Fired!

'Til Death Do Us Party

Ribbons of multicolored light cut through the darkness. Left. Right. Up. Down. Everywhere, illuminating the sea of people on the dancefloor only to wink out every few seconds, plunging them into darkness once again. The music was loud. The people were drunk. And as Death slipped into the club, he wondered why this had any appeal at all.

He’d barely taken two steps toward the dancefloor when a young girl stumbled toward him from a circle of grinding hips and swinging arms. She took a second to steady herself, adjusted the top of her tight-fitting dress, then smiled at Death from behind a mess of dark hair and slurred, “Wanna dansh?”

He shoved her back in the direction of the dancefloor, and the girl shouted, “Jeez. Roooood!” Her words were almost completely drowned out by the heavy bass that seemed to shake the whole club.

Death sighed as he made his way toward the dimly lit tables in the back. He preferred music that didn’t sound so…lifeless. He liked real music, music with soul. Kids these days didn’t have an ear for that kind of sound—or any respect, for that matter. They listened to music that sounded like a robot making love to a broken record—it was all “ill beats” and “sick fires.”  Whatever those were.

He’d just taken a seat when he heard someone shout, “Shit, you here to crash the party?”

Death looked up to see a very young, lively looking man in a green suit casually swinging his body in time to the music. He had a willowy, almost feminine figure and a rosy-cheeked cherub face adorned with blonde curls. His pale eyes, even in the dim light, shone oddly bright from behind a set of thick, black hipster glasses. The man looked strangely out of place in contrast to the rest of the young people, and yet Death knew better. He was the reason the party existed in the first place.

“Hello,” Death said, though it was more out of reluctant respect than an attempt to be friendly.

“Sorry, you’ll have to speak up! I didn’t quite catch that!” The man in the green suit slid into the booth across from him, spilling a bit of the drink in his hand as he did so. “Whoops!” He dabbed at the questionably-colored liquid on the table. “So what’re you doing here?”

Death wondered for a moment if he should answer.

The man across from him took a sip of his drink, his eyes growing wide. “You aren’t gonna get rid of, like, half the club are you?” He leaned forward, a slight hint of panic on his face. “Jesus Christ, Death, is this gonna be just like the last time?”

“No,” Death reassured him.

“No explosions, right?”

“No explosions.”

“Thank God,” the man said, taking another sip of his drink. His shoulders relaxed and his face took on a smug grin. “Don’t ever pull that shit again, alright?”

“I can’t make any promises.” Death didn’t bother telling the man the way things happened was never up to him. He felt he should know that anyway. Fate always had her hand in things. It was Fate who wrote the book. They just made sure the story stayed on track.

“No, but, seriously, if it’s just one or two people, I’m not worried. Have at ‘em.” He downed the rest of his drink and crumpled the cup in his hand before tossing it over his shoulder. “Just don’t cause a scene, okay? Now, if you’ll excuse me—“

The green suit shimmered over his body and appeared to morph, changing to something far more casual—a white shirt underneath a forest green leather jacket and tight jeans ripped in several “stylish” places. That was Life for you. Always concerned with his image. Always trying to appeal to people, especially the young crowd. He didn’t seem to have much trouble with them until they hit their teens. Life tended to sort of look the other way then until they sorted their own problems out.