Part 2: Blake

He sat on the green, padded seat and began researching his targets as the monorail pulled out of the station and began the three and a half day trip from Ethereal to Earth.

Bob stepped off the monorail, pulling the dark hood over his head. Scythe in hand, he put his briefcase in his corporate vehicle and flew off to New York.

Edward Blake sat in his living room, splayed across the sofa. His eyes were glazed over, he was in a state of semi consciousness. A relaxing commercial soothed his seeming angry demeanor. Death walked through the door (without opening it) and stood directly in front of Blake. Blake remained glossed over, not noticing death.

Through Death’s eyes, Blake’s lifespan had 1 year, 2 months, 1 day, and some spare change remaining. He had a weak heart, but a plain heart attack or other simple deaths lowered the lifespan worth, and the goal was to have the final value at 10 years under, and absolutely no less. People had an expiration date like all things, and there was a best used by date. The Higher Ups paid top dollar for ten year remaining deaths (to thin out the population) but any more was unfairly robbing the humans.

He could short out the TV and fry Blake, but that might implicate others. There was a penalty for implication, the best deaths were smooth, tactful, and only harmed the mark.

So death reevaluated the room. No weak ceiling boards, reinforced windows, all knives put away. There were no spills but the wood floor was recently waxed. Blake was wearing socks. Death adjusted the drawer so that it jutted out slightly. Death knocked the wireless phone off its hook, in front of the drawer slightly. He made the phone ring. Blake rushed over to the phone. Halfway there, the phone stopped ringing. Blake picked it up and looked at it. He put it back on the receiver, confused. Death played a loud noise on the tv. Startled, Blake turned. Before he had a solid stance on the ground, Death played a loud noise on the phone. Blake fell, hitting the side of his head on the corner of the drawer. He was knocked unconscious, bleeding profusely. Death repositioned him slightly so the blood would dribble into his mouth and adjusted his head so he couldn’t swallow. Death ran the certified death verifier. Blake would die from this.

Satisfied with a job well done, bob wretched Blake’s soul from the dying body and put it in his soul bag. One down, nine to go, and he was only ten minutes down. This was going to be a good month.

Part 1: The Office

      The alarm blared, rousing Death. He groaned and pulled the pillow over his head. The alarm would not give up, however. After an hour and a half of fighting off the alarm, he crawled out of bed, defeated. He took a quick shower, splashing hot water in his face to wake him up. He got out, dried off, and threw on his third robe. The other two were in the wash. Death sliced a bagel in half and set off to the corner store to buy a paper while it toasted.

     “Morning, Bob.” Said another robed figure.

     “Morning, Fred. Hey, good work with that minister fellow.”

     “Oh, thanks. Creative work, I’ll say. Confessional collapsing on him. Took nearly an hour to set it up.”

     “I think that promotion’s all yours.”

     “No, not after that triple mob boss shootout you did.”

     “You kidding me? The boss was gonna have my sickle! Three innocents killed, a total of seventeen years overshot.”

     “He’ll get worked up over anything. I think he just doesn’t want a trainee raising to his own level so quickly.” Bob said.

     “Whoever doesn’t get the promotion will net it next decade.”

     “There’s a promotion NEXT decade too? The CEO wasn’t lying when he said outlooks were good for the next fiscal season. Well, I’ve got to get going. Some of us have the early month shift.”

     “Be seeing you Bob.”

     Death paid the Ethereal at the counter with a crisp 1 Year bill and got 9 Months back. Warm espresso in hand and a newspaper under his arm, Death opened the door just as the bagel popped up.

     “Today has the makings of a good month.”

A day and a half later, Bob was wiping his hands on a napkin on the way to the car to stop butter from getting on the wheel. He backed out of the suburb house; and, with a crunch of golden leaves and a bump as he left his driveway, Bob was off to work.

     Bob pulled into the Death Incorporated parking garage, parked the car, and walked over to the 13 story office building.

     “Morning, Bob.” Said the bespectacled secretary.

     “Good morning, Nancy. Did your son have a good birthday?” He asked, pressing the elevator button.

     “Oh yes, I couldn’t get him off the miniature Jeep I got him.”

     “Eh, one of those things?” He grimaced.

     She laughed “Yes. Have a good month.”

     “You too, Nancy.” Bob stepped into the elevator and hit the button for the ninth floor. The elevator stopped to pick up another person. Bob’s boss. Damn.

     “I’m not happy, Bob. Not happy!” The short, articulated man stated. “You’re three years over budget!”

     “Yes, Mr. Bwinski.”

     “It’s only under my excellent leadership this branch of the company stays afloat!”

     “Of course, sir.” Said Bob.

     So I’ll grant you a little more budget this one time Bob started in his head.

     “So I’ll grant you a little more budget this one time, but next time you need to take a better estimate of your budget.”

     Maybe if you stopped chopping off a quarter of my estimates to look good, I could be accurate Bob thought.

     “Yes sir.” Bob said. “Thank you, sir.”

     Bob got out of the elevator and walked to his box. He pulled out his list and scanned through it. Normal difficulty, but he had to kill a CEO today. Bob grunted and started heading to the monorail.