The Collector.

The Envelope

I'm in a slump,off my game,throwing up bricks,swinging and missing.

I'm having an off year.

My boss(a.k.a the devil)isn't pleased,he's not the type of guy you want to piss off either.He's the ultimate asshole who doesn't buy excuses,even the champion ones I'm slingin'.But hey,it's a job.And generally speaking,I'm damn good at it.

I am The Collector.

It's not as bad as it sounds.I'm kinda like Santa Claus.We're both jolly guys with a passion for frosted cookies,the colour red...and sorting souls.My job is simple:weed through humanity and label those round rears with a big red good or bad stamp.Old Saint Nick gets the good ones while I get the bad or should I say the fun ones.

Two years ago,I was just your average eighteen-year-old guy.Ok,that's a lie.I've never been average.Not to brag or anything but,I look like a movie star and move like an athlete.That didn't change when I kicked the bucket.It's okay to be jealous,to covet me.It's a delicious sin-tastes like chicken.But don't envy my success as a collector though.I fucking earn it.Like Michael Jordan,I shot until I never missed.If there's a bad soul anywhere on planet Earth,I can smell them out and turn them in.Bag and Tag.

Boss Man runs the Underworld,and I'm his number one guy up top.I'm so good,in fact,that I train the other five collectors on how to be more awesome.It doesn't take a genius to understand the game:collect souls that are sealed.

Seals are our friends.I say it slowly, because patronizing people is hella fun.

It's an easy gig.So easy,I've been bored lately.Maybe that's why my number have slipped.But don't fret.I got this.I've never met a hurdle I didn't like.

In fact,stumbling toward me is a hurdle of business suit-clad men whose way too old to be this wasted.What are they even doing on New Orleans's Bourbon Street?Being creepers,that's what.A guy with Dumbo-sized ears breaks away from the pack and heads towards a girl half his age.His arms swing in great big circles until yellow liquid splashes from his plastic yardstick drink.

Way to bring your A game.

The girl turns towards her friend in an obvious attempt to avoid eye contact with Drunk Ogre Man.But no matter.He whirls her around,shows her his colourful beads and attempts to pull up her shirt.That's the deal,right?Beads for boobs?Not this time though.Homegirl slaps him and storms off,her heels click-clacking down the paved road.

Ogre stares after her,and his friends howl with laughter.His red-rimmed eyes go big for a second,and the he starts laughing too.He got off pretty easy,all things considered.But we're not done yet.Or better yet,I'm not done yet.

I gaze at the guy only in a way only I can.A warm yellow light crawls over his skin and flickers.It almost appears as if his body is on fire.This light is his soul,and I can see the thumbnail-sized rectangles called seals that partially obscure it.Seals come from being bad,or as I like to say,exciting.If I could come back from the dead,the things I would do.I'd go out with a bang.But I can't.And unfortunately,collecting leaves little time for recreational activities,if you know what I mean.So I just keep punching the clocks and doing what I do best.

Admist the dude's mini blacks seals,there are other seals.Our seals.Collector's seals are bigger then the ones you get automatically when you sin and therefore do alot more damage.In order of Boss Man to know who's done what,our seals are in different colours,and already this guy looks like Rainbow Brite.I flick a finger,and a sizzling red seal-the lenght of a human palm-attaches to his light.He didn't feel a thing,but he certainly deserved it.His soul light dims just alittle more than before.Once his light is completely covered,it's over for him.We'll collect his soul and bring it downstaris.I form my hand into a gun."Pew!"