A humorous short story about Death, God and a Duck.

Death wasn't happy. Not that you could particularly tell, his face had fallen off years ago. He couldn't complain though, the contract had made this perfectly clear when accepting the position; it didn't stop him trying to delay the inevitable. A plethora of moisturisers, Botox, even elastic bands and blu tac had been tried but all had proven useless in the end. He had managed to hang on to one small sliver of scabby flesh just above his left eye, which for some reason he now found himself immensely attached to; it even had some scant eyebrow. That though, was as far as it went, the rest of his body was completely meat free.

That was not the reason he was angry.

That morning, he'd been informed by the Man upstairs that his holiday had been postponed yet again. For the third time in as many months no proper cover could be found to take over his responsibilities. What responsibilities? Being Death was really nothing more than a glorified desk job, most of the actual soul harvesting was now subcontracted to private tenders. He had planned to party the weekend away, possessing a newly deceased body that just happened to have one of the most hotly sought after festival tickets on the planet, but now found himself in his usual place, stuck behind the large heavy oak desk in his dull, musty office.

But this too was not the reason for his annoyance - well, maybe a little.

No, the reason for his anger was the increasing incompetence of one his subcontractors. Marty, the Managing Director of the G4S Afterlife Security Services, had been summoned for the umpteenth time to explain his latest mess. Somehow, he had managed to lose over 300 souls in a plane crash his company had been informed of some three weeks prior to the accident. Death was now eager to hear what excuse his old college buddy would come up with this time, his mood not helped by the fact Marty was already 45 minutes late.

Death sat in silence, hands clasped, staring at the clock. The monotonous deep tick seemed to fill the room, the pendulum swinging in its dark mahogany casing as it had for all eternity. His mind drifted away to a time before Death, when he used to swoop and soar with the other Angels, enjoying life to its full. Now Death didn't enjoy life, Death was dead after all, the enjoying life part contradicted Death's deadness in so many ways that it just hurt his head.

The only person he really talked to these days was Mavis, his secretary, who made it quite obvious she had a soft spot for Death. This creeped him out. He knew Mavis' past, before she had died, and understood her tastes in men to be quite specific; cold and unfeeling were the words she used. The term necrophilia explained it rather better, Death thought. So he kept Mavis at a distance, siting boss/employee protocols rather than tell the truth that he just found it all a bit icky.

The intercom buzzed making Death jump.

"Yes," he said, the echoing heavy tones filling the room, making his empty coffee mug rattle on the desk. Death reached out, skeletal hand gripping the cup; a present from Mavis which had the witty phrase 'Heaven's Greatest Deity' printed on the side. It was, of course, totally useless to Death, he didn't drink coffee. He didn't drink anything more to the point; the lack of tongue, palate, throat and so on kind of made the whole fluid intake thing rather redundant. But he liked it. He just wasn't quite sure what his boss would think of the sentiment though. So always kept it hidden when he was around; which, to be honest, wasn't much these days.

"Marty here to see you sir," Mavis informed him.

"Send him in," he growled.

Marty's distorted form appeared through the frosted glass of the office door and he knocked timidly before opening it slowly, his head poking through the gap.

"Afternoon Geoff," he said, a waver in his voice.

If Death had any expression he would have scowled at the podgy, red faced man but instead sat passively, red pin pricks of light peering out from under his cowl.

"It's Death now, Marty, and I'd appreciated you calling me by my proper title."

Marty swung the door open, shimmying sideways to get his wings through the narrow entrance.

Yes, of course, sorry Geo...Death," he replied slowly.

The Angel stood a little hunched, nervously shifting from one foot to the other in front of Death's desk, eyes darting around the room trying desperately to avoid his Boss' stare.

"Sit down please, Marty," Death said, calmly. Though, with a voice that could literally curdle milk, it was hard to tell what expression he was showing.

Marty lowered himself onto a stool, sighing.

"Look, before you say anything, let me explain," Marty started, but Death cut him off, raising a bony hand to his old friend's face.

"Before you start with yet another implausible and frankly preposterous excuse let me say something Marty. We have known each other for quite some time, yes?" Marty nodded vigorously. "Going on a couple of millennia by my count, and in that time would you ever say there has been an appropriate time that I could have been labelled stupid?"

Marty frowned sensing a trap but eventually, slowly, shook his head.

"So, bearing that in mind, beware," Death said, raising a white, thin finger. "I am not in the mood for that to change."

Death could see Marty's wings quiver, now and again a loose feather drifted to the office floor. The Angel sat several seconds before responding.

"Well, we honestly left in plenty of time but when we arrived at the Pearly Gates, Saint Peter was no-where to be seen, all there was was a sign saying 'Back in 5 Mins' and as Peter is the only one with a key and the gates were locked there was no way we..."

"Enough," Death screamed, causing the office, thirteenth floor and the whole building to shake. His coffee mug rattled along the desk, falling to the floor, smashing into a hundred pieces. Death rose to his full height, towering above the now visibly shaking Angel, crimson eyes flaring in the deep shadows of his skull. "I have had enough of you and your incompetence, Marty. We may be old friends but tell me why the hell I shouldn't tear you limb from limb right now and feed you to the Hell Hounds?"

"I...I...I really am telling the truth, Geoff...Death," he corrected himself quickly. "We were stuck there for over an hour..."

"You just can't help yourself, can you?" Death cut in. "Are you trying to tell me that Saint Peter disappeared from the Pearly Gates, the only way into heaven, for over an hour and I somehow didn't hear about this?"

"It's kind of common knowledge the Peter has a little problem with the, well, you know," Marty whistled, making a drinking motion with his hand.

Death screamed, slamming his fist into the middle of his desk, putting his whole exasperated force behind the blow. The wood split in two, sending the two halves of the table crashing to either side of the room.

Then everything stopped. From below his cowl a dry, pinky, flake of skin fluttered lightly towards the floor. Both Marty and Death watched in silence as it danced in the air on it's way towards the ground. It landed delicately in the mass of splinters, eyebrow side up.

Death stared at what was now nothing more than a piece of hairy beef jerky, struggling to make some sense of the emotions that now welled inside.

"Leave now, Marty, before I do something dark and wicked to you," he whispered, or at least it was a whisper for Death.

The Angel didn't need another invitation and scrambled out the door leaving behind a puff of feathers.

Mavis appeared, only her head visible as she lent back in her chair, peeping in the door.

"Everything alright, sir," she asked, genuine concern in her voice.

"Call the Big Man, Mavis."

Mavis grimaced. "He's on the golf course, said he wasn't to be disturbed."

"Call him."

-o-

God stood addressing the ball. He stretched his neck, loosening his shoulders, twisting his head left and right. He paused, flicking his long white beard over his left shoulder before again planting his feet ready for the shot.

"Ever thought about shaving that monstrosity off?" Satan asked.

God sighed, his old golfing partner never ceased trying to put him off but it was all part of the game now and he just put up with the annoyance.

"Nah, kind of used to it and besides, it's kind of a trade mark these days, Lucifer."

"A bit like Santa Claus then," Satan quipped, showing a row of sharp, pearl white teeth

"Ye, but I'm real," God answered, not taking his eyes from the ball.

God swung back the driver.

"Oh, before I forget," Satan piped up before God had time to follow through with his swing. "I'm going out for a little tipple with Buddha tomorrow night if you're interested."

God sighed again, lowering the club. "I think I'll pass. Last time I went out with him we ended up singing a duet in some karaoke bar in the West End. Made a complete tit of myself." he replied.

Satan laughed. "Oh yes, someone posted that online, if I recall? Did you ever find out who that was?"

God gave Satan a withering look.

"That's right, it was me, wasn't it," he said, laughing again.

God put a perfectly manicured hand on his hip, pausing. "Can I take my shot now?" he asked.

"Yes, of course, carry on." Satan replied, gesturing at the ball, forked tail wagging impishly.

Again he pulled back the golf club and swung. A split second before the fwack of metal on surlyn, his phone rang. The ball sliced off at a 45 degree angle burying itself deep in the undergrowth on the left of the fairway.

"Christ," God shouted, throwing the driver to the ground.

"Don't think Jesus will help you with that lie, old bean." Satan remarked helpfully. "He's probably chewing his own face off in some dance club in Ibiza or Vegas or some other den of debauchery if I know him."

The phone continued to ring.

"Well, aren't you going to answer it? Could be important."

God angrily rummaged through his robes, unsure which of the many pockets contained the shrill ring. Finally he put his hand on the small vibrating plastic box and produced the ancient black Nokia.

"What the hell is that?" Satan exclaimed, pointing at the phone.

"What, I like it," God replied, feigning hurt. "Besides, it pisses Jobs off no end; I'm sure he's after my job that one."

God puffed out his cheeks, trying to calm his temper before answering.

"Yes, your Creator speaking," God said, not a hint of irony. "U-hu. Yes. I see. Well if you must. It's totally your call. Eyebrow? No, sorry, no Hellhounds. U-hu, u-hu, hmmmm. Yes, I'm listening. Ok, speak soon. Bye, bye."

God sighed.

"It was Death. He wants to go out in the field; scythe, horse, the whole works," God hung his head. "And I had such high hopes for that one."

-o-

Death flicked another piece of bread at the duck patiently waiting at his feet. He stared out into the pond fixing on and plastic milk carton that bobbed on the shallow waves causing the congealed contents to slop around inside; much like how his own inside were feeling, or would have if he had any insides to slop. His focus moved back to the duck wondering, not for the first time, why it was that of all the wonderous animal and insect species on the planet it was only the humble duck that could see the undead. He stopped flicking the bread, turning to the figure sitting next to him on the grass, slowly pointing at the duck. Before he could speak his companion cut in.

"I dunno," he said, his deep reverberating voice much the same as Death's but with just a hint of an accent. "You were going to ask about the duck, weren't you?"

Death just turned back to the mallard which had started quacking loudly, anxious for more of the crusty loaf, and flicked another piece at the bird.

"What do I do now, Toby?" Death asked.

"You're asking the wrong person, mate," Toby answered. He was dressed in cheap velour suit which hung on his emaciated frame like a smack head at a wedding. On his head an obvious wig sat at a jonty angle, the hair falling down over the deep set eye sockets obscuring his view.

"Sacked, bloody sacked, and for what?" Death gesticulated at his friend. "Showing some bloody initiative, that's what? I've got a good mind to take the arsehole to an industrial tribunal."

A clap of thunder reminded Death that when in the mortal realm God was always listening and didn't take kindly to former employees calling him an arsehole. But what did it matter, what more could he do to him. Stripped of his robes, cast out from heaven, drained of his power, he was now nothing more than an animated skeleton; good for nothing except maybe Ghost Train carnival rides or a Biology class study tool.

"Mate, it's not worth getting worked up about. Everyone gets the boot from the big man sooner or later. I mean, didn't you ever wonder what happened to the death that came before you?" Toby said.

"It never crossed my mind once; until I met you," Death said.

Toby shook his head, the wig seeming to stay stationary as he did so. "Yup, them were the days. You know the Black Death was me, my idea, but did he give me any thanks, did he hell. I was a great Death, the best of the best he called me. That was until I had my nervous breakdown and the dick turfed me out the door."

There was another clap of thunder.

Toby stretched a boney middle finger up to the sky. "Oooo, do your worst big man, I've nothing to lose."

"What did I do though, I was a model employee, not a foot wrong in over 200 years of service. I just don't understand," Death said, hanging his head.

Toby started chuckling. "It's simple, you rocked the boat. God makes the decisions, God tells you how it's going to work, not the other way around. You demonstrated free will and that, my friend, was your downfall."

Toby got to his feet, motioning Death to follow. "See that fellow over there," he pointed to the other side of the park where a tall skeletal figure stood shouting at a tree. "That's Eddie, or Edwardo Constantine III as he likes to be called. He was Death before me and do you know his crime." Death shook his head. "He put his robe in with a white wash, just so happened God's favourite was in the machine to."

"No," Death exclaimed.

"No, of course not, you fool. You really are quite gullible, Geoff. No, he's stark raving mad that one. Cracked under the pressure of the job. No subcontractors back then, you see. That's why they were brought in, God didn't want any more of us going insane. Raisin?" Toby offer Death a dirty crumpled paper bag.

Death peered inside. "Aren't they rabbit droppings, Toby?" he enquired.

Toby looked at him blankly, not that a skull could have any other expression and tilted the bag up to his mouth. The droppings spilled into the his slack jaw, falling through the gap. Many bounced on his sternum and down the front of his crumpled shirt. Most though, rattled through Toby's ribcage, eventually finding their way in to his trouser legs, rolling out the bottom on to the grass.

"You're quite mad, aren't you?" Death commented.

"I have my moments," he replied. "It's what happens in our line of work, Geoff. It gets to us all in the end. God just saw a opportunity to get you out before it broke you completely, he was actually trying to do you a favour."

Death stared out over the pond at Edwardo Constantine III who was now chasing a squirrel around the base of the tree screaming something about nuts and realised something; God had given him a second chance. Far from being the arsehole Death initially thought, God was actually looking out for him.

Invigorated, Death started walking. An idea bouncing around his hollow skull. There was no way he was going to end up like his predecessors; sitting in a grubby park, shouting at foliage and eating bunny shit. He had much more to give and an eternity to give it, this couldn't be all that was left.

"Where you off to?" Toby shouted.

"I have work to do, Toby. If God wants hired help, I can't think of anyone better qualified than an ex-Death to do the job, can you?"

"Good luck," Toby called after him.

All Death had to do now was get back into heaven and according to some, all he would need as a bribe was a six pack of Special Brew.

"Come on Duck, to the Off License," Death said, striding off towards the shops.

The Duck frowned, looking at Toby picking rabbit excrement from his teeth, then the murky pond with it's floating detritus and eventually back at the lanky figure of Death marching confidently into the distance. Shrugging, he waddled after Heaven's Greatest Deity.