Death in the City by Kyle Giroux (books to read for beginners TXT) 📕

he said. “Follow me.” He spoke slowly, darkness etched into his words. Death followed him into a very small, entirely white room. “Sit,” he said, gesturing towards a lone plastic chair. Death obeyed.

“I’m sorry, I’m just trying to get to Boston,” said Death. The officer snatched the boarding pass from him and looked it over.

“Boston?” He took the boarding pass from Death’s hand and gazed at it. Then he locked the door. “I’m not going to pretend I don’t know who you are. You’re a wanted man.”

“I am?” asked Death, flattered. “Thanks.”

“We all have pictures of you. They’re just grainy street-side surveillance shots but I have a good eye for this stuff. You thought you could take out an entire city’s worth of police and get away with it?”

“Oh, no. I mean, yes,” said Death. “I mean, I have a meeting in Boston today. If I don’t get there, I’ll be fired.”

“Boston?” asked the officer in mock curiosity. “Boston…Africa?” He tossed the boarding pass back to Death.

“Africa? No,” said Death. “No, no, Massachusetts. I can’t be in trouble for some deaths, that would just be silly.” He stood up and put the boarding pass back into his pocket, making his way out the door. The officer swung his gun out of his holster and stood at the ready, finger on the trigger.

“Get down now! You’re dead, buddy!” He rushed at Death, who tried to get out of the way. But he could not; the officer took hold of his arm and fell right to the ground, reaped.

“Oh, damn,” said Death, backing away from the motionless body. “No good at all.” He took his jacket that the officer had dropped in the fall and put it back on. When he exited the room, he nodded to two other officers standing next to the door and made his way to the terminal.

“Hello, sir, how are you?” asked an assistant at the gate. She was blond and had very little evidence of a chin beneath a tight-lipped smile. When Death gave her the boarding pass she said, “Oh, goodness, you’d better hurry. That plane is just about to take off. This hallway will lead you right to it. Hurry now, hurry.” Death heeded her advice and ran down the hallway. A stewardess on the plane checked his boarding pass and stamped it before he stumbled down the rows to find his seat.

When he arrived at seat 6A he sat down and relaxed, wiping sweat from his face. He looked over at the man sitting next to him—a large Arab in a tunic and turban. Death smiled (a gesture which was unreturned) and looked around. Quickly he noticed the whole plane was full of people who looked just like the man next to him. The men wore traditional Muslim headwear, while all the women were dressed in hijabs. They were each in their own unique tunics and all spoke in a language Death was well-versed in: Arabic. The “Fasten Seatbelt” light switched on as Death grew suspicious that something was amiss.

“Hello ladies and gentlemen,” said a voice from the PA system. “We’ll be in Marrakech in about six and a half hours, so just sit back and relax and enjoy the flight. Thank you for flying with Westboro Air.”

As a stewardess was making her way towards the front of the plane to demonstrate safety procedures, Death caught her attention. “Did he say…uh, where did he say this plane was going?” he asked.

“Marrakech,” said the woman. She was a stout, very friendly-looking woman with frizzy red hair and rosy dimpled cheeks. “Marrakech, Morocco. Please fasten your seatbelt at this point, sir.”

Death looked down at his boarding pass. Sure enough, printed across the top of it was, “MARRAKECH.” He put his head back and closed his eyes, letting out a great sigh. In his haste to print one of the special free tickets, the assistant at baggage claim must have printed off the wrong one. Death could not blame him; it seemed like an honest mistake.

Four days later Death returned to (or, if one were being pedantic, one could say deported back to) his apartment. His suit stunk of incense and his shoes were filled with sand, and he had quite a painful sunburn stretching across the entirety of his body. When he walked into the apartment, he was greeted by Brian, who was cooking bacon with a bare chest and backwards baseball cap.

“Oh, yo dude, what’s up?” asked Brian.

“Nothing really,” said Death.

“Hey, so, uh, yeah, you have some mail over there.” Death walked to the table and picked up an envelope with his name on it. He opened it to find a check from FreePay Brothers, worth $20,000. He thought he would have to find the man who used to stand outside of Freepay quickly, otherwise he would just have to keep the check for himself. “Oh, and…wait,” continued Brian. He looked contemplatively at the ceiling. Death could almost see the gears in his brain grinding weakly. “Oh yeah, that place FreePay called. They said that you’ll get your last paycheck in the mail, and that you’re fired.”

“Oh,” said Death quietly. “That’s…probably not good.”

Death walked into his room and shut the door. He emptied the sand from his shoes and clothes and laid down to get some rest, but only stared at the ceiling with nothing in particular on his mind.

A Visit from Lucifer

Death, Tim, and Maria sat on the couch in Death’s living room. “So I moved out here to make a few dollars before I go to law school in Nashville,” said Maria. “I can’t believe what happened in the HaffCaff, though. No one is saying a word about it. All I’ve heard is that there’s hardly a police officer left in the city.”

“Yeah, that’s really, um…weird,” said Death.

“What do you mean?” asked Tim. “It was your fault. You were—“

“Hey, Tim, could I see that paper on the table?” interrupted Death.

“Whose fault?” asked Maria.

Tim plopped the paper onto Death’s