A Pint with the Reaper

“Busy?” Sam inquired, tipping the beer into the glass with a practiced hand, the foam rising like a little cloud on a lazy river.

Death let loose a sigh so long and weary it might’ve blown the dust off a pharaoh’s tomb. “I’m always busy,” says he, his voice rattling like a loose shutter in a storm.

Sam cocked an eyebrow, setting the pint down with a clink. “How do you reckon to find the time for it all, then?”

Death leaned back, his bony fingers drumming a tune on the table that’d make a coffin-maker jealous. “Time’s relative, you see. Fact is, he’s my cousin. Owes me a fistful of dollars, too, the slippery cuss. Never bet against a fella who’s got eternity in his pocket.”

Sam wiped the bar. “Time travel, is it?”

Death chuckled, dry as a desert wind. “Ain’t time travel, not in the way you’re thinkin’. It’s more like I’m standin’ in all the moments at once, simultaneous-like. Or somethin’ of the sort. Truth be told, I wasn’t mindin’ the details when they explained it. Quantum physics, they call it—cobbled together on a Friday afternoon, when the Almighty’s crew was half-drunk and itchin’ for the weekend. That’s why you folks’ll never unravel it. Some of the parts got slapped on backwards, and the rest ain’t even screwed in proper.”

Sam leaned in, intrigued despite himself. “So, you’re saying the whole universe is a bit of a… well, screw-up?”

Death nodded gravely. “Yeah. A cosmic patch job. They don’t tell you that in the brochures, do they?”

Sam chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, if it’s all a mess, why don’t you fix it?”

“Fix it?” Death nearly spat out the word. “Son, if I fixed it, I’d be out of a job. And then where would I be? Probably workin’ in a diner, servin’ up meatloaf to ghosts who complain the mashed potatoes are too lumpy.”

Sam snorted. “That’s a hell of a career path.”

Death grinned, his smile somehow making the shadows feel colder. “I figure I’ll stick with the whole ‘grim reaper’ gig. At least the tips are good.”