Death swung his head back and forth as he stroked the bow across the strings, each staccato and legato booming across the square and hypnotizing the citizens of Hair. The faster Death played, the more people gathered, and soon everyone in the plaza was circled around him, moving along with his music. Old women jigged; old men threw down their canes and took young ladies for a dance; children skipped about happily and swung each other by the arms. Tim danced with Maria, who laughed, and Pestilence looked on while tapping his feet.
And then, the fiddle burst into a fiery column that spiraled upwards into the clouds. It twisted about, singeing all those who were close to it, and the fiddle shattered to pieces on the ground. Death could hear the faint, booming laughter of Satan beneath him as the crowd let out a collective “Awwww.” Then, like the mechanisms of a finely tuned watch that only needed to be reset, they began to disperse across the plaza and continue with their day.
Death looked at Pestilence, who shrugged. Then he stood up on the bench and held his hands out in front of him. The people, upon seeing the gesture, focused their attention back to him.
“Good people of the city,” he said. He gazed at the wide eyes of his audience and basked in his current position. “I would like to make an announcement.”
The crowd grew into a lull, a happy wave of anticipation splashing across their faces. Death held his arms higher over his head and the people grew silent again.
“I just want to announce that I am Death. After two billion of years of existence, I have finally decided to go into retirement. Therefore, no one will be dying from this point forward. If you have a terminal illness, have no fear. If you find yourself in a dangerous situation, don’t worry. If you are an inch from death, you will not pass on. I promise.”
The crowd erupted into cheers. Death saw Tim give a thumbs-up.
“But what about the potholes?” cried a woman from the front row of the crowd. The cheers died down.
“Potholes?” asked Death. With the question, his broad grin disintegrated. “Which potholes?”
“The potholes plaguing the city,” replied the woman. “Everyone comes in here saying they’ll fix the potholes, but they never get around to it once they’re elected.”
“Oh, and will you be making more jobs?” called out a man from the middle of the crowd. Death lowered his arms and began to feel anxious. “We have families we need to feed.”
“Come on now,” said a young man from the right side of the audience. “Did you see how he looked into our eyes while he was talking? He means business.”
“And so eloquent,” yelled a young woman with dreadlocks and ripped jeans. “The man can give a speech, no doubt!”
“Truly an inspiration!”
“Agreed, he has my vote!”
“What are you all talking about?” asked Death rather quietly, so that no one heard him.
“He’s much better than Greenwich! He’s old, and even has a stutter!”
“He’ll get my vote over Greenwich, for sure!”
“Wait,” shouted Death. The crowd fell silent. He cleared his throat and said, “Did any of you even listen to a single word I said?”
Some people looked down as they shuffled their feet. Others looked at one another, and some peered up at Death’s perplexed expression. Then a young woman with bright pink hair that spilled over a pair of Ray Bans screamed, “He’ll be our future mayor, for sure!” and the crowd’s attention was lost in its own head-spinning applause. Death sighed, and got down off the bench. The people were apparently unaware of his absence as they continued with their noise-making. Tim, Maria, and Pestilence were smiling awkwardly.
“That probably could have gone better,” said Death.
“Perhaps,” said Maria.
“Don’t sweat it, buddy, you’ll get them next time,” said Tim.
“I should get going, pal,” said Pestilence. “Keep me updated on the whole retirement thing. I’d stay awhile but the Croatians are in the middle of finding a cure for my super-flu so I should get down there to help it mutate. We’ll grab a coffee some other time.”
“Yeah, okay,” said Death. “Good luck.”
Tim and Maria also said goodbye and left. As Death began walking back to his apartment with his head down, he had to dodge a man who was approaching him. As Death walked past, the man turned round and shouted to him.
“Hey, you,” he said. Death spun around and stared at the man, his eyebrows raised. He knew he had seen him before, but he could not remember where. He was an older gentleman who wore a suit, and his long grey hair was slicked back. His face was clean-shaven and clear.
“Uh…hi,” said Death. “How are you?”
“You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked. His voice was gravelly, but jovial. “I’ve changed a bit since you last saw me. I never really introduced myself before. Name’s Barry. Barry Gregory. You probably remember me as that guy outside of the grocery store. You kept giving me those checks, remember?”
“Oh…oh, yeah of course,” said Death. Memory of the old man jingling his change inside his battered tin cup came rushing back to him. “You’ve…changed.”
“Sure have,” said Barry happily, running his hands along his lapel. “I can’t even tell you, sir, you’ve really changed my life. What’s your name, sir?”
“De—Derek,” said Death. “Derek Derek.”
“Well gee, Mr. Derek. Still can’t thank you enough. With all that money you gave me I was able to get back on my feet again. I kicked the old drinking habits and used the money to open my own winery. The success has been
