Written on April 14, 2021 by Gale Striker
Category: Flash Fiction
Whiskey clinks in my glass as I turn it delicately with my wrist. Memories flash of all the different people I’ve killed with this hand. A simple flick of the wrist can do a lot. A girl at a birthday party not expecting a hidden blade to cut through her throat in front of all her friends at the bar. Making a simple twist of someone else’s hand forcing them off a cliff. Tossing a needle into an old man’s artery as he tried to rush for a phone. All with a simple flick of the wrist.
Waves crashed on the beach breaking my train of thought. It was unusual. Most of the time I’m wired, always prepared for something to go wrong. Never lacking vigilance no matter how hard the task at hand was. All that paranoia paid off. The volcanic beach looked beautiful. All away across the horizon there was nothing but beautiful ocean. I let my eyes close, listening to the waves this time without surprise. Its very calming. Predictable.
“Don’t get too comfortable Sin,” someone says right next to me.
My eyes fly wide open. No one knows my name. No one sneaks up on me. Also no one has alabaster skin. The man hovering over me does. And a dark blue suit two shades off from black… who wears that?
Flipping out of my chair letting the whisky glass fall to the sand, I plant my feet firmly whipping out a small knife from my back belt buckle. I wasn’t stupid. When you kill a lot of people you get put on a lot of shit lists.
“Who the hell are you?” I demand. He looks young and rather unfazed. Far too calm. Either he is a trained killer or blissfully ignorant of his situation.
“You are very familiar with me, Sin,” he responds with his lips curling up into a crooked smile. “We’ve met, oh I don’t know, 892 times at least?”
The words knock me back a step. Whoever this was, they had way too much information. I never told my kill count to anyone.
“Interesting number to stop at by the way. Why 892?” he casually asks.
Quickly my eyes flit over to the small abode I call home. Below the floorboards lots of guns and ammunition sit comfortably. If I could only make a quick dash…
The man looks over at the house and chuckles. “Already two steps ahead of me I see. I would expect nothing less from you.” Taking a seat on my beach chair, he continues, “I’ve got a job for you. I want it done by tomorrow.”
Great, another loon. Was it so hard for me to catch a break? “Lucks out buddy, I’m retired.” Slowly I start to turn towards my house while keeping an eye on him. He stays in the chair almost too comfortable. His voice isn’t shaking like most people. Something was wrong, I just couldn’t explain it.
Scooping up the whiskey glass, he takes a gulp. “I think you misunderstand, I’m not asking you.”
Suddenly the air feels colder. Everything is quiet. Goose bumps appear on my skin. That only happens when I kill someone. Something is terribly wrong. I suck in my gut. I don’t like this at all.
“Well, don’t you have any questions?” he asks not bothering to turn his head.
Fine, I’ll bite. “Who are you?” I ask continuing to step closer to my house.
“Why thank you for asking, my name is Death.” This time he stands up and looks her directly in the eye.
Not waiting to get more of a head start, I bolt towards the house. Running in sand sucks, but I manage to get through the door in two seconds flat. Slamming my foot down onto a floorboard near the entrance, a gun catapults into my hand as the piece of wood stands up at a ninety degree angle. In one swift motion I aim my sights at the man calmly waiting by the door.
“Thank you for the preview, that was actually quite impressive,” he notes.
Before he has the chance to move I pull the trigger. Right as the bullet reaches his skull his whole head turns to mist before reforming. My eye starts to twitch. This isn’t possible, I never miss.
“Alright, that’s enough. I know you’re a good assassin,” Death says.
He’s still calm. What is up with this guy? How is he alive? My hands start shaking but I don’t let myself think too long about what just happened. With one backflip I get behind my bed and pull out a RPG. If I’m going down I’m taking this creep with me.
“Hold on! Hold on!” Death tries to scream.
It’s too late. I pull the trigger launching the rocket squarely into his stomach. Just like before, his torso turns into a misty image of itself as the rocket propels itself right through him. Just barely missing the beach chair, it launches straight into the water creating a rather suppressed explosion launching water high into the air. Some of it lands straight into my neatly placed glass of whiskey. “Damn,” I mutter to myself. That was the last drink of the bottle.
“Really?” Death exclaims. “Why the hell do you keep an RPG loaded under your bed?” His hands are pulling at his hair. Finally I got him afraid. Pulling out shotgun from under the bed I am it squarely at his body. “Oh come on! Do you really think third times the charm?”
With one last hope, I pull the trigger. This time his whole body turns into mist before phasing back into a normal human being. Apparently this wasn’t a dream. This was real. He wasn’t dying.
“Hello? Sin? Anyone in there?” Death asks sarcastically. “My name is Death! Like grim reaper style.” He raises his right hand. In the blink of an eye a gaint scythe appears. With a snap of his fingers a cloak falls over his dark blue suit making him look more ridiculous. “Recognize me?”
“How are you doing that?” I ask. What I am seeing simply isn’t possible, yet right in front of me it was happening. It was unsettling.
“I don’t know, how do you breath?” he snapped. “Just please do as I ask, it’s hard to find someone with your skills. It would be a waste to kill you.” Shaking, he made his scythe and cloak disappear.
He looked genuinely annoyed and stressed. “Alright,” I started. “Assuming you are actually Death, why do you need my help?”
Taking a seat on my bed he sighed. “You know how many people live on this planet? My job was real easy when there were only a billion of you. I simply can’t be everywhere at once.”
“Really?” I laughed. Overpopulation never seemed like death’s problem. “You can’t kill fast enough?”
“Yeah. It’s a real problem. I’m the only thing standing between you all and a crappy future.” He took an even bigger sigh and flopped over clearly exhausted.
“So there’s no pay in this job?” I enquire.
“No,” he spoke into the blankets face down. “You’ll save a lot of people though.”
“By killing them?”
“Look I’m not here to have my methodology questioned. Are you in or should I call my scythe back.” Still facing down, he raised his right arm clearly ready to call his scythe.
“Fine,” I sighed. “When do I start?”
Writing Prompt Posted by u/Angel466 April 14
[WP] You’re an infamous assassin who’s done enough killing. But the day you go to retire, a guy with alabaster skin wearing a dark suit turns up inside your home. All this time, you thought you did it for money. Turns out even Death has field agents and he’s not accepting your resignation.
