Death's Assistant

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic
God decides that it's time to ease Death's workload and assigns him an assistant that recently died in our world, much to his distaste.

Submitted: April 08, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: April 08, 2017



Sitting at his big oak desk, Death mindlessly played one of those addictive games on his diePhone. He really loved the Angry Birds games and even watched the cartoons on the website, one of the highlights of his week he’d always say to himself. However, he knew that he was scheduled to collect souls at a horrific car crash in Seattle later today. Death thought Fate was very malicious in some of his decisions and most times, it led to blazing arguments between the two.

The desk phone rang, Death contemplated ignoring it and continuing playing his game but instead he turned off the diePhone, put it on the desk and picked up the receiver. “Grim Reaper here,” he answered.

“Death, it’s God.”

“Yes sir?”

“Oh c’mon,” God said. “You know, I don’t like being called sir.”

Death responded with, “Well sir, you assigned me a butler who won’t stop calling me sir after I keep telling him not to.”

After an intake of breath, God eventually said, “Good point. Anyway, could you come to my office, I need to speak to you about the accident you’re scheduled to be at.”

“Don’t you mean Fate’s killing spree?” Death tried to inject as much sarcasm and hatred into his words. If it wasn’t made clear before, there was absolutely no love lost between Death and Fate.

“Nevertheless, I need to see you.”

“On my way.” He cradled the receiver, pocketed his diePhone and strode to the doors, where he swung them open. “Stephen!” he shouted while descending the staircase.

“Yes sir?” he asked. Once again, he stood rigidly to attention and displayed that military precision he was well known for.

“I have to go out,” Death said, picking up his scythe. “The boss wants to see me.”

“What does sir want to see sir about?”

“Well sir wants to talk to me about the accident in Seattle.”

Stephen simply said, “Ahh.”

“Has Stroke been fed?”

“He has.”

“And is he all saddled up, ready to travel?”

“He is, sir.”

“Excellent, see you later.”

“Goodbye sir.”

And with that, Death left his house and went to Stroke’s stable.


The glass on the door was had the label God, Managing Director stuck to it. Death had often found it funny that God had this stuck to his office door as God was always trying to make himself more approachable and not intimidating. He knocked on the door. “Come in,” a voice bellowed and Death opened the door.

“Ah Death,” God smiled. “Come in, take a seat.”

Death strode over to the chair, plonked himself down on it and rested his scythe on the floor.

“Y’know, you didn’t have to bring that with you.”

“What sir?”

“That,” God pointed at the scythe.

“Oh right, well sir,” he said, “after carrying that around for a couple of centuries, I feel that it’s part of the whole ensemble.”

“Fair enough,” God was satisfied with that. “Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about the accident in Seattle.”

“How could I forget?” Sarcasm oozed for that statement.

“Fate originally planned for three people to die.”

Death simply nodded.

“But he changed his mind, now only one person will die at that accident.”

“Why this change of mind?”

“I’m not sure but her name is Martina Hix and I can tell you,” God continued with a weak smile, “she’s going to be your new assistant.”

Death was left speechless; it wasn’t that wasn’t grateful to get an assistant (because well, he was doing this job by himself since humans first conceived the idea of an anthropomorphic skeleton wearing a jet-black robe and carrying a scythe) or that he was so angry he chose to stay in a sullen silence, he just didn’t know how to react or what to say. There was a silence between the two.

“You okay?” God asked.

“Mmm,” Death replied. “Can I just ask sir, who’d made this decision?”

“I did. I figured that there was too much of a heavy workload on you and I also figured that it was time you had some help.”

“Thank you, sir, but, does someone have to die now for me to get help? I mean couldn’t we get one of the departed for the job?”

I should explain here that the departed are those who have long since died mad have neither Ascended nor Descended but are living in the Deadlands.

Yeah,” God responded, “but this seemed more… convenient.”

“I see,” Death could tell that God was using his ‘get out jail free card’ here. He picked up his scythe and stood up. He was not happy with decision but it wasn’t like he could argue with God, so without a word, he simply left the office.


Driving in her car, Martina was unaware of the events that would play out and ultimately lead to the last night of her life. She had finished work and was heading back to her apartment in downtown Seattle. She had reached a crossroad where the light was green but however, she stopped and quickly scanned the area for oncoming hazards. Satisfied with the outcome, she started the car but suddenly, a speeding car rammed into the side of hers.

The collision was so great, it forced her car onto its side and then, it rolled over onto the roof.  


Martina opened her eyes. The seatbelt kept her hanging upside down, so she unbuckled it and fell onto the roof. She crawled to the door, opened it and then crawled out. Once she was a good distance, she got her feet and dusted herself off; she was amazed that she had survived. There was an ambulance at the scene and EMTs tending to the injured lying on the road. “Hey!” she yelled at them. “I’m over here, I’m fine!” But it was as if they were either unable to hear her or intentionally ignoring her.

“Hey!” she screamed. One of them went to the wreckage of Martina’s car and knelt down to look inside. “Ollie!” he shouted.


“I need your help over here.” He ran over to the other EMT and they both reached inside. Martina looked on in horror and disbelief as they pulled a body out of the wreckage; she ran up to it and saw that it was indeed her body. “No,” she said still unable believe it, “it can’t be.”

The EMT checked for a pulse… nothing. “Damn it!” he said, “I hate when this happens.”

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