While the people were busy cheering, the redhead scanned the crowd. He had only talked to this former CEO on the phone, so he did not know what he looked like. But he was informed of which sign he would be holding. When his eyes captured the correct one (which read, “We’re Really Mad About Stuff”), he continued his speech. “He has joined us here today to show that he supports our cause and what we stand for. Fellow workers, our man is under that sign,” he pointed at Death, who looked around for whom the redhead was talking about. “Please give a hand for former CEO Stephen McLeod as he comes up here to give you all a very special speech.”
The crowd burst into cheers again. The redhead dropped down from the stage and handed the megaphone to a very befuddled Death. “Thanks for dropping by,” shouted the redhead. Death looked over at the recently reaped man whose sign he had taken, and his eyes went wide with realization.
“Oh,” started Death. His stomach seemed to have dropped out of his body as his legs began to quake. “Yeah, no problem.” The redhead dropped back, clapping along with his fellow protestors, and Death climbed up onto the stage. He set his sign down and looked out at the crowd, which looked so much larger from where he was standing. When he hit the power button on the megaphone and it crackled loudly in his ear, they went silent again. Clusters of eyes were fixed on Death.
“Uh, hi,” he said. His voice boomed across the street. “I’m, uh...Stanley McLeod. I was, uh, fired from my job.” The crowd erupted again, this time in boos, whistles and thumbs-down gestures. “And I’m here to, well,” he looked at the redhead, who signaled for Death to press on. “I’m here to show you that you have my support. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, and I got to believing that maybe doing everything everyone tells you to do can be a bad thing.” The words were spilling out of him before he could catch them. It was an oddly euphoric sensation. “And, well, I guess I just want to say that you people should never let others control what you do. Go against what you write off as how you’ve been told the world works, and do what’s right for each other. And, uh, free iPhones for everyone.” The crowd cheered louder than ever as Death stepped down.
“Thank you, Mr. Macleod,” said the redhead, clapping and moving to the podium. “Now, we—oh no, here we go.”
Most people craned their necks to see what the redhead was looking at. Another group was marching towards them. This one looked a lot different from the one Death was a part of; it was made up mostly of middle-aged men wearing ties. Their signs read things such as: “Workers Unite For A Better America” and “We Work For Our Money” and “Homosex Is A Sin.” A bulky man with a handlebar mustache and denim jacket climbed onto the stage. The Occupy protestors looked appalled, so Death tried his best to do the same.
“Look, we’ve been thinking about what you said,” said the muscular man. The redhead looked like he was about to vomit. “And I don’t think it’s the answer to our arguments. We have to do the American thing and punch each other until one of us is right.” And with that, he tore the megaphone from the redhead’s hands and shattered it on his head. As he crumpled to the ground, both crowds charged at each other. Death thought it best to leave.
He inevitably could not avoid bumping into a few raging protestors, but made his way out of the crowd relatively unscathed. He saw the young man who had asked for his phone number earlier on. “I told you this is what usually happens,” said Death. But the man did not hear him; he was too busy trying to impale someone with the post of his sign.
Death decided to walk home, slightly disappointed that no one had paid much attention to the epiphany he shared with them. For now, he would have to put off being more human by getting a job, or by holding a sign, or hitting someone, or whatever it was humans did with themselves.
A Bargain
Death was in the process of cleaning up a vomit stain that either Brian or one of his friends made when he began to feel funny. He thought at first he might have eaten a bad taco. He went to the bathroom, shaky and sweating, and looked into the mirror.
It was then that Death noticed he was disintegrating.
“Wh-what’s happening?” he said aloud, looking at his hands, which would be shaking violently if they were still there. He stared at his reflection, hopeless as the remnants of his body swirled in the air around him until all that was left was his face. Death caught one last glimpse of his gaunt complexion, and he was gone.
He fell on a very hard surface with a dull thud. He clambered back to his feet, his body aching all over. He was in an apartment that looked similar to his but with far different furnishings. Everything around him was nautical in theme; there was a ship steering wheel clock above an anchor-shaped lamp; two harpoons hanging on the far wall in an X formation; a model lighthouse on top of a table made from a lifesaver and paddles; several signs that had phrases on them such as “The Ship’s Tavern” and “Disc Harbor Yacht Club;” even a large telescope on the wall, above which was a plaque that read “Capt. J. George, 1849.” Death was so mesmerized by the intriguing
