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A Modern-Day Fairy Tale

“Listen,” the girl said with a devilish grin, “you cannot take me. We have become practically immortal. Face it, you are out of a job. You are a has been, old man. Best thing to do is to come to terms with it.” She dropped a couple of coins in his collection box. “For the pram,” she said, completely taking the mickey out of him.  

The Grim Reaper knew she was right, yet he still kept his hopes up. He thanked her for the donation with something of a scowl. One day, he thought, medical science will falter or stumble and everything will be back to how things were. This was mainly the reason he did not give up on the job. At some point …, he continued his thinking, this whole thing is going to blow up in their own faces and then Mr Reaper will be there showing no mercy sowing the souls of hundreds of thousands of miserable unfortunates. I, the Grim Reaper will be the last one laughing. A faint, uncertain smile, appeared on the face of the Hooded Death. Until that day, he would have to settle for a less satisfying ‘just visiting’ arrangement and being stuffed with buttered scones and tea at every house. 

She showed him the door and he thanked her for the lovely cup of tea and most exquisite home-made scones. Next on his list was old Mrs Robinson. Everybody’s old these days. Why, these people are as old as the jokes they are telling. How he would love to take her soul away. She has been the splinter in everybody’s bunion since birth. Birth! I haven’t seen a birth in a dog’s age.  

When he found out people were not dying any longer, he started making house calls. He would visit people on the day they would normally have died. At first this scared people shitless. They’d start screaming profanities about their lying no-good doctors and their so-called advanced technology. It humoured him quite a bit, but it was not as satisfying as actually collecting their souls. After a while, word had got round, and he was just invited in for a cuppa with a big, cheerful grin on those bloody faces. Even less satisfying still.  

“Come on in,” Mrs Robinson said. “It has been a while. Have you been busy? I started to think you had forgotten all about me.” 

“How can I forget about you, Mrs Robinson? You are always at the top of my list.” I wish you would just snuff it, old hag. HR had had a good talking with Mr Reaper. They told him to work on his people skills as his popularity rate was dropping with bitcoin velocity. In the old days, he would have been allowed to say these things, but now, with society the way it was, he had to take everybody’s feelings into consideration lest he be out of a job for good. “Looking sharp, Mrs Robinson. Not a day over 432.” 

“You are such a flatterer, Mr Reaper.” 

“Please, call me Grim.” He always said that. She never did. “Say, are those fresh scones I smell?” 

“You know they are, son. Come on in. I have made them just the way you like them: hot like hell and burnt to the crisp.”  

He hated them that way. Of course, he could not refuse. “You sure know how to treat a man, Mrs Robinson. Sometimes I wonder why it is you are still single after all those years.” It is because you smell of thirty-day old shit, you filthy pig.  

“Oh, stop it. You are making me blush. Now sit down, we need to talk.” This sounded more serious than he had ever heard her speak. Was something the matter? She is not going to call HR on me, is she? He eyeballed her. Gave her a side-eye. She was the one that got him into trouble with that biatch from HR in the first place and he knew. Her neighbours ratted her out.  

“Have you been redecorating, Mrs Robinson?” As he stepped into the living, he noticed she had taking everything down from the walls, even the wallpaper. “It looks really minimalistic. Nigh on industrial. I didn’t think you were one for these modern interiors.”  

She sighed as she sat down as she presented the smouldering scones on a China saucer. “You know, Mr Reaper, I feel my time has come. Yet, the world won’t let me die in peace. It’s those new doctors and their mandatory treatments, you see.” 

He knew about those dreaded treatments. They were the reason he had gained a couple of stones and was now on his way to gaining Santa Claus status. Soon he’d be donning a red coat and bringing gifts to people singing cheerfully about him around a charcoal grill carrying scythes. “Yes, I know about them, Mrs Robinson. Are they not to your liking?” Those scones are as black as her heart, they are. See if any of your doctors can cure that. 

“I know we have not always been on good terms with one another, Mr Reaper, but I think I have an idea that might benefit the both of us.” She handed him a piece of coal she called a scone with a funny look in her face.  

Is she flirting with me? “Do tell. I am all ears.” 

It only took one scone and a cup of tea for her to relate her idea to him. “It would definitely upset the apple cart, Mrs Robinson. Though I am not sure whether HR would like it very much.” Boy, she must really hate everybody as much as they hate her. I’m starting to like this woman. Is she still flirting with me?  

“To hell with that sodded HR. That woman can kiss my hairy fanny. Those doctors have taken away our right to die and I, for one, have lost the will to live. Now where does that put me, I ask you.” 

“I see your point, Mrs Robinson. This will take some planning and preparation that will put Operation Overlord to shame.”  

“Make it so. I trust in you. Have a scone for the road and I will see you soon, Grim.” 

— 

Of course, his months of absence did not go unnoticed. Scones were left uneaten, and tea was left undrunk. Headlines in newspapers started declaring Death dead. Doctors were getting calls from nervous folks asking whether treatments were still necessary now the Grim Reaper seemed to have disappeared. Politicians debated whether to assign a substitute Reaper to keep the peace. HR was having a horrible time at the office as the Grim Reaper had not shown his skull anywhere and the phone was ringing off the hook. Having an eternal life without death suddenly seemed horrible. 

It was the sixth hour of the sixth day of the sixth month when he walked into Mrs Robinson’s living again. Nobody had seen him go in except, of course, Mrs Robinson herself as she was the one who had opened the door for him. He sat down in his usual chair and was offered the same rotten scones that somehow tasted a lot better than they used to. No tea today, but a nice glass of bourbon.  

“Here’s to you, Mrs Robinson. The Reaper loves you more than you will know.” 

“I reckon than that you have finished it?” 

“It is indeed, and it will exceed all of your expectations. The next part is up to you.” 

“Please, tell me more about it.” 

“Oh the horror, Mrs Robinson. This device is pure torture. If this does not make people want to kill themselves, I do not know what will. It is portable and you can use it anywhere you like.” He showed it to her and she had a surprised look on her face. Not exactly a thing that looked like it would exceed all of her expectations even though it looked like a mouldy dead squid.  

“What does it do? Does it have a name?” It came out a little disappointed. 

“This, Mrs Robinson, plays hell on people’s eardrums. The only way people will be able to describe it is as the missing link between noise and sound. I wanted to give a fancy schmancy name, but I decided against it and figured I should just call it what it looked like. I have dubbed it ‘bagpipes’, for it has a bag and it has pipes. Take it. Play it. Soon, I will have my job back, and you will have found a reason to live.  

“Go on, be a devil, have another scone. You have earned it.” She gave him a wink, and that was when he knew for sure that she was definitely flirting with Death.  

 

This was written using a prompt from promptuarium. Please, visit the site for very interesting writing prompts.