A Full-Time Job Macabre

Another client on my checklist.  Well, the term "client" is a misnomer.  I mean, you can't arrange an appointment with your own death can you?  Anyways, my new "client"'s name was Roger M. Paxton.  Time of death: 12:35 pm.  30 seconds left.  I left for my destination.

And I saw him, good ol' Roger M. Paxton, strolling about the streets of a battered town, his rifle slung across his shoulder and his kevlar vest glittering with middle-eastern dust.  He seemed quite unaware of the fact that he would be dead in a matter of seconds.

So I waited.  My last job was quite tedious because there were over a 100,000 souls to collect.  Earthquake took them all.  Poor chaps.  They were mostly children too.  And here I sat waiting for Roger M. Paxton to die so that I could take him to a better place.

10 seconds.  People ask me frequently if I like my job.  "Sure," I say.  "The pay's good and you don't have to do much."  Watching people die however, can be unnerving sometimes.

Ever since the conception of this planet called "Earth", I've had over trillions of clients.  The job was easy to bear from the start since most of the deaths were consequences of natural causes.  However, as time passed, life on Earth became increasingly intelligent and concocted ways of murdering one another in the most creative and nefarious ways.  And humans think I'm evil because I take their life.  Look, I'm just here to do my job.  It's you guys who do all the killing.

I did not create guns, I did not create bombs.  I did not create wars nor did I create genocides.  For countless years I have put wretched humans out of their misery from this even more wretched planet.  In some ways I think I should deserve more thanks than I usually get.  But humans constantly make effigies of me: black cloaked figures wielding scythes, skull heads, satan, devil, the list goes on....  I get quite offended when people associate me with the devil.  There is no such thing!  Hell, I don't even know myself if God exists.  All I know is that I just do my job and people die in the process.

Stupid humans.  They always have to blame someone or something for their troubles.  They blame religion, they blame the government, they blame society.  They blame their friends, their parents, their lovers, and they blame me.  Look, if you blame me, it's just like trying to bring your murdered friend back from the dead.  IT DOESN'T WORK.  Instead of blaming me, why don't you humans come up with a resolution?  Lay down your guns, dismantle your bombs.  I'm tired of having to pull off all-nighters because you damn humans keep killing each other!  It's senseless!  This world has become a slaughterhouse!

People say death does not have any feelings, that death is merciless and reaps human souls for his own enjoyment.  But I do have feelings... I cringe when children get slaughtered and I have to cover my ears when the innocent die excruciating deaths.  I can't help it when people murder each other.  It's not my fault that humans like to kill each other.  I'm a collector and I have to do my job.

5 seconds.  I gazed at Roger M. Paxton's ruddy face.  He had a light beard and his blue eyes were rigid with vigilance.  I could already hear his widow weeping, his children wailing, his friends moaning.  I wish I could do something to save him.  I wish I could tell him that it wasn't his fault that he ended up in this hellhole and that he was going to a much better place soon.  I wish I could take the lives of the men who wage these wars and sign the damn contracts that send thousands of young men to their imminent doom instead.

Paxton does not deserve to die.  He has a family.  He has a life.  He has a soul.  But do the big men care?  To them, Paxton is merely a sacrificial pawn.  His existence is irrelevant because his fight and his death will bring those big men their pile of dough.

2 seconds.  Roger M. Paxton walked towards a garbage pile.  He took out a cigarette and smoked.  I shook my head sadly.  The way Paxton lighted his cigarette was so casual and humane that it almost seemed inappropriate on a battlefield.  He shouldn't be here.  He should be playing catch with his son.  He should be making love to his wife.  What is a great man like Paxton doing here?

12:35.  Things moved in slow motion.  The ground beneath Paxton's feet shook and burst forth with tremendous force.  Dust and debris kicked upwards like a spewing volcano.  Objects within the proximity of the explosion were torn apart and Paxton's body vaporized into thin air.  I stepped into the smoke and dust and got hold of Paxton's arm.  He was safe with me.  He could rest now.  He could say goodbye to this wretched world and the wretched men who killed him.  He could embrace me.  He could love me.  He could sleep forever and rest in peace.  I wished to have a chat with Paxton, but I had more clients to take care of.  So I left Paxton to go on his way and set off to my new destination.  After this I would have to race to the other side of the world to take care of more clients...sigh.  The list never ends.  It goes on forever and ever.

And people frequently ask me if I like my job.  "Sure," I say.  "The pay's good and you don't have to do much."