Let's join our hero, Death, whose story is already in progress...
Peace, Love, and Death #1
“Whoa, just what the hell is that?”
“This is the good shit, Graham. Not that weak crap you bought last week.”
Yep, here I was, the all-powerful horseman Death (going by the pseudonym Graham Reeper - get it?!) sitting in a rundown apartment in Boston with my stoner roommate, Herman. I liked Herman; he was the first human in a good long time that wasn’t concerned with the stupid shit, you know? Herman cared about weed and women. I cared about those things, too.
A few years back, in 1968 I think, I settled on Boston as my newest hangout. Yep, you guessed it, a girl was involved. Her name was Alyssa and she’d been a stripper in the Big Apple. Khloros and I were taking a loop around the Bronx when I saw her. A one night stand turned into a two night stand which, in turn, led to some sort of sex driven relationship. I’m not proud to say that a woman’s ability to bring about multiple orgasms in a row is a quality I look into.
So yeah, Alyssa wanted to go to Boston to pursue a modeling career or something. Alyssa always had dollar signs in her eyes. Well, we moved and two days into our adventure, she got gunned down by the Irish Mafia. Turns out, the dollar signs were so big that she tried to rob an underground poker parlor. The guy I butchered into tiny pieces confessed that to me right before his passing.
Killing off a big portion of the Irish Mafia didn’t sit well with the people who kept tabs on me. Yuri, one pompous angel, basically put me under house arrest and told me I needed to work off my debt to the Big Guy, Upstairs. I did, but in the time I spent here, grew to love it. That’s brings us today where I’m currently lighting up joints with old Herman.
The deadbeat took another huff. “The problem, Graham, is you’re cheap. If you want the good stuff, you have to pay for it.
“Where did you get money to pay for this?”
“I’m a courier, dude. I get a nice stash of cash for each item I successfully deliver for my employers.”
I didn’t even want to know. Money was never a problem for me (one of the perks of being immortal), so jobs were technically useless. I was thinking of starting up in a university or something. A good education and access to all the co-eds one could ever want? That’s the American Dream if I ever understood it.
However, even as high as I was, I had a nagging feeling. “Who do you courier for?” I asked.
And damnit, didn’t the answer destroy my buzz. “Ah, some chill dude I met down by the wharf. His name is Balthazar.”
My joint hung for a moment from my mouth, before falling to the floor. Balthazar was a bloody wizard, and not just any old wizard. That asshole had trained under Morgan Le Fey, the long dead witch who wanted to start an apocalypse or something.
If Balthazar was here, that’d only mean trouble for me. I took another hit off my joint and pretended I didn’t hear a thing.
*Tune in next week as Death’s high is ruined even further when Herman gets into something way over his beatnik head!
Jack - firstname.lastname@example.org