The Day Death Quit

He slammed the door behind him. The shelving bumped against the wall, knick-knacks shimmed along the wooden platforms as his wife stared at him, narrowing her eyes. He ignored her empty socket look as he placed the shaft against the wall. The stench of death mingled with that of the supper his wife was preparing.

"You don't have to come storming in this house like death warmed over," She stood at the entrance to the kitchen, her hand on her bony hip as she held out a spatula dripping with some black ooze of an essence.

"Don't start in on me woman!" He called out from the couch. "Work was atrocious today, I'm thinking of quitting." He picked up the remote, turned on the television, and began to surf to see what was on. Settling on one of the many news channels, he propped his feet up on the bone carved coffee table and placed his hands behind his head. His cloak shimmered with thick velvet darkness as he allowed a breathless sigh escape.

"You're always threatening to quit, I should have listened to my mother and never married you." She came out of the kitchen and stood in front of the television, blocking his view.

"Can't ya see I am watching the news?" He asked looking at her.

"Not until you stop threatening to quit, because if you're going to quite, then be a man and quit, if not, then quit your grumbling." She was tapping her bony foot against the hardwood floor. "What has gotten into you lately? You used to enjoy your job?" She kept her confident stance.

"You don't know what it is like out there," He paused, looking up at the black ceiling. "I am only one person and both God and Satan have me working nonstop." He stood up and headed straight for the kitchen. His wife followed him. Her apron was the only colorful thing in the whole house, a flowery print with a blue border. He opened the pot she has simmering on the stove. "Man, toe man stew again," he placed the lid back onto the pot and turned to find his wife standing close to him. Her bony arm swing fast and the wooden spatula slapped him against the skull.

"You're going to eat it, and you're going to enjoy it." She stepped around him, lifted the lid, and stirred the pot.

"Forget it; I am going to go out." He left her in the kitchen cursing up a storm as he headed out the door, slamming it on his way out.

The Cavern of Death was a hole-in-the wall bar several blocks from his house, and that was where he was heading. He needed a good stiff drink to settle his dead nerves. Always the same thing, day in and day out, he commented.

The door swung open as a ghostly phantom lurched out of the place, severely intoxicated as it floated in awkward weaving patterns, in and out of buildings. Death just shook his head, pushed through the door, and found a place at the end of the counter. A decapitated bartender came to the end of the bar, his head rolling to where Death took up a seat.

"What can I get ya?" The head spoke, a breath of decomposition spewed out.

"I want a black opal," Death said, laying some money on the counter. "And when are ya going to get your head on straight Tom?" He said. The body of the bartender filled up a pint of black ooze and slides it down to Death. His head spoke again in that husky ghastly voice.

"I'm tryin to get in to see that new doc you brought down here, seems he is constantly busy, where the hell did ya find that chap anyway?" The body of the bartender reached over, picked up the head off the bar, and held it like a basketball, against his right side.

"He died naturally, and neither God nor Satan have any records of that man's life, so until either one of them get him figured out, he's stuck with us." Death took a long draught of the glass and slammed it down.

"Hey, this aint the mortal realm, these glasses are hard to come by, take it easy on em will ya?" The bartender took the money and then left Death to his own thoughts.