And Other Ill-Advised Dating Techniques
I didn't realize what a piece of shit I was until I died.
The Grim, the post-mortem chaperone who collected me, is the crankiest Death in the greater Kansas City area. Understandable, since her job is to bag the souls of the worthless and rotten. Apparently, I'm so crummy they made me her apprentice. There are so many other kinds of Death, and of all of them, I get lassoed to Miss Buzzkill, who loves to remind me I'm hers with her big, green gargoyle finger, pointing and giving me her spooky come-hither.
As the Grim's new involuntary Lackey, some of the rules are easy:
- Avoid inter-office conflicts — Mind my Own Death’s Business.
- Shelve your souls before exiting the locker room.
- No Death Suits in the hot tub.
But other dos-and-don’ts I just can’t handle:
- Never getting a love of my life.
- Giving up the love of my death.
In my new hereafter, the Grim gives me two options — stay and help her take souls, including the love of my death, or refuse and condemn those souls to nothingness forever.
I'm opting for door number three — sacrificing myself to get back to life. Which, I'm pretty sure I can do, if I can get the most spine-tingling, jeebie-making Death in the Underworld to shove me in his moan-ozzing Gray Box of the Unknown.
It's not like I'd come back as a possum... Right?
One of Yes' purple monsters.
She doesn't believe in monsters or me. Being the Death of Make-believe is hard. So many suits, so many things kids believe in.
My personal wisdom advisor.
And rant buddy. I miss Frank. He always knew the right thing to say, even when it meant saying nothing.
My only afterlife possession.
My dumb puck keychain. I got it for losing a hockey tournament, and I lost it for being outsmarted by a seven-year-old Death.
The Grim's favorite.
Through all her grumbling and soul-taking, there's one thing that can tame her go-get-'em-and-shove-'em-in-her-bone-bag attitude -- chocolate.
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