Vaughn
stared down Kennedy from the other end of the deserted, dust blown
street.
“Your
portrayal of Chris Adams was too far removed from the original to be
credibly considered the same character,” he called down the road.
Kennedy
narrowed his eyes and ran his thumbs along the top of his holster
belt.
“You're
probably right,” he called back. “Shall we join the others?”
Vaughn
smiled. “Certainly. After you.” They stepped off the street side
by side and sauntered through the saloon doors. “Yul, are you in
here?”
“Do
you know why we've asked you here today?”
Death
shuffled on his plastic chair and tugged in a nervous way at his
robe. He sat across a desk from a panel of three people.
“To
discuss my raise?” he shrugged.
“No,
definitely not that. But you bring me on neatly to a point we would
like to address, namely, your attitude”.
Death
said nothing. The woman directly opposite him continued.
“Whilst
we do not question your commitment, we have reason to call into
question how seriously you have been taking your duties this past
year. Would you care to comment?”
Death
remained, well, deathly silent.
“I
have obtained, from sources that shall remain nameless, a list....”
“Bastard!
I'll have him next! What a grass!” Death had jumped up, and was
hopping from one skeletal foot to another.
“Mr
Death!” One of the other gentlemen that made up this interviewing
panel made his voice heard, pushing his spectacles up his old face.
“If you would kindly lay down the scythe, so that we may continue?”
Death complied, looking as sheepish as it is possible for a skeleton
in a robe to do.
In
a well-stocked music studio, Prince and David Bowie were absorbed in
a jam, as they harmonised with fervent and friendly competitiveness
while Rick Parfitt produced wonderfully original chords on his
guitar.
“It
was just a bit of fun,” Death started to explain. “We always have
a bit of a laugh at the end of year party, me and the boys, and I
guess things may have gone a bit too far.”
“I
should say so,” replied the third member of the panel, a humourless
man wearing a German wartime uniform, and sporting a Hitler
moustache.
The
arbitration panel for the Realm Indeterminate was an unconsciously
elected trio, voted in subconsciously by all those to have so far
shuffled off their mortal coil. Without knowing it, their nomination
for those most suited to judge on matters of procedural order and
policy pertaining to the given rules of the afterlife was gleaned
from their memory energy. In a strange twist, the panel could even be
made up of persons still living. They would, when required, provide
an astral projection when the panel was sitting, and be returned to
their corporeal form on conclusion of business, with no memory of
their participation. And a new panel was chosen each time a ruling
was required. This time the panel consisted of two gentlemen, one a
former military leader, deceased, and the other a media magnate,
still living, just. The chair was a woman still alive and active in
local politics. All in all, a peculiar way of doing things.
A
comfortable large drawing room served as a study area for Victoria
Wood, Jimmy Perry and Caroline Aherne as they started sketching out
characters and plots for a situation comedy to rival all others.
Andrew Sachs was on hand to provide assistance in improvising scenes.
The
older man had an air of superiority and looked down his long nose,
rasping in a time-worn Australian accent. “We understand things
went a 'bit too far' at last year's Christmas party?”
Death
turned to him and held out his arms.
“Well,
you know how it is. It's always the same when me and the other
horsemen get together, a bit of horseplay, you might say?”
The
panel were impassive, so it seemed that they might not actually say
that after all.
“There
was some sort of wager?” the woman asked.
“I
suppose you could call it that, yes”.
“But
instead of money, upon losing, you were duty bound to cull a certain
number of celebrity lives before the end of this following year. Is
that correct?”
Death
wagged a bony finger. “Now look, statistically everything is by the
book, there's been no more people dying than is proportionately
appropriate, I've done my sums.”
“You
may have done your sums, but you've been working to this list that
the other horsemen put together for you, haven't you?”
The
woman looked angry as she held up a stained paper napkin with an
indeterminable amount of scribble on it, her rotund cheeks flushed.
“Look,
I'm sorry, but a bet's a bet, you know?”
Hitler
(for it was he) banged a fist on the table. “No! It is not allowed.
Rules have been broken!”
Death
was not backing down. “I haven't taken any more than I should,
people expect Death, there's nothing happening that isn't, well, part
of life. How can people get so shocked just because some really old
celebrities have popped their clogs, or because people in the public
eye have turned out to be susceptible to the same terminal conditions
as everyone else? Surely we need a bit less of the 'oh no, that
lovely nonagenarian has been taken, how unjust and cruel!'?”
Hitler
leaned forward. “Of course people expect Death, of course it
touches everyone in the end. But the natural order should persist. If
you start taking people in an order that's been decided by your
pissed mates shouting out names at random, then people are going to
notice!”
The
door to the sparse room in which this unusual interview was taking
place opened unexpectedly, and another woman popped her head around
it. Rupert got to his feet and tugged an absent forelock.
“Ah,
Carrie, I think you need Reception, it's at the far end of the
corridor.”
“Thank
you.”
“And
when you're done, I know that Gareth Thomas and Anton Yelchin are
keen to talk to you about an idea for a new sci-fi show they've come
up with. Oh, and Carrie?”
“Yes?”
“May
the force be with you!”
“Drop
dead.” The door closed again, followed by a muffled “Oh, hi Mom”.
At
a beach-front bar, Terry Wogan and Jimmy Young were taking it in
turns to spins discs over the PA from the DJ booth. Muhammad Ali,
Johann Cruyff and Arnold Palmer were sat together nearby, finalising
the details of a round robin sports tournament they had devised.
“I
guess I could go easy next year, devise a much more balanced list,
take less noticeable people?” Death was trying to think of ways to
make amends.
“I'm
afraid it's gone beyond that. That's just not how it works. You have
crossed a line. I have further reports that you have been telling
people as you bring them in that their life energy and consciousness
will soon dissipate and become part of a great cloud of indistinct
ghost energy!”
“Heh,
well, the bet, you know...”
“And
you've even been rapping to some of them! Rapping! I think I quote
you correctly, 'Dying is easy, dying is good, ask the skeletal guy
with the scythe and the hood'.”
The
featureless skeleton managed to look embarrassed. “Ah...”
Murdoch
had his head in his hands. “Tell him, Penny.”
“Enough!
I have to inform you that despite your long tenure, and many years
previous good service, we have decided to relieve you of your
duties”. The woman in front of death had her elbows on the desk,
and was pressing the fingertips of one hand forcefully into the
fingertips of the other.
“What?
You can't! How can you have no Death?”
“You're
correct, we can't. We are rotating our iconography. Mistress Death
cannot join us until New Year's Day, but you are relieved with
immediate effect. We require you to hand in your scythe to stores as
you leave. Thank you, Mr Death, that will be all.”
Death
paused, stunned. “You mean there will be no Death until after New
Year's Eve?”
“In
the circumstances, do you think anyone is likely to complain? Good
day!”
Death
closed the door behind himself, and strolled down the infinite
corridor a little way, stopping at the door labelled 'Stores'. He
span his scythe around in his hand a couple of times, watching the
light glint off the impossibly sharp tip. He fully extended his wings
once, pulled out his calendar for 2016 for a quick look, then folded
them both away again. Firmly clutching his scythe, he completely
failed to knock the door, and sauntered off down the corridor. He
passed door after door, well aware of the scenes being played out
behind each one, whether it was a Willy Wonka and Paul Daniels
teaching weird tricks to a Brazilian football team, or Richard
Neville and Howard Marks swapping smoking stories with Fidel Castro.
Despite lacking the obvious means to make the sound, Death started
whistling George Michael's 'John and Elvis are Dead', and he carried
on walking.
