[ WP ] Your name is Death . You work 168 hours a week as the reaper of souls on planet Earth . You 're living on just a couple bucks above minimum wage , you like to travel , you have a crush on the reaper on planet Xenor and you secretly take 4 sugars in your coffee . Today is your first ever day off .

*I could... no* 
 
 *Ahh! Perhaps... not that either* 
 
 Death sits at a smal circular table -- room for one -- tapping slowly on the unpolished wood, he alternates between his left and right pointer finger. 
 Death is frowning, keeping a careful eye on the delicate process of tapping he has taken up. He looks up throwing his hands behind his head breaking the tempo. 
 Death blows softly at his ethereal hood that has fallen over his eye sockets. The black cloth flutters up, but is snagged down by the rest of his outfit the same thin fabric encompassing him and draping the corners of his chair -- unpolished like the table -- and brushing the floor. A clock continues Death's tapping tempo with a clalm muffled, tick. 
 
 *You think after 200,000 years I'd have some thing I'd always dreamed of doing* 
 
 *I mean there's nothing wrong with doing nothing today, right? * 
 
 Death sits up looking towards the rather small T.V. playing static diseased infomercials for a sponge. He drops his hands to his sides and plops his head on the table. 
 
 *Lazy Sunday. Right? * 
 
 Death runs one bony finger in a circle on the once white -- now a dull gray -- tile floor. A thin white cat hops up onto the only other chair at the table and begins to clean its self. 
 
 *Its almost like I want to go back to work. * 
 
 Death lets out a long grown, the cat perks its ear up and hops up onto the table. It's sits at the center staring at Death. Death places his chin on the table and returns the cats gaze. 
 
 *What if I asked someone. * 
 
 *Like a human. * 
 
 Death stands up siding the chair backwards along the floor producing a rickety sharp squeal. The cat hops off the table. Death turns to the refrigerator handle, held on by duck tape and a crudely cut piece of plywood he swings it open a sickly yellow light enters the dim room, he drinks from a carton of orange juice. 
 
 *Who? And what would I say? * 
 
 *Oh! Mabye that kid! Uhh what was his name... Marty-Mikey -- Micheal! That's it. * 
 
 Death places the Orange juice on the table and resumes his former position now staring at the carton. 
 
 Two weeks ago he had visited a kid choking on his own vomit from a herion O.D., much to Death's surprise the kid had pulled through as he waited on the couch and stumbled over to sit next to him. 
 
 `` Well that was intresting was n't it?'' 
 
 `` Fuck,'' the kid grumbled clutching his throat still spitting out blood. 
 
 Death had always had opportunities to talk to people on the job, but he never knew what to say, it always ended in him awkwardly taking their souls. He liked this kid, something about his pale dry skin, thin limbs, and shitty living conditions, reminded him of himself. 
 
 `` I guess I have to go now, you know souls to reap and what not, what's your name'' 
 
 `` Michael, Fuck'', Michael doubled over clutching his stomach coughing up blood, the veins on his arms bulging and pulsing rhythmically with his coughs. 
 
 As far as Deaths conversations with humans had gone, that one was pretty good. Deciding to see if Michael had any suggestions for him, Death exits his apartment. 
 The cat puts the orange juice back in the fridge and resumes cleaning its self on the chair opposite Deaths. 
 
 Death materializes in a compact bathroom, corners blackened with mold, and a cracked mirror reflecting a sink with two neatly placed needles. He crosses the room in one stride and opens the door. 
 
 He turns to see the apartment in the same condition as two weeks prior, chip bags and pizza boxes far and few between crumpled clothes and card boxes full of uncategorizable junk. Michael sits on the dark green coach with the one cushion broken and bleeding foam from its corner a stain on the armrest next to it. Michael turns to the door opening. 
 
 `` Oh shit'' 
 
 `` Hey'' 
 
 Death shuffles through the cluttered floor and sits down next to Michael and looks to the T.V. Michael looks back to the T.V. his eyes wide he looks at a needle on the three legged coffee table to his left. Then slowly back to the T.V. 
 
 `` Shit, I am really high'' 
 
 `` Really?'' 
 
 Michael turns back to Death. 
 
 `` I guess so, I do n't remember taking any, but I guess so'' 
 
 `` I actually had a question to ask you, Michael'' 
 
 Death shifts on the couch he puts his arms on his knees and looks to Michael who is now staring at his hands. 
 
 Still staring at his hands Michael asks, `` Uhh what? `` 
 
 `` What should I do on my day off'' 
 
 `` Umm I really don --'' 
 
 `` Well like what do you do on your day off, I have n't really ever had one'' 
 
 `` I do n't know I usually just do some dope'' 
 
 `` Hmm'' 
 
 Death looks back to the T.V., Michael up from his hands. 
 
 `` Are you real?'' 
 
 `` I guess'' 
 
 `` So you came here a couple weeks ago and watched me almost die on the floor right'' 
 
 `` Ya, you were pretty close too I do n't usually get called for close calls'' 
 
 Michael sits back in the couch, it creeks. 
 
 `` So your on your day off from what?'' 
 
 `` Reaping souls'' 
 
 `` Right'' 
 
 `` And you'' 
 
 `` I just work the night shift at the 7/11 on the corner'' 
 
 Death nods his head the T.V. Flickers as it cuts to commercial. 
 
 `` How much do you make?'' 
 
 Michael squints his eyes at Death. 
 
 `` Umm, $ 7.60'' 
 
 `` Oh, me too'' 
 
 Michael nods looking back to the T.V. 
 
 `` So what do other humans do on their days off'' 
 
 `` I guess it varies, some people might go to the movies or something'' 
 
 `` I'll try that'' 
 
 Death pulls himself off the couch and stands watching the T.V. 
 
 `` Uhh, ok. Tell me how it goes'' 
 
 `` Sure'' 
 
 Death side steps around a hamper and out the door. Michael picks up a crumb covered plate from his feet and looks at the T.V. As Death closes the door. He looks around his apartment blinking. He turns on the light on the three legged coffee table. 
 
 
 
 

