of baking for consumption. DWCUSiNAH didn’t eat, he didn’t need to, and after looking at the pile of what could only be referred to as cupcake-shaped objects, he was glad he never had to.

  “Sure, they look delicious.” Just because one doesn’t have to eat doesn’t mean one doesn’t have to eat.

  “Now,” said The Death, “let’s get down to business, Jimmy.”

  “Jimmy?” questioned DWCUSiNAH.

  “Maxwell?”

  “Huh?”

  “Franz? Alberto? Jack? Barnaby? Just stop me when you hear one you like.”

  “When I hear one I like, what?” DWCUSiNAH was usually confused when having to spend time alone with The Death, but this time the conversation was really taking the cupcake. [Which he carefully spit into a napkin while his boss wasn’t looking.]

  “I’m trying to liven up the place by giving you all proper names,” bemused The Death. If DWCUSiNAH squinted hard enough he may have seen what appeared to be The Death conveying the look of wanting a child-like approval for his new concept. “So which one do you prefer?”

  “Well,” it was very hard stalling for time with someone who can read your thoughts. It was much better to jump straight into a lie and ride it out until the next question came around and The Death had forgotten what you lied about in the first place.“I love them all.”

  “I know,” said The Death, “But which one suits you more? I feel that I am much better at making up names than actually giving them to you.”

  It wouldn’t have been wise to correct his boss in saying that The Death hadn’t actually made up any of the names, in fact the names he had been listing had been around for thousands of years. Or that he really didn’t think any of the monikers sounded at all pleasant to be saddled with for however long this obsession was going to last.

  There had been numerous attempts to “happy-up” the profession over the past thousand years, after The Death had decided to make the job a lot less dark and more of a family-friendly experience. These included:

  1978: Pastel Colored Robes.

  1779: An all-expense paid tour of the Wedgewood pottery factory in Staffordshire, England to the 120th person who died each day.

  1665: An “I Suffered through, then Died in the Great Plague and All I got was the Crappy T-shirt”.

  1420: A harrowing ride on “The Official Catapult of Death” [This lasted only one day, after 24 people were “accidentally misplaced” somewhere in the cosmos.].

  1343-1346: All agents of Deaths learned to play a popular regional instrument to accompany them while they sang melodious dirges as people marched through the light.

  1227, a widely unsuccessful endeavor involving a donkey, a bucket of mud and a serf dressed as a lobster.

  “Barnaby? I like that one?” doubt rose about the sanity of this exercise in futility, “That was one right? Barnaby?”

  “Barnaby it is!” exclaimed The Death.

  “Oh goody”, sighed DWCUSiNAH, um Barnaby, “I have a name.”

  *****

  It was nine months earlier and Dana Plough had just won the coveted People of Good Moral Values from Other People with Good Moral Values Award for Journalism Excellence. A fine bargaining chip when her contract with GNAN was up. She was absolutely glowing with pride at the annual company Christmas party.

  It was a well attended, exceedingly luxurious bash with no expense left out, from the two-hundred dollars an ounce beluga caviar to the giant statue of the baby Jesus holding an oversized blinking neon GNAN logo in his hands. What it didn’t pay for was fun.

  The party was mind-numbingly boring, bordering on the edge of slit-your-wrists-and-take-a-warm-bath-just-so-the-pain-will-stop tediousness. But Dana Plough was a team player and she wasn’t going to leave the party until she had a verbal agreement for a new six figured multi-year deal.

  She had spent a hefty amount of money on a new black Vera Wang that would not only represent her fine taste, but also her expensive predilections. She had also gone into debt maxing out her credit card purchasing a Christmas gift for the company’s President and CEO Mr. Perry Rainford Bidwell: a one of kind $3,999.00 Forzieri designer pen with the price tag still accidentally attached.

  Mr. Bidwell was a jet-setting multi-billionaire who had pulled himself up by his bootstraps from a small mining town near Blackpool, England to become one of the most successful men in the world of mass media.

  In the 1970’s he started his empire by launching a small state-sponsored television station in North Vietnam. He became a millionaire as the leading distributor of SquidBeez Cola and its soda mate Diet SquidBeez Cola [Fewer Calories. Same great taste of squid and hone
y!] in the 80’s. And in 1991 he became a billionaire with the introduction of GNAN and three years later its sister station, GNAN For Kids.

  Dana Plough stood back against the bar, nursing a glass of sparkling water amongst a sea of rival newscasters, company shills, production crew members, and one lone intern named Mark who had somehow found his way into the party without anyone calling for security to remove him from the premises.

  She watched as Mr. Bidwell unwrapped her present, gave a charming little c’est tout dire smile and tossed it into a pile with all the other offerings from all the other would-be corporate suck ups. Her heart sank at the sight of his disposal of her gift amongst the other countless ruins of dashed dreams and hopes of personal approval.

  She tugged on her dress, pulling it down around her knees when she noticed that she was showing a little too much thigh at the party. Dana Plough wasn’t a prude, but she wasn’t looking to be titled loose either, and, to her, anything above the knee was an act akin to sinful decadence.

  Perry Rainford Bidwell was not a man you buy with trinkets, he was a man to whom trinkets were given by Heads of State and Foreign Dignitaries; trinkets that he would throw into one of the many closets in one of the many rooms in one of the many homes in one of the many countries he had purchased over the years.

  What Mr. Bidwell was looking for was something that no one could give him, because he didn’t know himself what he truly wanted. As in the case of most citizens who are, for better or worse, too wealthy for their own good.

  Mr. Bidwell had too much of everything he never wanted or could ever use. This was not good news for those who wanted to get into his good graces and even worse news for those emboldened enough to try it. But there was a glimmer of hope when it came to pleasing the man; if you could give him what he truly needed you were to be forever in his adulation. Whatever that thing may be.

  As she finished off the last few drops of water, a tall, well-dressed, strikingly handsome man came over and gently situated himself next to her at the bar. Dana Plough couldn’t help suddenly feeling like a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl trapped in the library with the star quarterback, something Dana Plough never felt like, including when she was a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl. A wave of flutters ran through her stomach as she watched the handsome stranger next her dust some very pricey New England crab cake crumbs off his tuxedo jacket.