Reaps Gives Deets

Untitled Part 1

CHAPTER 1

A brand new hoodie has many places to be, but a corpse isn't one. The words on the hoodie were a modified proverb – AN APPLE A DAY KEEPS THE GRIM REAPER AWAY. Funny, considering how the owner, a certain seventeen-year old, had refused to eat the apple offered by his mom early in the dawn and how his death came from decapitation by a cosmic sickle. The Grim Reaper stood above the boy, excuse, the dead boy in a sort of that's the punishment for not doing the homework way. He put on his red Cherokee cap, which hid his face from the general public. He wasn't what the media generated his image to be. He looked just like any normal human, with a green US POLO ASSN. sleeveless jerkin and some nice street sold black bell bottom pants, but exceptionally thin, with curved bones almost ready to leak through the skin. He may not be regarded as a case of malnutrition though. He was notorious in his place to be what one may call as a Bodega Blaster. Street vendors and store owners had no stock available after his visit; for he ate everything he got his hands on, and marked it as monthly credit to be furnished by the Head of the Place. The Head of the place where he came from was respected and unanimously feared by creatures of all kind. Hence, the creditors barely got back what the Reaper owed them.

It is common confusion to everyone ever lived that Reaper is the name of the said guy but it isn't so. Reaper is a position given to the servant of Death. Not any ordinary servant, mind you, but The Right Hand of Death. He is responsible for opening the gateways for the souls whose time have come. He normally doesn't materialize in the world. But today was different, different to a fault of being called unique and the once wonder. He can change the sickle at his will. He wanted it to turn it now into a key for this cool looking matte black Harley-Davidson bike parked nearby. He tried to insert the key but it didn't go inside. Heh-heh, that's what she said.

He then caught a glint of the aqua Vespa near. Well, might try it as well. It worked. The engine revved to a start. The main thing was to get away from this place of his handiwork. But somehow, a mythical life-taker like him had to have his chase in a cool looking Harley. Not some floral enthusiast's Vespa. Nobody was around except for this hunky dude in a boutique. Mr. Reaper found it unnatural. Maybe for his lover, why is that my business anyways?

He accelerated, and fled, and then, wait for it, accelerafled.

Just then the hunky dude came out. He had a Death Metal jacket on, with evil chains interlacing his limbs with his body. The tattoos on his body counted to some significant three-digit number, each in a different script. He had a rainbow coloured funk on his bald head. Might as well have come across as queer, however very unlikely.

On seeing the Vespa retreater, he cried out, in a voice which might be well described as a soprano, "HEYY! THAT'S MY SCOOT." Hunky, rainbow funk, soprano, Vespa. Definitely Aqueer. "DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?-"(Chill dude, the shrillness is leaking through the pages) "- I AM THE HEAD TREASURER OF THE RESTATE AREA'S FLORIST UNION-"(WHAAT?!)"- I WILL FIND YOU AND, AND, AND-"(he seems to be at a loss of flower-related metaphors)"- PLUCK YOUR PETALS-" (There we go). Well, that's not a very threatening threat, Mr. Floral Funk."-AND KNOW MY NAME, HEAD TREASURER CORAL PUNK."

Please, don't give me that look, as if I am purposefully doing this gimmick. What I accounted for above was real happenings, just as real as the death of the hooded teen. It took almost half an hour before the area was cordoned off, with young bulked up officials responsibly handling the media frenzy and as well consoling the parents of the dead boy.

Not really.

The cordoning off was done with yellow tape that was purchased as a roll almost a decade ago. This one roll was quite sufficient for that local's precinct over the past years. The officers in charge were two old persons, one male and one female. They were just worked enough to hold the precinct for namesake, with mainly filing cases if ever took place, which never were in the domain of violent crime. Most of the so-called "crimes" were insurance frauds and face claiming of squatter's rights. The police from the head precinct, in control of the whole Restate Area interfered for cases such as bicycle thefts from the elderly, orchestrated by some teen ruffian, who couldn't wait until he turned thirteen for his parents to gift him one.