The Four Wotsits of the Doodad

War

"Are we, now," said War patiently. He hoped this wasn't going to be like the time Death wanted them to clean house. The number of broken plates, glasses and limbs was only outnumbered by the occasions on which Death's grumbling had littered the garden and neighbourhood with lifeless animals.

"We are." Death crossed his arms. That was their cue to agree, comply and follow like baby ducks on a river. Whether they liked it or not - the latter usually being the case - he was the big bro' and they knew it.

"OK," said War. He had nothing better on, although there was a new series of Top Gear starting at 8pm that he didn't want to miss, and Famine was already recording whichever reality show he was currently hooked on, so it was a case of watch or miss. Whatever Death had in mind, it had better not take long. He had tea to get on with as well and he hated eating too late. "What are we going to do?"

Ah...

Yes...

Death hadn't quite thought that through.

Death, you see, was a doer. He did, as 'doers' often... erm... do...

War was the thinker. War would consider an action and assess the reactions. He liked to have an idea of the outcome, even if that outcome didn't actually come out. Considering his brothers, it was often difficult to tell what might happen. Famine blundered on, Pestilence blundered after...

And Death just did.

"Doing the do," he called it. And sometimes it ended up as doo-doo, to be scraped off as if from the sole of your shoe.

"Erm..." he said.

"Thought so," said War returning to his drink of water, taking a gulp then dabbing his lips with a paper towel. "Let me know when you've though of something then. I've got a spare half hour later."

Famine and Pestilence didn't say anything. War might make flippant remarks but they, even Famine, cocky and sometimes arrogant as he was, knew when to stay quiet. Pestilence was still thinking about mayonnaise anyway.

Death stood staring at a photo of the four of them that had been enlarged and made into a canvas. They were at a birthday party for Eddie, their friend from across the street and had been singing 'New York New York' on karaoke. Badly. It was hanging on the wall and looked back at him with disinterest. Big words, mighty man, but no ideas. See no evil, speak no evil, hear no evil, DO no evil.

Even a doer like Death was a don't-er at that moment.

He didn't like that. He was, however much he hated Famine calling him it, the 'Big D!' He Did. Do or die, stick a hot poker in your eye, bake it in a pecan pie.

Death stuck his tongue out at himself and his brethren. The picture, being a picture, ignored it and carried on watching him with disdain. Death shrugged and decided to 'do.'

He turned around and walked out of the door into the hallway. He pulled his coat off the hook - even though it wasn't cold he still needed somewhere to put his keys and his phone and his wallet. And it might turn chilly and he hated having a cold.

"I'm going out!" he called.

"Where're you off to?" War said. He didn't hear the answer as he was wondering what to cook. He made a mean sausage pie but he really fancied a chilli. Did they have any rice in? You needed rice.

It didn't matter though. Death hadn't replied.

What do you do to make a difference? What do you do to turn a whole race of planet destroying mortals into caring, eco-friendly individuals?

Death's stride was as long as his scowl as he stormed through the streets in search of inspiration. The animal population of the town, at least along the streets he followed, dramatically dropped and owners were left distraught at the sudden, unexpected deaths of Poochie, Kitty or Ratty. He didn't notice. His mind was whirling from one idea to another, and each spin dragged another soul from its mortal coils.

Death had no idea if the soul was actually held in place by a coil, or whether it was attached by velcro. Maybe the body and spirit were press-studded together and needed a hefty yank to prise them apart? Either way, Death didn't care. He was Death. It wasn't just a name, it was part of him.

Maybe that was what he needed to change? He was thinking of just generally being nice. That wasn't easy for someone who could wipe out a whole town if he got out of bed the wrong side. This was literally the case. He had a shelf on one side of his bed that he kept meaning to take down as he'd long since read the books that were sitting atop it, gathering dust like they were collecting for the end of the world... or something... And he was forever cracking his head on the corner of that shelf if he stood up too fast. It would make his eyes water and fists clench and the throbbing would sometimes last for hours.

He couldn't help who or what he was. He didn't consciously reach out and pluck the life from your heart like a leaf off a tree. He didn't have a huge scythe that he swung as if it was a tennis racket, hitting the ball of your soul into the Netherworld. That was Grim, the Reaper. Death and Grim were friends. They'd text regularly and were friends on Facebook. Occasionally they'd arrange to meet up for a drink, but Grim often had to cancel at the last minute. Something to do with a mortal trying to beat him at chess for his life.

Death didn't work like that. Where Grim had a list of names that he ticked off one at a time, Death simply WAS. People, animals and such just died. It was a fact of... erm... Life.

So... Maybe Death needed to change. Perhaps he should have one of those 60 Minute Makovers that Pestilence liked to watch on the TV. A brand new wardrobe followed by a fabulous new hairstyle and topped, like a cherry, with a whole new attitude. Then he could be bright and breezy and happy and the world would turn - as the world tends to do - taking his new outlook along with it.

Nah. Death didn't, generally, do happy. And his wardrobe consisted of seven pairs of black trousers, seven black shirts, seven matching (black) sets of underwear and his cloak. Which was black. And his hair was fine as it was, being cut regularly by War - who could cut slice the core from an apple at thirty places without dropping a pip.

Death was, generally, as grim as the Reaper. He needed somewhere where Death and death were not going to be noticed. A cemetery would be good. In fact, a cemetery would be one place that he'd feel at home. Nobody would complain or constantly want to 'Hi-Five' him. The problem was, most of the residents would probably hold a grudge against him. He was Death and they were dead. Whether it was his fault or not, they'd make two plus two equal four - which it did, but that didn't mean he was always to blame.

How about a residential home? The people there were old and waiting for him or Grim to come knocking, beckoning their bony fingers. Not that Death had bony fingers. He had a healthy diet and liked his desserts. The Reaper was the one who urgently needed to have a Big Mac or twenty. A residential home would work. But then, Death couldn't abide the daytime menu of antique, auction or reality talk shows that paraded across the screen. And he hated bingo.

Hmmm...

Back at the house, War sighed. Famine and Pestilence were playing Monopoly and, as usual, Famine was cheating. He called it 'Adjusting the rules for the Fam effect!' but it was, nonetheless, cheating. Pestilence didn't notice. He had never quite grasped the game in the first place so Famine's 'adjustments' were how it was meant to be played anyway, as far as he was concerned. The room was filled with cries of "Booyaka!" and "Lay it on me!" and War was getting one of his migraines.

And now Death had decided to embark on this mission of his. Saving the world so they could destroy it. Why waste the time? Why not let it happen, take the credit and relax for a while? Why get their hands dirty?

Because he couldn't. War knew. Death was a creature of standards. Famine could, and probably would, let the world burn whilst he fiddled with his guitar. Death, and - though he hated to admit it - War too, couldn't do that. They had friends in this street. If anyone was going to destroy the world, shouldn't it be someone they knew? Wouldn't that make them feel better about their impending doom?

"Come on you two." he said. His fingers were rubbing his temples. He just knew he'd miss Top Gear.