“No!” Satan said. “Don’t say a word. I’m not finished. Weren’t you aware that this was scheduled for today? Did you even try to make it? Do you even care?”
“My Dark Lord and Master – ” Death began in the sepulchral voice of the tomb.
“Not in here,” Satan said. “Save that for the groupies.”
Death cleared his throat and continued in a normal tone of voice.
“I sent one of my assistants. They were supposed to take care of it.”
“You know the rules: fifty or more deaths and you have to handle it in person.”
“I – ”
“If that’s an excuse coming, I’m not interested.”
“I – ”
“I’m serious.”
“I’m...sorry.”
“You’re sorry? We’ve got one hundred and thirty-two supposedly dead people running around and you’re sorry?”
“I could go kill them now,” Death said, helpfully.
“You can’t go kill them now. Now is too late. These people have been on the local news. They’re negotiating merchandising rights. They’re getting interest from network television.”
Satan got up, hoping that walking around his office might calm him down, but it only made him angrier, so he sat back down again.
“You used to be so good at this,” he said. “You were with it. On the ball. The Black Death. The Crusades. Hiroshima. The Holocaust wasn’t to my taste, but you did a terrific job with it. And now look at you. You look like a cartoon character. What happened to all those suits I bought you?”
“They felt funny.”
“Funny?”
“Constricting.”
“So you just keep on wearing that smelly old robe. Look at it, it’s more hole than robe. And frankly, you smell bad.”
“I’m supposed to smell bad.”
“Who says?”
“The cold stench of the tomb. And all that. Everyone.”
“And if Everyone told you to dress up in a pink bunny suit would you do it?”
Death knew that this was a trick question, but he couldn’t quite figure out the trick.
“Maybe?” he ventured.
Satan threw his hands up in despair, and at that moment Death’s scythe, which had been leaning against the wall, toppled to the floor, leaving an ugly scratch behind it in the paint.
“And why are you still lugging that thing around? Do you think it’s threatening? Because it’s not. It makes you look Amish.”
“It’s part of my image.”
“But what good does it do?”
“It can cut grass...and things.”
“Right.”
There was a long pause.
“I hate it,” Death finally said. “I hate the scythe. It’s always getting caught in doors and tearing my robe and poking people in the head. Every time I sit down I have to find something to do with it and usually when I lean it up against the wall a minute later it falls back down again. I want to throw it in a volcano.”
“Then why don’t you?”
“The same reason you keep this place running. Habit.”
“That’s...that’s an entirely different issue,” Satan said. “Don’t even compare what I do to what you do, because right now I’m keeping this place open with sweat and luck and elbow grease while you, on the other hand, are the biggest screw up in all Creation. You know I don’t believe in micromanaging but times are tight. It’s not my decision, there’s pressure from upstairs and I don’t like it, but I don’t see any other options. I’m going to have to let you go.”
“But I’m Death!”
“It’s hard. I know. If there was any other way – ”
“Pressure from upstairs? From who? You are upstairs.”
“I’m under a lot of pressure that you don’t even know about,” Satan yelled. He saw Death start to shut down and so he changed tactics, opening a drawer and pulling out a pair of withered, mummified hands.
“We all pitched in and got you this,” he said, handing them to Death. Death cracked them open. Inside lay a gold wrist hourglass.
“It’s got an inscription...” Satan began.
‘A watch?” Death roared. “After twelve thousand years of service I get kissed off with a watch and a pension plan?”
“Actually, I had to cut the pension plans,” Satan said.
“I wish the Creator had destroyed you!” Death yelled. “Because Heaven would run a better Hell than you!”
And he threw the hourglass at the wall where it shattered, then he whirled on his heel and stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him. It was a very dramatic exit. Satan would have admired it if he hadn’t had such a hideous headache.
Ever since The Fall he had been subject to headaches, colds, stomach cramps and shooting pains in his legs. He could barely get drunk. He didn’t need to eat or drink.