Chapter One     The Hit

            The common misconception of God is that He is an old man with a long flowing gray beard who wears a toga and

sandals, sits on a massive cloud of infinite wisdom and patience and actually enjoys mankind’s representation of a

heaven where everyone sings and goes to church in order to prostrate themselves 24 hours per day 7 days per week. 

The fact is God is a teenage boy still going through puberty.  His voice cracks constantly and the hair on His face is

regulated to a patchy mustache that has three or four obscenely disproportionately long hairs poking through

laughable stubble.  He can’t stand church anymore than the next guy and wonders why people have created a heaven

where all they do is sing and go to church, when most people in fact, can’t sing, and have to be dragged to church for

one hour on one day out of the week.  He occasionally thinks about gathering a group of zealous Christians and

bringing them to heaven just so they can experience what essentially amounts to the first week of tryouts on

American Idol, except everyone is wearing their tightest dress clothes and has to pray for the good fortune of the

contestants after they have finished their painful attempts at singing.  He also insists on being the Dungeon Master

when He gathers Luck, Fear, Opportunity, and His best friend Keith for their weekly game of Dungeons & Dragons 

(Keith, of course, being widely regarded as the biggest douchebag of all time; I mean, honestly, who rolls a palladin). 

God had tried playing a level fourteen dual scimitar wielding Dragonborn Ranger, but Opportunity had teased Him so

mercilessly about His lack of ballistic skill rolls that He decided to do what He did best: rule the fate of the other

players from behind a cardboard wall littered with cabbage patch doll stickers.   He has a penchant for Sprite and Slim

Jims and swears there is nothing more divine than swiggin’ some Sprite while a partially chewed piece of peppered

jerky still lingers on His tongue.  His acne is quite disturbing and is one of the most discernable reasons for His

inordinate amount of vengeful wrath.   He does, however, wear sandals…with socks. 

           He was pacing nervously between rows of mini-vans, sports-cars and hatch-backs when he heard a faint

*pop* like the sound an air rifle makes when the shooter is hoping against hope they really didn’t hit that squirrel. 

Death appeared suddenly in a wisp of fog, mere feet from God; the cold moisture of the mist hardening her nipples to

orange juice making capacity.  Death couldn’t have been more naked; it was how she did business.   She enjoyed how

phrases like “supple,” “honey-laden,” and “holy shit,” usually escaped the dying person’s lips at the same time to sound

like the quintessential last breath; a breath those close enough to hear mistook for the same sound of a septuagenarian

Burger King drive-thru attendant, breathing heavily into a muffled microphone stuck on max reverb.  Death had

always used her beauty to ease the passing of the unfortunate ones making their journey to the “other side.”  She had

convinced herself that if the dying person could see her in all her naked glory, and relived their favorite memories as

they died – even if they were being slowly chewed to little bits by the grinding jaws of a casually famished shark- dying

wouldn’t be so bad.   She’s wrong about this.   No matter how many wonderful memories are relived in the brief

moments a person spends dying; the pain is far too absolute.   And despite how beautiful she was, most women and not

too few men would have rather been led to the afterlife, and awkward places beyond, by a naked Viggo Mortenson. 

She took a deliberate step towards God, savoring the cool morning moisture on her thighs.   Her strawberry blonde

hair was matted with sweat, sticking to the sides of her face in a pattern any airbrush artist would have contemplated a

career change for not being able to emulate.   Her body glistened in the first rays of the morning Sun, whose beams

intentionally passed over other objects in the environment just to illuminate her first.  God noticed his presence was

intentionally disregarded and made a mental note to increase the number of eclipses next year.   He traced the curves

of Death’s body from her taut stomach to her breasts, catching Himself lingering on her chest a bit too long before he

met her eyes.

          ”Are you blushing?”

Death tossed her hair like the anorexic kids in the Vanity Fair ads did, and pretended to bite the edge of her nails,

flicking her tongue over her finger in the most erection inducing gesture she could manage.  She and the Norse

goddess Freya had a running competition on who could get God the most turned-on.   They knew God was infatuated

with  both of them; Freya had actually walked in on Him masturbating to pictures she and Death had taken of each

other during a trip to Thailand.  God had gotten pissed about his tech service from Dell which meant Death was there

to collect after the tsunami, and Freya to re-build.  Luckily, Freya’s presence went unnoticed when she stumbled in on

God; the suction noise of Vaseline coupled with the impressively blinding speed of God’s wrist created enough noise to

cover up Freya’s gasp of shock and subsequent laughter as she  *popped* next to Death and enlightened her on their

newfound opportunity of reciprocal torment.   As neither could stand the mental image of actually fulfilling His

fantasy, they enjoyed teasing Him relentlessly.  God lowered his head, suppressed a smile, and stared at his sandals.

           ”Why do you smell like hay?”
 

           “Long story hun.  Do you have a towel?  My face is a little sticky.”

           ”I…” 

Random images of Death in a variety of triple X scenarios flooded God’s imagination.   Jealously was threatening to

overcome His libido; anger started to well inside Him, his ears turned red, and somewhere in Chad a case of

spontaneous combustion was baffling local authorities.  After all they had been through and she still treated Him like

He was a punk kid.   Death picked up on how uncomfortable God was and cracked a smile.
 

          “I don’t know why you insist on meeting here. It’s not the Garden of Eden anymore hun, it’s just a 

          fucking  Honda   dealership.”

          There was always a pain in her chest every time Death cursed.  It was simply part of the make-up God had

imparted to all of the Intangibles.  Cursing is not necessarily forbidden when talking with God; He is actually a little

embarrassed by the fact He isn’t allowed to curse for reasons only known to Him and the One who forbids Him from

doing so.  Being a vengeful little prick, He made sure others knew He didn’t appreciate the latent mocking of his

inability to partake in “grown-up” vocabulary by causing chest pains in other deities, one of his many “talents” that has

resulted in a severe lack of friends. 

            ”I have a job that needs to be done. Werner and his daughter. You know her right?”
 

           “Yeah, sweet girl. We’ve talked a bit. She has a good head on her shoulders. I’m actually pretty fond of her.

           Why do you want them dead?”

           “He knows how to kill me.  I’m afraid he will, or has already passed that knowledge on to his daughter.  More
          

           importantly, I think he is going to pass that knowledge on to everyone.”

           “You think? You mean you aren’t sure? What the hell man!?”
 

          “It isn’t exactly something I wanna risk okay?” 
 

          “So, what then, you die, end of the world type shit?”

           ”No, the world goes on, I just die. And I don’t wanna.”

           Death winked. “But you’ll get to spend more time with me.”

 God shuffled away from Death, His face reddening a deeper shade than His profane acne.  He put both of His hands in

the pockets of His cargo shorts.

           ”It was bad enough Werner created those buttholes with increased brain control.  That darn injection has been

          nothing but a big middle finger to the natural order of things.”
 

          “Good thing it only works on a select few huh?”  

Death bent down to pick up a rock that had found its way into the row of civic hatchbacks, looking through the space

between her legs to make sure God had noticed she hadn’t bent at the knees.  His mouth was open.  Death arched her

back as she slowly regained her posture; she turned and winked again.  God wiped His brow with the back of His hand,

surprised He had started to sweat.

          “If he can teach everyone how to use the other ninety percent of their brain without that injection, people will

           eventually learn how to destroy me, whether they want to or not.  I can’t have that.”

 She placed the rock precariously on the top of the car, unnecessarily standing on her tip-toes, thinking to herself a

rock in the middle of the car’s roof would confuse generic car salesman number 4 of its origins.  She loved fucking with

random people’s minds.

           “Aww, now why would anyone want to kill you? You’re such a nice kid!”

Intentional sarcasm was one of Death’s more copacetic attributes. God grimaced when He worked out the insult.

           “Why don’t you just kill them yourself if you want them dead so badly?  You know I can’t actually cause

            someone  to die, I can just be there when it happens.”

          “I can’t do that.”

 Death suppressed a chuckle.

           “What are you talking about? You’ve been murdering people for millennia you fucking sadist. The shit I’ve seen

            you do actually makes ME blush.”

           ”I…I can’t tell you, just get it done will ya?”

 God was getting frustrated; Death was pushing all of His anger buttons and she had the unfortunate ability to turn him

on while she did.  

          “Well since you asked so nicely…”

Death stared into God’s eyes and gave Him a slow, deliberate smile as she seductively traced her top lip with her

tongue, commanding Him to follow her eyes down to his crotch.  God realized what she meant by asking nicely and

ashamedly turned his back to her, vigorously trying to dry the wet spot that had appeared on the front of his shorts.
 

           “I…uh…” 

God balled His fists and began muttering incoherently as he vanished.  *POP!*

            “Fucking little prick. I hope Werner does tell the world, or at least leaves a note or something.  This place

            would  be a helluva lot more fun without that shit eating pus ball around.”
 

Death’s chest was pounding, but she laughed when she thought of how big a kick Freya was gonna get out of her latest

encounter with the king of douche-baggery. 

 She would have to pull out all the stops if she was to figure out why God didn’t kill Werner Himself; the oddity of Him

actually NOT wanting to kill someone worth some attention.

 
Chapter Two     Shifty

           “…like a flower on the moon.”  Shifty theatrically lowered his hands and closed his eyes.

           “So, what do you think?”

            “That’s the lamest fucking attempt at poetry I have ever heard man. Do NOT read that to her.”

              “Fuck you Lionel.”

              “Why don’t you just tell her you wanna see fifteen or twenty heavy hittin niggas’ drop a load on her face? You

                could video tape it, bukkake style. All bitches dream about that shit yo. Tell her you wanna fulfill her fantasy.

                Hell, I’ll go first; I always did wanna slap my dick on your bitch’s face.”

                “You’re a sick piece of shit man. Talk about Katie like that again and I’ll fucking kill you.”

                “You know I’m just playin’ yo. Just tell her how you feel man. That poetry shit don’t work. Bitches want

                 honesty and shit. You keep pussy footin’ around and she’s gonna find someone else.”

Lionel gave Shifty an awkward wink that was more of an unnecessarily extended blink  and started to assemble the

sniper rifle he had removed from the glossy briefcase.

             After nine wonderful months of dating, Shifty still hadn’t told Katie how he felt.  She reminded him of his life

before he became captain of the Minions, the world’s finest and most secret black ops unit.  Life was simpler back then;

as a student all he had to worry about were paper deadlines and which club to go to on Saturday, not killing people

who supposedly posed a threat to national security.  Being a contract killer, or “keeper of the peace,” as Headquarters

called it, didn’t leave much time for a social life, much less a romantic one.  But Katie understood him, was patient

when he disappeared for days on end, didn’t ask questions about his work, and genuinely seemed to care about him.

Lately, however, he felt she was becoming distant and he knew he had to act.  Unfortunately all the abilities he

received from becoming a Minion didn’t include the ability to express himself emotionally.  He was worried he was

going to lose her, and even more terrified about having this situation be the only condition he had no idea how to

control.  He folded the love letter slowly, taking care to align the ends perfectly, and delicately slid it into his chest

pocket.

           Shifty and Lionel had a perfect spot; perched in a crag of rocks on the hill overlooking the bridge their targets

would be crossing in a little under an hour.  Though it was a full Moon, the side of the hill they were on was cloaked in

shadows.  The Moon wouldn’t reflect any of the Sun’s rays on their position for hours, and unbeknownst to either

Shifty or Lionel, the Sun was distracting the Moon with a heated conversation about an experience at a Honda

dealership the Sun had had earlier that day.  Occasionally the breeze would pick up, foreshadowing the storm in the

distance, but nothing more than being a refreshing respite from the heat; it dried their brows of the sweat that came

with nervous anticipation.  Lights of the cars heading across the bridge served as a welcome diversion; Shifty and

Lionel were mesmerized by the chaotic uniformity of people oblivious to the future, driving to whatever meaningless

destination normal folks drove to.  Clouds of different hues threatened rain and promised not to care either way.

Lionel gazed at the sky in awe, reflecting on the beauty of the night and silently thanked God for His magnificent

artistic ability in creating such splendor.  Shifty rubbed his face with a calloused hand and inadvertently traced the

outline of the letter to Katie with his other.  They were only two hundred yards from the kill zone, an easy shot for

either of them, but the kills had been assigned to Lionel; Shifty, per instructions, was to be the spotter. 
 

           As a ranking officer in the Minions, Shifty usually got the honor of the kill, but orders were not to be questioned.

Shifty browsed the dossier titled “Dr. Perry J. Werner,” and understood why Headquarters decided to give Lionel the

kill shots instead.  They must have figured he would have sentimental feelings for the target; after all it was Werner

who gave him his abilities, and the abilities of all the Minions for that matter.  Shifty was Werner’s first subject, he had

volunteered to receive the injection that let him control his adrenaline, heal minor wounds with a thought, and more

importantly, removed his pain receptors.   He and Werner had an awkward relationship; Shifty was the lab rat and

Werner the scientist, poking and prodding, testing and evaluating.  After Shifty became a resounding success, he and

Werner became fast friends.  It was Shifty’s plasma that led to the perfection of Werner’s injection; the prototype that

served as the foundation for all of the Minion’s injections, including Lionel’s.  And now they were going to kill him.
 

           “Hey Shifty, who’s the unlucky bastard gettin’ a bullet in the neck tonight?”

            ”Werner.”

            ”THE Werner? As in creator of the Minions, greatest mind of the twenty-second century, father of our abilities,

            advocate of human rights, conqueror of cancer, liberator of the homeless, and the same guy who sends us those

            fuckin awesome cookies every Christmas?”
 

            “And his daughter.”

            ”Alex?! I ain’t killin that little girl yo! Who the fuck wants her dead?!”
 

           “It doesn’t matter.”

 Shifty vividly remembered meeting the woman who gave him the orders earlier that day. One doesn’t forget a

beautiful naked woman who smells like hay. He just couldn’t understand how no one else in the crowded park seemed

to notice her.  He chalked it up to the ostrich syndrome; people didn’t look because they didn’t want to see, or were

too embarassed to admit what they saw.  It wasn’t normal for Headquarters to send a whore with orders, but the

papers checked out and after she topped him off he sure as shit wasn’t going to complain.  He hoped all assignments

would be delivered by whores, but had the feeling she was sent to serve as an appeasement for such a personal job.

Shifty popped a couple oxycotins in his mouth and started chewing.  He didn’t need them for pain, but he liked how

they made him itch, and they helped with the shakes.  Lionel dropped his head and began whispering inaudible

protests.  Sheets of rain formed in the distance and the violence of the downpour was carried on the wind.  Though the

storm was miles away, a gust of wind was carried to their perch, forcing its way through miniscule cracks between the

rocks.  The wind created an eerie high pitch whistle, like the Earth itself was weeping in lamentation for what Lionel

was about to do.  Shifty stood up and kicked Lionel in the shin. 

            ”Stop crying. Here they come.”

Chapter Three         The Birth of Jenna Majeska

           Alex knew.  She could feel it.  It wasn’t a malicious feeling, but humorous.  As if she was part of this fantastic joke

she wasn’t supposed to know about but did anyway.  She could feel it when she got in the car to go to her father’s

lecture, but it was giving her the shivers now.  It was too trivial to bring up her feelings to her father at that moment.

He had more important things to worry about; like why his car was careening off the bridge, and why there was a hole

in his neck.

           Her senses swarmed her as the accident seemed to occur in slow motion.  The smell wasn’t unpleasant, per say,

more like old hay, or at least what Alex thought what old hay would smell like.  It was the taste she couldn’t get past. 

Every time she tasted the air her mouth went dry and she remembered a happy moment in her life; the time her dad

told her how to forget pain when she scraped her knees; the time he had told her how to focus on the adrenal receptors

to bolster performance, and more importantly, sleep; the time her dad told her how to make the knife cut her steak

two feet above her plate.  She knew that reliving her favorite memories meant Death was lurking around because

Death had told Alex when she was younger how she liked to “take care of business.”  The problem was that Alex could

usually control what she wanted to think about. Death was interfering with how she controlled her thoughts, and the

smell of hay wasn’t helping.

           Alex’s desperation grew increasingly larger while the bridge steadily shrunk into the distance as they plummeted

into the river.  Alex’s mind was blocked with Fear.  She hadn’t learned how to handle Fear yet.  She had suspected that

Death and Fear rarely worked without one another.  He was there too, of course, back on the bridge, watching through

a lens.  People immediately forget Fear and don’t focus on him at all when they see how beautiful Death is.  While

Death’s glowing strawberry blonde hair does little to distract one from her nakedness, Fear wears plaid and khakis and

blends in with the other Frat boys who always seem to be around with a camcorder when someone dies so they can

post it on YouTube.  Alex was panicking.  She turned to her father and his pain was obvious.  This wasn’t a pain she

could just think about and make go away.  He was losing control. Alex never saw her father lose control, and that’s

when she heard screams. 

            The screaming was blatantly loud, terribly incessant, and altogether quite rude considering she was trying to

absorb the situation and it was making it extremely difficult for her to concentrate.   As the car began filling with water

she saw her father gargling blood and gasping for air and knew it couldn’t be him screaming; blood and water don’t mix

too well and certainly don’t mix when there is gargling involved.   Alex then realized there seemed to be multiple

screams happening at the same time.  There was one that seemed to be triumphant, but it wasn’t quite normal for a

scream.  It was distant and happy, relieved even.  There was another that was more of a disgruntled yelp of anger,

followed by the obligatory “Fuck!” yelled in disgust.  She surmised the last scream was hers as soon as the water

covered her mouth and the sound inside the car abruptly ended.  There was hay everywhere.   Not actually in the car,

just the absolute essence of it; its texture, and smothering nature overwhelming Alex’s urge to not bring up the needle

in the haystack cliché.  Despite the water that filled the car and soaked every inch of her trembling body, she felt dry.

She knew how to breathe underwater, but not now.  Feeling dry seemed to block the senses that told her she was

drowning, and subsequently, the ones that told her to breathe underwater.

           How the fuck does hay get in the middle of a submerged car, she thought.  Initially she worried about the

reprimand her father was surely to give her for thinking such a word.  It never came, but his eyes did seem to focus on

her in a grimace that had nothing to do with his pain.  His expression stated, “Seriously. Now?”   His ability to still read

her mind at a time like this made her swell with pride, and even more so with confusion when he obviously wasn’t

using his power to prevent his ruin.  Stupid Death, she thought.  Alex couldn’t understand why Death was taking her

father instead of helping them.  Death had helped her before and they were usually quite pleasant with each other.  Her

father must have really pissed off the powers that be to warrant this kind of act.

              “Preventative retribution hun, nothing personal,” Death whispered to her.

  Hay actually does smell good under the right circumstances, but when you and your father are drowning after

plummeting off a bridge, hay is the last thing you want to smell.  And make no mistake; you can smell when you are

drowning.   This thought brought her back to how humorous the entire situation was.  Smelling underwater, she

thought, only God could come up with something that ridiculous.  Her father looked quite comical as he kept trying to

steer the car underwater and Alex knew Death was having a ball with the whole episode.  This gave Alex a kind of

awkward affection for Death that resembled sisterly pride.  They were sharing a moment and Alex felt honored to have

a relationship with her.  Alex couldn’t help but smile when she thought about what her dad would say if she had told

him about how close she was with Death, but the blood from her father’s neck ruined the hilarity of it all.

             She knew her father was dead when she calmed herself enough to breath.  His eyes bulged with an expression of

resigned acceptance.  He was smiling as if he was posing for a photograph, and Alex couldn’t help but laugh as she

imagined her father looking down on his corpse, finally delivering the punch line to the joke that was never told.  He

told her this day would come when she was four.  He never said how, but he did say he would be smiling when it

happened, and that comforted her to know he did have complete control at the end.  Alex knew what she had to do

now.  She swam underwater for over a mile before crawling onto a bank and accepting the name her father told her to

accept if they were ever parted.

           Jenna Majeska emerged cold and hungry.  Both of which she handled with a quick thought.  But thoughts aren’t

nourishment.  She had to find real food, or the mental barriers she had established would break.  More importantly,

she had to continue the legacy, she had to show the world what she was, and she had to have a serious discussion with

Death.   She was fourteen, and she was pissed.

 
…Introduction to Chapter Four    Loose Ends

           Lionel came home with two forty ounce malt liquor bottles and a pint of vodka. Death was sitting cross-legged in

front of his flat screen television.

           ”You missed…”

“So, how are you feeling?”

“Not really sure. Who are you and why are you talking in italics?”

“Well, I’m Death, the grim reaper, evil incarnate, whatever it is you kids like to call it nowadays. I prefer Cynthia. I’m talking in italics so you can understand me. Unless you want me to speak in Sumerian of course.”

“No. Italics are fine.”

Death was gorgeous. She had the silkiest strawberry blonde hair that radiated an insatiable lust to be desired. Her curves were perfect in all the right places and if I were a poet I would have described sunsets, flowers, milky white suppleness and all other manner of clichés to try and do her beauty justice and still fail miserably.

“So I suppose you want all the normal questions answered?”

“Uh…”

“Okay, you see me as you want to see me. You see yourself like you want to see yourself.”

“Kinda like The Matrix huh?”

“Yes, except you don’t know kung fu.  You still have all the instinctual aspects of your humanity, but are more or less morally gray. You still feel emotions; boredom is one you will come to know quite well.  Anything you want you just have to think about and it will appear, outside of friends and other intangible objects.”

Death went on for quite some time… “No I didn’t. Time doesn’t exist here.” explaining everything I needed to know about my new future as a member of the deceased community.

“So what do I do now?

“Well, Famine, Pestilence and I have a game of canasta tonight and every other Tuesday. We need a fourth now that War is out getting ready for the Apocalypse or whatever he calls it. He keeps telling me I’m going to be busy soon. “

“Sounds like a douche bag.”
“Yeah, but I wouldn’t call him that to his face.”

“Ok. So why me?”

“Why you what? You asked what you do now. I offered canasta. You can do whatever you like. Make a house, get a television, I don’t care. You seem cute and you obviously want to fuck me. If you can hold your own in canasta then you got a chance.”

“Oh…well…yeah…”

And that’s how my first day being dead went. I met Death, and eventually Famine and Pestilence at Death’s house later that evening. She had a lovely home; it smelled of cedar and rosewood and was decorated in a Santa Fe motif for some reason. She had a picture of Viggo Mortensen in her kitchen, so I naturally made myself look like him to better my chances. Famine thought it quite funny, but I got the sense that Pestilence was a little jealous. I mean he did have putrid boils and pus oozing everywhere.  I had the best sex that night, or I think I did, “You did” and I still can’t figure out how I got lucky enough to become Death’s partner in…well, Death.  For being the harvester of souls she never seemed to leave me. I would have thought her job requirements would have meant extended absences, but she explained that I shouldn’t worry about the intricacies of our relationship.

My story will be coming, piecemeal and infrequently. Here’s hoping my friends will read it and obliterate my dreams regularly.