Grim Reaping

Chapter I.



Gravesides are always associated with death.

I have found this association odd for many, many years. Very few people have actually died at gravesides and there are usually a number of days pass between the collection of a soul and the empty corpse being plopped into the earth to feed the insects.

Let me not get ahead of myself though. It would be wrong to lead you into a false idea that I am a morbid bystander making an observation born out of some quite bizarre pastime of grave watching. No, I am much too busy to simply loiter around the plots of human remains.

You can call me Grim. Grim Fandango Reaper if you would like my full given title, but I am sure you will agree that Grim suffices. Some entities call me Death, but that is simply what I do. Humans believe death just happens but it is not quite as simple as that. It requires precise planning and execution, no pun intended, to run smoothly; although having infinite power over time does prove to be a great advantage. It comes in very handy when attempting to get from one side of the galaxy to the other. All in all though, death is simply a lot of paperwork.

In preparing the document you are reading, I have been advised that much of the detail regarding the tedious side of my occupation have been removed by my editor. Having my work edited and commented upon is something I still need to get used to.

I have also been advised by my agent not to bother with a long, tedious introduction to myself. Why anyone would find such an introduction tedious I do not know. It is true that everyone knows who I am, but there are few who know about me. I am sure many would find my existence an interesting topic, but I have been told I must stick to the contract. I am usually the one handing the contracts out, not abiding by them. I will catch on to the notion in time.

That said, I would still like to let you know exactly what you hold in your hand, or wherever else you may choose to hold it. This book has been created using the contents of my numerous journals, by someone I have been told is very good at reaching his audience. Apparently his demographics are excellent. I find it hard to believe that anyone could have superior demographics to my own; everyone is my audience at one point in their lives.

Yes, the words flowing through your mind are direct from my own skeletal hand, written in the ink of midnight and published at very reasonable rates for a substantial fee. Anyone can be an author it seems; as long as you have a story to tell.

As you can imagine, being Death since the Business of Life was founded by Johnny B God so many millennia ago has bestowed an abundance of tales upon me. The tales are not entirely mine to tell as they flow from the lives of others, but I have no problem bringing them to the world through these journals. The only problem I do have is what off Earth I am to do with all the money they are offering me.

Anyway, to the beginning, which confusingly for some is also an ending.

Some will scoff that I am predictable to begin this story with a death, and I have strongly been advised against it. I still can’t get used to taking these opinions on board. It is somewhat irritating to be frank.

Before I begin this tale of the curious and murderous, I cannot resist the need to set a few ground rules. Dispel some of the ludicrous and rather unrealistic ideas that the living have about me and my existence. There are more beliefs about me than I am probably aware of, but I have uncovered many during my time. They all have the common factor of being concocted by those who take a peculiar and potentially unhealthy interest in my work. Unfortunately they are also nothing more than imaginative figments of primarily human imagination. I am at this point in time unaware of an eternal chamber of hourglasses at my disposal, and likewise I do not have a horse on which to travel, although I may be tempted to check whether expenses would allow it. I quite like the idea of riding a horse to my collections.

The most dominant misconception, and a concern close to the heart of this story, centres on my List. Some believe that I am alerted to death by some kind of sensory perception, but I am only immortal. I still rely on a simple piece of devilish engineering in the form of a foot-long piece of time-script which is now, and always will be, known as The List.

I know what you are thinking. How can there be just one list? That is easy; same list, different names. People die and their names all add to my list. I collect their souls, issue them a visa to Heaven or Hell, and they fall off my list into the life everlasting. Except during the episode with the Time Simians; another story for another day.

It all sounds simple, I know, but whether Immortal, mortal, undead or in transient flux, upsets and mistakes are still made. The only difference between the mistakes of the Immortals compared to those of other origin are that ours can have a significantly more devastating effect on Life and our mistakes can resonate through time for the rest of eternity.

And what is to blame for these mistakes? Frequently it is the human trait of curiosity. I know there is a saying that it killed the cat. I have still to work out which cat, or if indeed it was curiosity that ended it. I must say that I have never come across anyone dying of curiosity, but that is by the by.

Despite being around many species and inter-species throughout time, it always seems to be humans that Immortals are drawn to, and them drawn to us. Appropriately curious, I know. Over time I have gained an infuriating habit of recreating my own versions of many human emotions, as of all the Immortals I am one of a few that does not have natural emotion. The job does not call for it. Forming false feelings helps me try to understand why humans work the way they do. I am still many millennia from having any kind of answer.

I think, in simple terms, that being around humans is like a disease. They infect me with ideas and peculiarities. I am frequently unable to resist becoming embroiled in their affairs.

When I seem to be the subject of their affairs it is even harder to resist the pull. Immortals should never be involved in the mortal world. No good ever comes of it, although without it this writing would not exist.

So read on if you too are a victim of curiosity.

And it may be predictable, but I will begin this story with a death.