Death's Dealings

Chapter 1

      Death took out his notebook, jotting down the name of the recently deceased woman in front of him. He still had trouble gripping things with his boney fingers but over the last decade or so he had become proficient enough.
    She had died of relatively natural causes, she was old and was on a cocktail of medications to keep her comfortable from day to day, but today her kidneys had decided enough was enough, she was gone shortly after waking up to The Cranberries 'Zombie' on the radio; Phillis Smith.
    He set the notebook back into the pocket of his cloak, it wasn't the most fashionable thing but he had to admit practicality won out here. Death reached his boney hand outward, phasing into the old woman's chest, and pulled out a thin strand, probably the length of a forearm or his forearm at least. The strand was attached to a glowing orb, not by any physical means but when the strand moved, the orb came with.
    He ran the tips of his fingers across the strand, running through key events in Phillis's life. The length was mostly determined by age, but what actually mattered were key moments. Obviously the older you live, the more key moments you're likely to have but consider this example: A young 25-year old female dies of a drug overdose after many years of physical and emotional abuse, not only from those who sought to use her but her family as well. This type of person is likely to have a very long Life Strand, negative memories are very formative in who someone becomes and where they end up after they die. When you bring into consideration all their hopes and dreams, everything they accomplished before things started going downhill, it leads to a strand maybe the size of a six-foot man, taller than this Death certainly. Compare this to an older 85-year old woman who was brought up not rich, but not wanting, went to school, raised a family, and died alone in her bedroom listening to a 1993 punk rock song; Phillis's strand was actually quite short for a woman of her age but this wasn't uncommon for women of her generation. The strand of life being so short made for quick reading and determination, Phillis would go to heaven as she had made no great sin; The worst being adultery on one drunk occasion at an office party, and believe it or not, heaven wasn't as harsh on adulterers as you might think; Turns out even God as good as he may be, liked sex as much as your average boozer. Sure, big offenders would still get sent to the big firey pit below but single offenders and those who seek forgiveness are usually allowed through the gates as long as they are not guilty of another great sin.
    Death held the strand from the base and held it straight up into the air, the orb began to float upward until the strand was taut and he released it. The orb floated up and up until it was completely out of sight until it reached heaven and assumed its natural angel form, which looked like Phillis but healthier, without the bags under her eyes and the pain in her lungs and hips.
    Death left the now empty husk of a body never having gotten used to how a body looked once he had taken the soul out. Nothing physically changed but he could sense it, like an emptiness calling out and begging to be filled. Once outside he was glad to see he still had roughly fifteen minutes before his next customer, he called them customers because his mother, all those years ago used to say people "bought a ticket" when they died but that was just his way of coping with the more morbid truth   that he was merely the middleman between heaven and hell for the recently departed. Souls can figure out the last part of their journey on their own, if they were heavy enough with sin they sank to the sulfur depths, otherwise they floated up much like our dear Phillis. They only needed Death's intervention if their soul was balanced, in question or a few varying circumstances such as an atheist. The soul might have a collection of small sins, or maybe enough good deeds to outweigh his crimes against God, some souls have unfinished, unfortunately complicated business and have to be brought in by the big man himself. Regardless, in cases like this Death must personally examine the life strand before the soul can move on.
    Other cases would come around that Death would need to intervene, such as a baby who died before its life strand could develop enough key moments or children created of sin who carried their parent's baggage. He could interact with any soul but there wasn't much time between all those that needed his guidance.
    The Death of our story went by the name of Del back when he was a mortal, since then he's gone by many names: Death, Thanatos, Azreal but never Del, no matter how hard he tried to get it to catch on. He was a lanky young man with a patchy beard when he was alive but now resembled nothing other than a skeleton draped in a dark robe, which did a better job of concealing a bony frame than you might think. Del reached over his shoulder and grabbed his scythe, once secured he swung in a quick and wide motion splitting the very air in front of him, leaving a thin wavering oval of black; It was more of a deep purple and looked similar to when you mix a fresh quart of dark paint.
     The hum of this tear in reality hurt his non-existent ears and he was quick to hurry through it, taking him from the dusty streets of Brooklyn to a beachfront in Jamaica. Death had a tendency to lead him to beautiful places but it was incredibly deceiving, a corpse was often not in all the brochures. He walked away and the noise disappeared along with the portal, leaving Del with a few minutes to himself before his customer paid for his ticket and was; he looked down at his notebook, murdered.
    He could see the man from here and wondered what he could have done to be murdered, this man simply looked like a middle-aged office worker on vacation or maybe a construction worker with more time than any Del knew in his lifetime. Del hadn't become numb to his clientele like the previous Death had, leading to his inevitable retirement or in a Reapers case, sweet, sweet death which most who filled the cloak had sooner or later craved. He no longer tried to intervene when confronted with a good soul meeting a cruel demise but he still felt a wretch in his gut watching it happen.
    When a new Death is chosen, a recently deceased mortal is left behind to roam the realm beyond the living on Earth until Death collects them but instead of helping them reach the other side, they will be taught to take over the role of Death. It took over twenty years for death to come to Del, he had used his mother's birthday as a way to count the passing years but she passed seventeen years in and he had since lost count. He cried tears of joy when he came face to face with the Grim Reaper, he threw himself onto his knees and begged to be sent anywhere, just not this misery-ridden place.
"--But it is not your time, Del." His voice was airy, like a stage whisper in a long tunnel.
"I'm dead! I've been dead for years. How could it not be time, take me!" Del pleaded, he had trekked the world and contemplated life's meaning the world over, he was ready for death but Death was not ready for him.
"You're going to take over for me. You're going to collect the souls that I've grown too dead to judge." His long pointy finger lightly pressed into Del's chest and he fell back, bringing his knees to his chest and placing his head between them.
"What was the point?" Death returned no statement. "Why let me wander for so long? I'm tired of existing. I'm tired of being alone."
"I am sorry but it was a necessity." He breathed out. "I could not yet retire, I was not ready but I knew you must be the one to take my place."
"What if I don't want to take your place?"
"You don't have a choice. You can retire after enough time and collection but like me, you would have to choose your replacement or you could go out of your way to do a poor job, but I think you would come to regret that decision for there are fates worse than hell."
"Like spending twenty-some-odd years alone, not even knowing how you died." Del said spitefully.
    Death was quiet except for his hollow breathing but then finally spoke up,
"Brain Aneurysm. An atom speeding across the galaxy at twice the speed of light pierced through your brain and killed you instantly."
Del didn't react, he simply absorbed and tried to make this scrap of closure stretch across all his open wounds but what sounded like bar trivia was unfortunately not enough to settle his mind tortured by the last two decades.
    Del shadowed the Reaper for the next decade before sending his teacher off to hell. Becoming Death did not promise the eventual eternity in heaven but it did make it significantly easier. He had been a sinner in life, his time as Death would have easily made up for his misdeeds but his crime against Del weighed heavy on his massive two-mile long Life strand, it took Del two months to sort through. Despite being sent to hell, he stood by what he had done saying that no one, other than Del could have taken his place.
   It had been decades since then and Del had found purpose in making sure souls found their proper destination but still felt wet behind the ears and wondered how long it would be before he got the hang of things.    Time had come and a man in a dark hoodie and raggy hair appeared, nearly walking through Death and into the man they had both been stalking for the past fifteen minutes.
    The man stuck a gun out, the shake was clearly visible but that didn't make the situation much more comforting.
"You're a piece of shit!" He yelled, 'piece' sounding more like 'peeza' mixing in with the rest of the sentence. The man didn't sound like he'd be from Jamaica, maybe Italian, at least that was Del's best guest. "I want you on your knees!" He yelled more, hitting Death's customer on the head with the butt of his gun. "And beg me for your life!" He added, it felt like he was reading off a script. Perhaps he had practiced this in the mirror a few hundred times before decided to brave the act, or perhaps it reflects something in a shared history. Murder can be oh so petty and on other days it can be deeper and darker than any well.
   The battered man went to his knees but not before charging back his arm and letting it loose into the hooded man's stomach, sending the seemingly shrinking gun clattering to the floor and before he could even fully recoil from the massive blow to his intestines which were surely hemorrhaging, a massive uppercut would send him flying back, his head falling onto a decorative brick littering the natural landscape.
    The other man, who no longer resembled a middle-aged office worker but more a man of experience with death by his own hand, angrily walked over to the partially sand covered gun and shook it off before heading back to the no longer hooded man, revealing his long black hair and whatever youthful features you could make out underneath his battered face.
    "Beg for MY life?" He said, not yelling but commanding authority in tone and volume. He cocked the gun, assuring a bullet was ready and waiting in the barrel before pointing it at the dazed man. "You beg for your fuckin' life." His accent was similar to the young man who started this whole incident. No begging would come from the man on the ground, clarity was slowly coming back but he almost certainly had a concussion among other injuries and begging was just not in his list of options. Del doubted he would have begged even if he could.
     He pointed the gun further, his arm flexing and his arm was notably less shaky than his attackers. "Ruin my fuckin' vacation. Fuck you!" Anger seeping through at the very end, he pulled the trigger and shot him through the bridge of his nose. It didn't offer much resistance at the range, you could hear the bullet collide with the brick and send small chunks into the air. "Fuck you!" He repeated before running his hands through his hair and taking a deep breath out to regain his composure. He whistled, signaling another bigger man over; He shoved the gun into his chest, "Where the fuck were you?" He didn't wait for a reply before continuing his harassment, "Go make yourself useful and take care of that." He paused, "And this." He turned his head and pointed his with his jaw before walking away to presumably resume his vacation.
   Death was confused as he had known things like this could occur but it was not often so he was still fuzzy on the subject. He had been brought here for the man ordering others around and parading in Jamaica but now was instead here for the attacker. He approached the sputtering and bloody man, who upon closer inspection looked more like a boy despite the grizzle he had on his cheeks. His body went limp and Death reached within and pulled out his life strand, of respectable length as well. He put the first length of life strand between his fingers and quick visions of this boy, Arturo Voltolini's key moments in life.
    Arturo was born into a small but growing mafia family in the slums of Italy. It started like any crime ring, from petty crime to fixing sports games, to small-time robbery until you eventually get to full-blown dealing whether it be drugs, sex, or death. When Arturo was old enough to consciously be a part of his family's legacy, not that he had much choice in the matter, they had been beginning to dabble in their first drug deals.
     He was a natural salesman, he could sling you a bag of flour and you wouldn't have thought to check it wasn't coke until he was long gone. Granted, it would seem he was told not to do this on a few occasions as it was deemed dishonorable and ironically sinful, I guess two layers of sin is where these people draw the line. When he began growing into his own and the family had moved on from gambling and drugs to sex and murder, Arturo tried separating himself from the business but that would also be separating himself from his family and he just couldn't do that, he loved them too much despite the circumstances. He would give impassioned speeches at the dinner table about going clean, the family moving away and starting anew but it was usually met with laughter or disgruntled chewing. Born to this family, he was required to do the work but had managed to squeeze by and never commit any murders or serious violent acts until today.
   Turns out, this man he decided to attack today was another, much larger mob boss named Ivan from another more influential family. Over the years they had had a few territory disputes but the Voltolini's always caved knowing they couldn't put up a fighting chance but despite their willingness to fall under Ivan's thumb, he was quick to eliminate them when he saw fit. Much like Del had thought, Arturo was the only one left alive and was forced to beg for his life even if it was clear he wouldn't make it out alive. The only thing that had saved him was the police had arrived sooner than Ivan had predicted, sending him out in a panic before the police could attach him to the matter, even though they wouldn't have bothered once learning what family he belonged to.
    After recovering in the hospital and a short stint in the doghouse, Arturo was released to nothing but the cardboard he could scavenge and plots of revenge. Knowing this, it's pretty clear to see how Arturo got to where he is today; He had come to avenge his family but had failed miserably due to not only lack of experience but his physical and mental health had been in decline in recent years.
   Del finished his life strand, he knew it went to hell but it was closer than even he thought it would be. Heaven was pretty hip on familial revenge and honor, it had done quite a bit to shave off a load of sin from his tally. He lowered the strand and orb, closer to the ground before gently shoving the orb directly down, phasing it through the sandy blood-stricken beach into the ash-ridden streets of hell. Death turned away, pulling out his notebook and going to cross out the previous name to only realize it had done it on its own, instead he simply wrote down: Arturo Voltilini. Sometimes it was petty, but most times it's deeper, darker, and certainly foggier.