Death tells Oldguy he’s feeling charitable,
going to let him off the hook, be a special case.
Who knows, maybe never die. To celebrate,
he’s brought a magnum of Acme A-1 champagne,
swampy green, with an aroma that, though
appealing to Death, smacks of charnel house.
“OK,” says Death, “so I’m not up on quality wines.
Never needed to be till now, what with no
friends to share it with. Will you be my friend?”
he asks, trying to sound like Mr. Rogers. “Could
you like me just the way I am?” “Stuff’s kinda green,”
says Oldguy, breathing through his mouth.
Death tries the song: “I like you as you are. I wouldn’t
want to change you. Or even rearrange you . . . .”
He’s forgotten he has no vocal cords but trails off
when he recalls killing the world’s most likable
human being. “He was always smiling,” sobs Death,
“like he was mocking those who can’t smile. I don’t
even have lips. That’s blatant discrimination.
You think those cripples have it so bad: try not only
being dead but being Death, not just for a while
but undyingly.” Thoughts of grief counseling
and anger management relax Death a little, till he
recalls killing everyone in his therapy group.
“You know, when you’re Death,” he sighs, “it’s one
damned thing after another.” “I drink,” says Oldguy,
“but champagne gets me gassy as the Hindenburg.”