His eyes glimmer with hope as silver droplets trickle down his cheeks and soak the powder lining his nostrils. Dripping hair falls past his ears and dangles over the lip of the toilet seat.

"Is... it r-r-eally you?" His speech is slurred as his eyes glaze over and he tips his head over the seat. He spews, then straightens up once more, taking his final puff of white dust. Pathetic for someone known to be the king of rock and roll.

"Let's get this over with. Do you want the scythe or do you have another method in mind?"

It has been almost a century since I was forced into the role of reaper, but all I need to do is glean this last soul and I will be free to live peacefully in heaven.

"Scythe."

Usually, they beg or ask for mercy, sometimes even going as far as to try and glean me. I hesitate, but very well, he will have his chosen death. As he blinks, I neatly pry the soul out of the fleshy casing and watch as the carcass slumps forward, head now fully submerged in the bowl of the toilet.

"Thank you," I hear as his soft light slowly fades - up or down, I do not know.

"What do you mean, 'thank you'?" I reach to pull the glow back, but it is too late, it has already gone.

My final task is completed and I feel myself being tugged upwards, yet an ache is anchoring me to this world. Why did he thank me?

I fight against the tug, and finally pull back hard enough that I can chain myself to the scythe. I need just a bit more time here. Why did he thank me?

My body of bones claws against the marble tiles as I creak the bathroom door open and slither out. Midnight's moon cloaks me as I stalk the shadows creeping around the mansion. There is a tang of blood coating the air before I see it. Why did he thank me?

The kitchen floor is blanketed in the maroon liquid I have come to know like a best friend. In the centre of the puddle is a corpse, a chef's knife puncturing the stomach. The tug upwards becomes stronger as I drift forward. It is a girl's body, no older than 14. Why did he thank me?

I reach in and gently lift the soul out. The glow is cautious, then slowly darkens as it realises what has happened. I try to comfort it, but it disappears too soon. Please let it go up. How much powder must he have consumed to do this, or was it done before the first snort?

The wrenching upward becomes unbearable and I give in to the deafening pull. My soul rises and I find myself facing long awaited reunions, but I cannot endure the welcome for long and start wandering - where, I do not know.

I pass countless faces, but still do not stop. I search for a being I have no idea is even here. But I do discover him, obscured in a sea of many.

His celebrity status protected him from so much, but I was the one who ultimately stopped him from having to face the consequences of his horridness. I know why he thanked me. Behind the mask of a rock and roll legend lay a self-appointed reaper. I know what I must do.

I march towards him and begin to tether him to hell.

How do you want to go?

I ask every single one of them that question. I give them all, no matter who they are or what they did, that courtesy and then I arrange it like that.

What is life anyway but a series of arrangements? We enter into arrangements with one another. Contracts. Promises. And so there are accepted upon exchange rates the world over, under, above, and of course, below.

Why do you think I was destined for hell in the first place?

He asked go where.

The amount of them that ask go where would surprise you. It is not nearly as high as you would think. Most people get it. I give off a certain vibe.

You've seen me. I usually do recon by inhabiting people nearby for a bit before going in and you know me because you've seen me in people. You can feel me when I go by and you can smell me in the air.

I linger.

This particular iteration of me is less than ideal.

Last century has been lackluster in terms of the death and destruction given that I'm literally only inhabiting the body of the Grim Reaper and his consciousness to avoid being hell-bound myself and when I was in the business of taking life on Earth is was for monetary gain, pure and simple. It was business'. I took no pleasure in it and if I had been born with a silver spoon in my mouth then maybe I wouldn't have reached for a gun with my hand.

I'm worried about the next guy they got coming up; apparently he is already looking to extend his contract. Trying to be Rookie of the Year Reaper. MVP. Says, "big things in 2024, huge."

But I still got one last King of Rock and Roll to show the door before I go so as I was saying I asked how he wanted to go and once he understood the concept I was assuming he would say something like, giant rock and roll party which would be easy enough.

But he didn't want that. He wanted to die by a single gunshot wound to his medulla oblongata and he wanted to donate his body to the organ transplant list and he wanted me to promise him, to promise him on my word of honor as a Grim Reaper, as a kindred spirit, a fellow traveler who has walked the dark and lonely path, that his liver and lungs and heart and kidneys would all be used by someone.

He said lots of other stuff but it was mostly around how we could get more drugs and alcohol in the meantime before we had to do the whole dying thing, he wasn't fussed about it, but he did have a fairly decent buzz going and he was rather keen to keep that apparently.

Everyone knows that if you meet the devil at a crossroads and he offers you something the price will be your soul.

Everyone thinks that when the Grim Reaper shows up you get a chance to play him for your soul like that painting by Retzsch.

Niet.

When I show up it is checkmate. I take your life and bring you whether you like it or not.

There is no debating moving on with a Grim Reaper. Flee a Grim Reaper, wind up in Samarra.

There is no fighting a Grim Reaper.

I will arrive to the King of Rock and Roll. A Grim Reaper always arrives and takes life. I will arrive as a heart attack or an aspiration from an overdose or an armed robbery white tile stained red .380 casing clatters like an 808.

Except, in the event that a Grim Reaper offers a choice. Then the arrangement changes and even I can't change it back.

If I offer you a choice then I can only take you if I take you according to your wishes otherwise I can't take you.

But most people don't know second part. In fac, we actively discourage people knowing that part. You should forget about that part and you should definitely not tell anyone. For sure, do not tell more than 13 people about it otherwise, you know what, never mind, you do you boo-boo.

Anyway, in 99 out of 100 times thus far this has not been a problem.

I mean basically, here is how it goes, broken down in steps:

1. I show up.

2. I look like that.

3. Not like that.

4. Like that.

5. They believe right away or they need to look into my eyes and then they believe immediately.

6. I tell them I am here to take them. Some ask where, even though they know where, they still ask, which is why the number who ask is not as high as you would think. They are asking after they have looked into my eyes. They know where exactly where they are going.

7. They plan their exit.

Now, drug addled or not this guys exit wasn't the problem. It was, in my corporeal form, the easiest culmination of 100 souls a guy could ask for, I mean, come on, I had a nice little Glock 17 in the Mitsubishi Eclipse outside and he was literally already in a seated position in a place where it would be easy to clean up.

I had no qualms about the killing or how he wanted it done but I knew that there was know what I could honor stipulations that would follow his demise.

His kidneys wouldn't fetch a nickel on the black market, that heart was worth only the memories it held, those lungs which would have carried ten other men to Everest ten times over were all spent from pumping tar back and forth, and the liver; well, the liver was basically chopped liver.

My Ma used to say, "what am I, chopped liver?" when she felt ignored. God, she was a great Ma. Worked hard to put food on the table.

But anyway, I can technically send him off packing but his meaty parts aren't worth dogmeat scraps and because of that I can't fulfill the second part of his request necessary for the requiescat in pace to work now that I offered the choice and changed the arrangement.

So anyway, we are hitting 90 meetings in 90 days and then we will see how the recovery tour goes, hopefully we can generate enough revenue through that for the surgeries and treatments.

I, personally, can't wait till this guy gets his career in order, gets healthy, gets sober, gets happy, gets his body right so I can fucking shoot him in the back of the head and get on with my afterlife.

July 17th, 2023

My Last One.

I spotted him quickly once I arrived. Eyes bloodshot and drooping, back slouched over the bowl of a toilet. The feigning, drowning, once king of rock and roll, was sitting helpless before me. He leaned back slowly, eyes meeting mine. I watched as they glassed over, all fear gone from his gaze. I slowly pulled off my dark hood and sank to the floor next to him.

Most people see the best moments of their life pass in front of them before they go. The drugs were helping him as well, to slip away seamlessly. "Mama," he mumbled, "I just miss Julie." He said quietly, with a small, somber smile. Tears burned down his cheeks. He looked up at me again with tender eyes, his rock and roll façade had faded away. In this moment I could see the young boy he once was. A kid with big dreams and a heavy heart.

I opened my arms to him, he slumped over in relief and folded into me. I felt as he breathed a long sigh, releasing years of sorrow. The man was covered in layers of dirt, sweat, and stage makeup. As I brushed away his falling tears he nuzzled into my chest like a child. This was the worst part. He sensed something, smiled up at me and said, "My Julia." His smile drifted, and I watched as the last fog of life passed through his eyes. They closed softly, then the last breath escaped his lungs. Before I knew it tears began to stream down my cheeks as well.

As I held him there on the floor like a small boy, I wept as I thought of all the souls I had swept up throughout the century. How many mothers I coddled in their final moments, listened as they cried out for their children, begging not to go. The elderly who climbed willingly into my arms, tired from life's long journey. The soldiers that wished for one last goodbye. Or the ones that trekked over calmly, tired and having accepted their fate days before. The babies and toddlers I needed to take, my sorrow consuming me. I watched them for as long as I could, watched the drool pour over their chin as they slept. Or watched as they clung to their favorite stuffed animal, looking so small in their hospital beds.

I wept for them. All of them. There is no judgement in death. I look down at the man in my arms. A filthy drug addict, that cheated on girlfriends, and stopped calling his mom. A man who questioned God, and wished for a father, who missed his sister, and loved his friends. I gently laid his body down, positioning him to look as peaceful as possible. I leaned down and kissed his cheek, trying my best to remember that feeling of stubble on my lips.

I rose, the lost singer's soul still clinging to my body. Now I'd take him away, leaving him in a waiting room of sorts, never to encounter him again. I took my time, appreciating and reminiscing all the gentle souls I've carried. My time as the Grim Reaper of life is finished. I will hang up my cloak and resume my existence with the others, indebted to the gods for giving me this generous opportunity to right my wrongs.

Good bye.