Smoothing back his jet black, greasy hair, the goateed, small-framed man was bent busily over his massive desk, quickly and efficiently filling out the endless paperwork that was piled up in huge, teetering stacks behind him, forming a towering Mt. Everest of needless bureaucracy. The constant scritch-scratch of his own pen was slowly driving him mad. “’Tis the curse of a respected leader,” Mr. Dudley murmured resignedly to himself. “Everyone wants you to oversee their case personally. There just isn’t enough time in all of eternity.” He sighed, leaned back slightly in his chair, then reluctantly buzzed his secretary. “Ms. Kellman, has Grendel arrived yet?” he spoke into the intercom.
“Yes, sir. He’s been waiting in the antechamber for three hundred years.” Gosh, time had gotten away from him since he’d seriously started tackling those papers, Dudley thought to himself as he replied with an airy, “Very well, send him in. And tell him not to drag his feet, I’m a busy man.” Grendel. Dudley chuckled, shaking his head. He had been Director of the Board of Soul Collections for two thousand years, and never had he seen a less competent reaper. Why, the man was squeamish, clumsy wreck! Every time he finally brought in a collected soul to the holding cells, he was so shaky and nervous he could barely uncuff the soul and lock the cell door. And yet, through some ridiculous glitch in paperwork no doubt, Grendel had been recently promoted to the rank of Grim Reaper, first class. What a farce.
A tentative knock interrupted Dudley’s brooding thoughts. “Yes, Grendel, please come in,” he called. The door slowly swung open to reveal a tall, dark figure, ominously shrouded in a flowing black robe. A hood covered its face, and a large, glistening scythe was grasped in its craggy, bent hand. He was scary-looking, alright, Dudley had to admit. Perhaps that helped to explain his recent promotion.
The chilling figure bowed its head and glided across the floor slowly, his robe rippling behind him. That is, until he tripped over it, sending him colliding into a floor lamp, which he clutched for dear life as they both careened into a huge bookcase, which toppled noisily and quite painfully upon him in a with a sickening crunch. He lay still beneath a mound of hundreds of weighty encyclopedias and lengthy theses, not uttering a sound.
Dudley leapt to his feet and yelled, “Grendel, are you okay?” Grendel didn’t respond. “Grendel, answer me! Are you okay?”
Finally, a weak, trembling voice from beneath the bookcase muttered bitterly, “I’m dead.”
Dudley groaned, “Of course you’re dead, you idiot. You’re the flipping Grim Reaper! Get up, I need to talk to you.” After a few moments of sulking, the books began to tumble off of the pile and a black-cloaked arm wormed its way to the top, followed by the rest of the gloomy soul collector. He slowly worked his way to his feet, brushed himself off, then sat down in the chair across from Dudley. He leaned his scythe against the desk, then propped his feet up as well.
“That wasn’t my fault. I can’t see with this stupid hood over my face all the time. Can I take it off?”
Dudley answered, “No. It’s part of the uniform. And stop being so disagreeable and whiny all the time.”
“I’m not whiny!” Grendel defended himself. “I’m grim! It’s all part of the act. I’m not the Happy Reaper, f’cryin’ out loud. And what’s with keeping me waiting so long? The music on the speakers was Renaissance stuff when I first came in here. When you finally called for me I was about to scythe myself along to Kenny Chesney’s newest album.”
Dudley cleared his throat and began, “Grendel, you have been with us for twelve hundred years, since the very day after you were forced to resign from the Afterlife Insurance Company.”
“They were selling life insurance to dead people! Is that legal? I think not.”
“We’re not here to talk about your previous endeavors, Grendel. I’m more worried about the fact that during your employment here you have collected souls from only three people; two of whom were already dead when you got there. Think about all the trouble you caused when you screwed up Hitler’s heart attack early in life. If you do not begin to buckle down and take your job seriously, I am afraid you will lose your rank as Grim Reaper, first class and be demoted to Gloomy Reaper, second class. You also will lose your scythe and it will be replaced with safety scissors. Do you understand?”
Grendel sighed. “It’s not exactly the best job in the world. Knock on the door, the guy opens, you say in a scary voice that his time has come, you scythe him, handcuff his soul, transport him back to the holding cells to await judgment. . . Its all pretty creepy if you think about it. And then to have all your hard work filed as ‘natural causes‘. It’s disheartening, but I need the money. Give me another chance and I promise, my assignment will be one dead duck in no time.”
Dudley found Grendel exasperating, irresponsible, immature, undependable, and unmotivated. Yet there was a soft spot in the boss’s heart for the young goof-off, though he had absolutely no idea why. Perhaps he reminded Dudley of himself a bit when he was first starting out as a reaper. It was difficult for him to go around plunging scythes into people. But he got over it, and it was high time Grendel did too.
“Grendel, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you one more assignment, and if it goes off without a hitch, then you go off my blacklist for a while. Fair enough?”
Grendel nodded assent and said, “Give me the bio and I’ll be back in a snap with this sap in a trap.”
“Your client is a young man, a boxer by trade, whose heart is going to explode with your help during a boxing match. His name is Gil Hanley, and his due date is June 12th, which gives you two weeks, a ridiculously small amount of time for such a simple job. You should be able to find him at any given time at Fat Baldy’s Gym on Seventh Street in St. Louis, where he works out and rents a room. A two-year old could pull this off, Grendel. I know it’s a toughie for you, but screw it up and I‘ll have you reading bedtime stories to Hussein in cell block five. Remember the Grim Reaper motto: ‘We’re always there behind you.’ Now go.”
Grendel stood up, retrieved his scythe, and glided to the door, gingerly stepping over the pile of books on his way out. “I got it covered, boss. No worries.” He flung open the door and left, softly humming Kenny Chesney.
To Be Continued
