Foreword
When Kevin first approached me to write the intro to his little book my initial thought was to tell him to go shove it where the sun don’t shine; yet came to realise I was one of so few who knew him as nearly as an equal. Also, he said if I didn’t he’d pen it himself. We couldn’t have that now, could we?
I worked with Kevin for millennia until my services were no longer required and needed elsewhere, but Kevin wasn’t ever my boss, even if he did think, sometimes act, that way; us sisters let it pass as we were in this together, though that Orwell quip would be fitting. And as an eternal entity who’s only doing his job his ethereal employment has been much maligned; cut him some slack, why won’t you? He’s rather quite thoughtful, kind, caring and considerate despite all of his best efforts to come across as this bilious bogyman; that’s simply not him on the inside. He cares for what he’s got to do. Yes, Kevin has been painted to be an ogre of the Netherworld though I can say, hand on heart, he’s a bit of a sweetie, despite being prone to bouts of maudlin; will you blame him when you get to know him?
Looking back, I understand why he has written his story of sadness and regret, this tome of terror and horror with sexy bits; but I’ll leave that for you to discover for yourselves. For certain he can surely come across rather surly at times, but I have feelings for him, and my prayer is you will grow to not judge him too harshly likewise, dear reader. What else can I say that doesn’t give the plot away? It’s an epic, sporadic trek into the mysteries behind the scenes; it’s an escapade across realms and understandings. It’s a turbulent journey of peaks and troughs; of ravings, wrath and rogues. I ask; is the light at the end of the tunnel the glare of an on-coming train or bright revelation casting shadows asunder? Maybe at the end you might think of him a puppet on a string, or perhaps a major player in the cosmic scheme of things? What if he just wanted to have some fun? And, oh boy; his puns, but I won’t spoil the surprise. He wanted to have his words in red, but the printer would have charged double. I’d hate to be in his shoes right now!
With love
Epiphany
One
In the beginning was the Word and the word was bugger: bugger, what have I done, though He would never admit it, especially not to me, His second, most ‘prodigal’ son; not who you thought, eh? No, I was in this for me. The one that you're thinking of wanted to rule; I just wanted to have a good time. So, who am I? I'll tell you who I am; I am Death incarnate and my name’s Kevin. Am I a god? An immortal? Yes, inasmuch as it matters to you I am. I’ve been visiting this planet since that cow screwed up paradise by eating that bloody apple. Do I feel obligated here to slander her? 'What's your problem?' She’s asked of me; no, she don't like it when I point out the destructions of her actions. I told her what and she said that she wasn't the only one here who’s made huge echoing mistakes of cosmic proportions reverberating throughout history. Point to her. Is it too early here for tit-for-tat? Dear me: where was I? Got the brain of a goldfish me; yet if you’d clapped your mince pies on her in her nude perfection you’d be distracted too. I since prefer women with belly buttons, they're cute and it’s somewhere to lick and tickle. But back to me, it's the subject I excel at.
I'm Death. I’m Death; if thou eateth of it thou shall dieth, eyes opened. And why ain’t my name up there with Moses, Abram, Isaac, Jacob, Joseph, Ruth and Job? But let's move on shall we, or we’ll be here all night. And this is my story, not theirs. If you give it some thought death came into the world after she messed it up so think I'm more than qualified to call myself Death. I am Death; not the Prince of darkness, nor the god of this world; no king, no God with a little 'g', just Kevin, the Grim Reaper, and it's Christmas time, go Hark! yourself: that rape age of your wage packet for neighbours you don’t even like, wherever they live, or where you wish they would stay and die, like they should have the common decency to do in this day and age, the gits. Yes, that special time of the year when spirits go abroad, and though I’m not a spirit I do have privileges due my station. No, I am just an immigrant with benefits whom He lets hang around.
It's Christmas time, those days when all of mankind shares and cares, when every child should be made aware. It’s that gluttoness season of togetherness and tinsel, with presents under the tree. It's a special time of giving and forgetting, of bygones being bygones and all the family in bright coloured paper hats sitting around the table; that's how it's supposed to be, eh? Yet I've witnessed it elsewise; it’s never been that way, despite what those incessant telly adverts propound. Lord above, save us all from those scenes crammed down our throats like fat and grain down a sad gooses neck in the fantasy-clad world of anal toilet waters, how ironically. Yes, Xmas time, when I’m let off my leash to go and buy myself something I like. You will meet my Lord Above, no more a helpless babe in swaddling clothes, soon enough. You lot get your weekends, I get this; you drown your sorrows the best you can; I bathe in them, with bubble bombs.
Big Him upstairs had things He needed doing so we struck a bargain; I'd do His bidding but drew the line at doing the washing up. Of course, back then, being ‘Mr. Death’ was something special, not like it is now as there were only few around to bring into my parlour, said the spider to the fly. Yep, I am Death. Maybe I should give you its real spelling; Kethfinam? I don’t think so, though Abram got away with it; I could always kick his sorry butt at cards, especially when we played with the naughty ones you used to be able to buy in joke shops. However, the internet with all of its porn at hand, pardon the pun, put an end to that; ain't it just like people, to invent such a glorious form of communication to spread His word, to turn it into a cheap thrill? I blame Nick downstairs. Talking of Saint Nick, oops, I meant the other one. He still owes me big time from the ten plagues! Big Him had me working overtime on that one and Nick, the nasty one that leaves you a jar of instant coffee under the tree; a fifty pence piece wrapped up in silver foil, got himself many playthings to blunt his pitchfork on. You decide which.
Right; better get on with the story I want to tell.
Do I need to give apologies for doing my job? Are you up in arms, ready to judge me by your own blinded standards, by your own simplistic understanding of the big picture? Eh? Do you think I dance to your tune that no one ‘gets’ but you. No, no one does. They don't understand you, do they? No, they don't know what you've been through, do they? Who do you think does? But let's leave it at that. So, to the raison d’etre; you’re going to die. No one gets out of life alive; you are going to kick my bucket; that's the story I want to tell. Death, I am Death. You’re going to die. There's no way out or no deal to be done, 'cos what's in it for me? You’ll see. I guess you'll be expecting me now to reel off a reel of sassy synonyms but ‘F’ you! I got ya. I got you by the proverbials. Why prolong the inevitable! Yes, people will do everything in their powers to battle, war, to rage against me but you’re mine. You were mine from birth even if you didn't know it. Didn't Mum or Dad tell you? Did they keep that joke out of the cracker? That joke that’s the punchline to you. You are going to die. Undoubtedly. Yes, I'm going to take you to me, to do with you what I wilt; take all of your philosophies and stick ‘em up your bum. Ok, there is a way out, but I’m not letting you into that double-edged secret, especially not at this time of the year; He can do His own dirty work. I'm trying to be kind to you, my friend, yet even the patience of angels has its end. I suppose that's the intro. I'm Kevin; I'm Death. And you’re mine; mine all mine.
Look into a mirror and what do you think you see? Yourself? No, all you'll ever see is a reverse of you. I'm the true side; that’s the deal I made, to be the reflection. Hidden houses have even more hidden room’s; you live in one but are still in that same house. Get it? Got it? Right, you sack cloths in ashes, let me procrastinate no further and introduce to you our protagonist, Bob. Bob. He never got those lucky breaks, which gave him a big comfy sofa to hide behind when the booze had cancelled out the medication that said, ‘do not mix with alcohol’. He moaned about it, he complained about it, blamed everybody else for it, though, to be fair, he did grow out of that and just took his life as a plaything, even if deep, soiling resentment, still simmered away in his heart, in his head and his soul. If only his protestations of 'he could have been someone' were not so farfetched, and his rants had just as much truth in them as the angry words of others, though Bob would refute that to his dying breath if he had to, which perhaps he didn't. Bob Tracy, ever the fool; never got given the chance to play by their rules, which justified in his mind in him making his own up as he saw fit; ah, what rage has the scorned lady got against the idiot voyeur? And that's our Bob: gone grey before his older siblings yet he's the one they always went to first to borrow a few quid from before they went to those loan sharks you see on telly; he didn’t charge the interest they did, but Bob didn't have a bad enough bad bone in his body to send the boys around to break fingers; yes, that’s our Bob. When he was a kid his brothers trapped him in a corner with a blow-up dog, maybe that’s why he preferred cats and had many during his forty-eight years though not quite as many as the many women he knew. No, he had his morals to live by and his shame to beg forgiveness for, and that's where I was going to come in, through his prayers one long night after so many nights in guilt ridden guilt, for an easy way out he didn’t have to take responsibility for ‘cos he knew the songs to sing: he sure did! Yes, Bob called himself a God-botherer, but he raged the Holy Spirit inside beyond the pale which drove him more nuts than he already was; he did keep taking the tablets, but they had stopped making his prescription. His new pills were ok though they didn't quite take the edge off like the others used to, despite how Susan from the hospital attempted to reassure him they would in time, but he held tight onto his convictions of the answer of prayer, for better or for worse; it was always worse. With that said let’s dive in with my Christmas story and get ready to ring in the new year a few short days from now when it will all be finished.
It was late into the evening. The winds truly blew as they do in wintery weather; the rain falling like pellets of a BB gun shot by a teenager thrilled way beyond more than his pants could hide, and the voices in his head; no, let’s not go there, the point was it was horrid outside. You think that it's bound to be better than last time, though never is (don’t chase your losses). That’s where callous, callused me came in, hearing him earnestly begging into his pillow in repentance, but he had yet to understand repentance was turning away from what he was doing, not just saying sorry for it. I heard him from my boudoir, his pleas reached to me through that mist He likes to bring in from The North to put in my way, but the reception was now as clear as a bully’s victim on his back being punched in the face. He was willing, a piece of fresh meat ready for tenderising; flies open. I'd've offered a piece of juicy fruit if I didn't want to pay royalties to you know who, and certainly not at this time when he was prowling like a roaring lion for someone to devour. By granny's corset, Bob was a lump of leaven to be kneaded, a man like you, a mulled wine toe-rag in the days of Noah. Nah, scratch that. He was a lost soul I could fill in in his God shaped hole. I stepped into his consciousness to test the turbulent waters. Was he serious to know? Was he ready for what he aspired to be? Was Bobby worth the effort? He was already mine in he was going to die but Nick had a legitimate claim on him, with his haunting books. He called heads. He lost; Bob was mine: pounds, shillings and pence. Yes, Bob was mine, like that gift I’d bought in the sales nine months or more ago at discount. I’d tempt him, offer him redemption with welfare stamps, not expected boring salvation but rescue from his actions with cherries on top! Would he bite? I sugared the pill with treasures, gilded the lily with shiny things, subtly. I didn't want to lose him after all that Nick agro. I had enticed him nights before in a dream with;
"Not in my strength; not in my power, but in my gifts". I knew he'd loved The Book references; that’s when I first spoke to his waking mind:
“Hi Bob”. I left it at that, I didn't want to freak him out! Just a simple hello greeting to see if he was going to respond. Bob messed his trousers, as you would too; don't you dare judge him, you plaster saints. He spoke back to me, unsure of what was going on in his brain. Was he hearing voices? Were the new pills still not yet doing their sodding job? He’d taken more than prescribed, like it wasn’t for the first time. Like I’ve said, it was that special time of year, the worst of times, the best of times; a daffodil pick if you know where to look, as if ain’t hard to find.
"I’m here Bob. What do you want?" That let lose his bodily functions, farts, puke, and the rest! It was fun! It's like that joke with the Bishop. He rejected it in his head, because that's where I was. He went to the loo to clean himself up; Holy God! The smell could’ve stripped paint! It brought to Bob’s remembrance that time in the queue to get in Zoned nightclub a few Christmases ago with his work colleagues. Result; he resigned the next shift, though still swears to this day they’d spiked his drinks, but there you go. Oh, so many wipes, and not just the cloying gluey up-the-sticky-bum-bits. "Success? Respect? Truth? Dearie me, son of Davey, what ya want? No, not what you've been told to expect, not what you're indoctrinated to desire, Bob; what do you want? I can give you glories above and beyond; I can give you metals, and rocks judged most valuable, grant you an audience with the pope, president, dictators and dealers; can bring before you all the hurt, the broken and beaten inside to heal. It's in my given power to bestow: what do you want? I can put you top of the pops, your whiney poetry book at number one on the best sellers list, move Heaven and Earth, can create for you a new flavour of crisps for you to name and claim as your own. What do you want, Bob?" Too much? Bob went to the pub and drank his way passed what his tapping cash card would allow. He thought he'd lost his noodles. When he got back, not too late, in his stupor he told me what;
"I want love." Nuts, I might lose him. I took a deep breath. He wanted that insipidus thing beyond the irksome grasp of persons such as I, despite my best efforts.
Let me set the tragic scene: The bedsit that he called home was dreadfully decorated with cheapest, gaudiest baubles from the Quid Shop but had the redeeming feature of a semi decent internet connection. Bob was on the worn carpet next to his single bed on his knees (god knows why, I never asked him to) speaking, or should I say, mumbling to me. I have been rather brief about our conversation, saying "Hi," and asking him what he honestly wants; Bob throwing his hat into the ring with his bland inane replies. It was Job all over again, though with him being him and me not Him. I offered him a plateful off sumptuous delights, after finally getting through his thick skull what I could do for him and him unknowingly trying to trick me like that philosophical rock pushed up that theoretical hill after he’d buggered off to the local to try to drown me out. And that's where we are now. He was on his knees; the bedsheets were weeks past needing changing, the fridge less bare than Hubbard's cupboard, which was the usual for Bob. Bob wept. (I had to get that in). His tears satisfied me; they made me joyous, like getting back after a dull day at your remedial five days a week then cracking open a beer to find your favourite film you never looked up on. Ney! More than so. Sorry, that olde worlde speake; it’s an awful habit of mine I must quit. Geteth ye behind me thou spell checker! Amen!
"Who the hell are you?" He challenged; it beats ‘take me to your leader’ I guess, but I was gonna play nice, so gave him that spiel at the start of this little book, you know the one; "I am Death, etcetera", in first person blabber; Bob took it well, all things considered. Then, for some bizarre, unbeknownst to me reason, he gave me the potted tale of his pathetic life, like I gave one iota. That's where we were, in dialogue:
"Love,” he reminded me, "that's what I want.” (Well, it is that time; of banal bludgeoning soggy sentimentality dressed up in a slippers and socks set from the dithering doting Aunty you don’t talk of). “I want the kind of love you get in movies and novels by who-the-face. That's what I want, Kevin.” He called me Kevin; it sounded weird when my name was said out loud; I've never got used to it; it sounds fatuous.
"Err, Bob, that's the point, isn't it? It's not 'real', it's made up, it's love without the wet patch; it's a box of chocolates that’s nothing but soft centres; it’s make-believe. The kind of love you want even I can't give you. Take that as your first wish. You've got two left." He remembered his Solomon:
"Wisdom." As if I could grant wisdom with the click of my fingers? It's not as simple as that I told him.
“You don't get given that, you must learn it, earn it; no, no fanciful wisdom. One wish left." I said with gusto, framing it in fairy tale contexts that I hoped might get him to his wants quicker, like I thought I knew what was coming next: go on, beloved, take a stab; Riches? Three more wishes? I'm not some flipping turban Genie! No, I’m not, I was just using an analogy, yet it wasn't those. Bob thought it over, over a beer fetched from said fridge that had had a lot of companions, then, after a long drawn out cigarette, he said:
"Then in that case I wanna be lucky. Yeah, that's it! That’s what I want, I want to be lucky." Bingo! I had him! Yes, that’s what you were going to say, dear reader? On the tip of your damp searching tongue, wasn’t it? No, anyone who knows me knows I'm no Yes man, never have been, never will be. I say it like it is, a spade’s a spade; so, when he made his request I gave it, and it was counted unto him for stupidity. (my best line thus far?) Think that contradicting to what I’ve just said? You'll see. "Well? Do I need to sign a contract or something, Kevin?"
"No," I informed him, "if that was so, I’d have to have told you what you were signing for before I could grant it, that's how it works. Ergo, no contract.” He looked crestfallen from that, like he had missed out on some ceremonial, celestial event. I was glad he didn’t call my bluff.
"What, so I'm ‘lucky’ now?" He said, doubting me, sensing subterfuge. "What now?" I'll tell him what! I exposed myself! (Yeah, I could’ve used another word but what's one cheap laugh between friends?) I showed my true form. As he saw with his googling eyes I was not no hooded, skeletal figure carrying a scythe; nor was I Ebenezer’s ghost of Christmas yet to come, and reliably not there to bring him chance of redemption. He groped at my Oxfords, my tailored jeans cradling my junk and 'Got Truth' t-shirt I got off Shamazon, which made the rumpranger clack back a smirk. He didn't know what hit him, like jingle bells, like holly on the branch sprung back in your face.
When I step into this piteous existence you lot occupy it has always been a bit of a jolt from the plane that I live in, where even the rocks and flowers sing songs of praise to Big Him. Sorry, my real beef’s not with him, it's with Eve. (Quick joke; it had to be beef, not pork! He's Jewish! That's another few years in purgatory for me but was worth it). Yes, my reality is way beyond your jaded, blighted senses, and purgatory is…wait, I'm getting ahead of myself, I do that. I’ll be gentle.
"I'll tell you what, Bob; get off your bloodied knees for a start, sort this mess out (indicating this flea pit he paid too much rent for) and pull yourself together." I said. He did it again! It was as he got off his knees to go clean himself up, expert at the task by now, when there was a bang on the door; It was his unemployable 'get stoned to Pink Floyd then guilt his neighbour for a bacon sandwich' mate Jason, or 'Jay' as he preferred. I think I'll call him Knob Boy. Before we go any further with this tale let me get one thing straight; I know Big Him upstairs, He's a half decent bloke once you get to know Him, and I've clashed beers with His progeny each year to celebrate His birthday, though, to be pedantic it’s still Him, in disguise (I don’t let on; it's His thing). Yes, along with the other one, His other pretence, His other 'undercover'. Do you know Him? I don't think many of you do, do you? He's that manifold of Him you don't talk about much, but when you do, you talk about Him way too much; just another 'all or nothing' to add to the bucket list that’s your factory setting modus operandi. He's the salt bringing flavour to your food, the doubling backgammon dice that makes the game worth playing; your next best friend. Give Glory! Glory! Glory! in the highest. No, I'm not being sarcastic, though I do propose a grammar mark for that, but purgatory isn't a nice place to be, it's not one big party with your mates, take my word for it! Note to self: I sure do gotta do that; but not here, not yet.
When Kevin first approached me to write the intro to his little book my initial thought was to tell him to go shove it where the sun don’t shine; yet came to realise I was one of so few who knew him as nearly as an equal. Also, he said if I didn’t he’d pen it himself. We couldn’t have that now, could we?
I worked with Kevin for millennia until my services were no longer required and needed elsewhere, but Kevin wasn’t ever my boss, even if he did think, sometimes act, that way; us sisters let it pass as we were in this together, though that Orwell quip would be fitting. And as an eternal entity who’s only doing his job his ethereal employment has been much maligned; cut him some slack, why won’t you? He’s rather quite thoughtful, kind, caring and considerate despite all of his best efforts to come across as this bilious bogyman; that’s simply not him on the inside. He cares for what he’s got to do. Yes, Kevin has been painted to be an ogre of the Netherworld though I can say, hand on heart, he’s a bit of a sweetie, despite being prone to bouts of maudlin; will you blame him when you get to know him?
Looking back, I understand why he has written his story of sadness and regret, this tome of terror and horror with sexy bits; but I’ll leave that for you to discover for yourselves. For certain he can surely come across rather surly at times, but I have feelings for him, and my prayer is you will grow to not judge him too harshly likewise, dear reader. What else can I say that doesn’t give the plot away? It’s an epic, sporadic trek into the mysteries behind the scenes; it’s an escapade across realms and understandings. It’s a turbulent journey of peaks and troughs; of ravings, wrath and rogues. I ask; is the light at the end of the tunnel the glare of an on-coming train or bright revelation casting shadows asunder? Maybe at the end you might think of him a puppet on a string, or perhaps a major player in the cosmic scheme of things? What if he just wanted to have some fun? And, oh boy; his puns, but I won’t spoil the surprise. He wanted to have his words in red, but the printer would have charged double. I’d hate to be in his shoes right now!
With love
Epiphany
One
In the beginning was the Word and the word was bugger: bugger, what have I done, though He would never admit it, especially not to me, His second, most ‘prodigal’ son; not who you thought, eh? No, I was in this for me. The one that you're thinking of wanted to rule; I just wanted to have a good time. So, who am I? I'll tell you who I am; I am Death incarnate and my name’s Kevin. Am I a god? An immortal? Yes, inasmuch as it matters to you I am. I’ve been visiting this planet since that cow screwed up paradise by eating that bloody apple. Do I feel obligated here to slander her? 'What's your problem?' She’s asked of me; no, she don't like it when I point out the destructions of her actions. I told her what and she said that she wasn't the only one here who’s made huge echoing mistakes of cosmic proportions reverberating throughout history. Point to her. Is it too early here for tit-for-tat? Dear me: where was I? Got the brain of a goldfish me; yet if you’d clapped your mince pies on her in her nude perfection you’d be distracted too. I since prefer women with belly buttons, they're cute and it’s somewhere to lick and tickle. But back to me, it's the subject I excel at.
I'm Death. I’m Death; if thou eateth of it thou shall dieth, eyes opened. And why ain’t my name up there with Moses, Abram, Isaac, Jacob, Joseph, Ruth and Job? But let's move on shall we, or we’ll be here all night. And this is my story, not theirs. If you give it some thought death came into the world after she messed it up so think I'm more than qualified to call myself Death. I am Death; not the Prince of darkness, nor the god of this world; no king, no God with a little 'g', just Kevin, the Grim Reaper, and it's Christmas time, go Hark! yourself: that rape age of your wage packet for neighbours you don’t even like, wherever they live, or where you wish they would stay and die, like they should have the common decency to do in this day and age, the gits. Yes, that special time of the year when spirits go abroad, and though I’m not a spirit I do have privileges due my station. No, I am just an immigrant with benefits whom He lets hang around.
It's Christmas time, those days when all of mankind shares and cares, when every child should be made aware. It’s that gluttoness season of togetherness and tinsel, with presents under the tree. It's a special time of giving and forgetting, of bygones being bygones and all the family in bright coloured paper hats sitting around the table; that's how it's supposed to be, eh? Yet I've witnessed it elsewise; it’s never been that way, despite what those incessant telly adverts propound. Lord above, save us all from those scenes crammed down our throats like fat and grain down a sad gooses neck in the fantasy-clad world of anal toilet waters, how ironically. Yes, Xmas time, when I’m let off my leash to go and buy myself something I like. You will meet my Lord Above, no more a helpless babe in swaddling clothes, soon enough. You lot get your weekends, I get this; you drown your sorrows the best you can; I bathe in them, with bubble bombs.
Big Him upstairs had things He needed doing so we struck a bargain; I'd do His bidding but drew the line at doing the washing up. Of course, back then, being ‘Mr. Death’ was something special, not like it is now as there were only few around to bring into my parlour, said the spider to the fly. Yep, I am Death. Maybe I should give you its real spelling; Kethfinam? I don’t think so, though Abram got away with it; I could always kick his sorry butt at cards, especially when we played with the naughty ones you used to be able to buy in joke shops. However, the internet with all of its porn at hand, pardon the pun, put an end to that; ain't it just like people, to invent such a glorious form of communication to spread His word, to turn it into a cheap thrill? I blame Nick downstairs. Talking of Saint Nick, oops, I meant the other one. He still owes me big time from the ten plagues! Big Him had me working overtime on that one and Nick, the nasty one that leaves you a jar of instant coffee under the tree; a fifty pence piece wrapped up in silver foil, got himself many playthings to blunt his pitchfork on. You decide which.
Right; better get on with the story I want to tell.
Do I need to give apologies for doing my job? Are you up in arms, ready to judge me by your own blinded standards, by your own simplistic understanding of the big picture? Eh? Do you think I dance to your tune that no one ‘gets’ but you. No, no one does. They don't understand you, do they? No, they don't know what you've been through, do they? Who do you think does? But let's leave it at that. So, to the raison d’etre; you’re going to die. No one gets out of life alive; you are going to kick my bucket; that's the story I want to tell. Death, I am Death. You’re going to die. There's no way out or no deal to be done, 'cos what's in it for me? You’ll see. I guess you'll be expecting me now to reel off a reel of sassy synonyms but ‘F’ you! I got ya. I got you by the proverbials. Why prolong the inevitable! Yes, people will do everything in their powers to battle, war, to rage against me but you’re mine. You were mine from birth even if you didn't know it. Didn't Mum or Dad tell you? Did they keep that joke out of the cracker? That joke that’s the punchline to you. You are going to die. Undoubtedly. Yes, I'm going to take you to me, to do with you what I wilt; take all of your philosophies and stick ‘em up your bum. Ok, there is a way out, but I’m not letting you into that double-edged secret, especially not at this time of the year; He can do His own dirty work. I'm trying to be kind to you, my friend, yet even the patience of angels has its end. I suppose that's the intro. I'm Kevin; I'm Death. And you’re mine; mine all mine.
Look into a mirror and what do you think you see? Yourself? No, all you'll ever see is a reverse of you. I'm the true side; that’s the deal I made, to be the reflection. Hidden houses have even more hidden room’s; you live in one but are still in that same house. Get it? Got it? Right, you sack cloths in ashes, let me procrastinate no further and introduce to you our protagonist, Bob. Bob. He never got those lucky breaks, which gave him a big comfy sofa to hide behind when the booze had cancelled out the medication that said, ‘do not mix with alcohol’. He moaned about it, he complained about it, blamed everybody else for it, though, to be fair, he did grow out of that and just took his life as a plaything, even if deep, soiling resentment, still simmered away in his heart, in his head and his soul. If only his protestations of 'he could have been someone' were not so farfetched, and his rants had just as much truth in them as the angry words of others, though Bob would refute that to his dying breath if he had to, which perhaps he didn't. Bob Tracy, ever the fool; never got given the chance to play by their rules, which justified in his mind in him making his own up as he saw fit; ah, what rage has the scorned lady got against the idiot voyeur? And that's our Bob: gone grey before his older siblings yet he's the one they always went to first to borrow a few quid from before they went to those loan sharks you see on telly; he didn’t charge the interest they did, but Bob didn't have a bad enough bad bone in his body to send the boys around to break fingers; yes, that’s our Bob. When he was a kid his brothers trapped him in a corner with a blow-up dog, maybe that’s why he preferred cats and had many during his forty-eight years though not quite as many as the many women he knew. No, he had his morals to live by and his shame to beg forgiveness for, and that's where I was going to come in, through his prayers one long night after so many nights in guilt ridden guilt, for an easy way out he didn’t have to take responsibility for ‘cos he knew the songs to sing: he sure did! Yes, Bob called himself a God-botherer, but he raged the Holy Spirit inside beyond the pale which drove him more nuts than he already was; he did keep taking the tablets, but they had stopped making his prescription. His new pills were ok though they didn't quite take the edge off like the others used to, despite how Susan from the hospital attempted to reassure him they would in time, but he held tight onto his convictions of the answer of prayer, for better or for worse; it was always worse. With that said let’s dive in with my Christmas story and get ready to ring in the new year a few short days from now when it will all be finished.
It was late into the evening. The winds truly blew as they do in wintery weather; the rain falling like pellets of a BB gun shot by a teenager thrilled way beyond more than his pants could hide, and the voices in his head; no, let’s not go there, the point was it was horrid outside. You think that it's bound to be better than last time, though never is (don’t chase your losses). That’s where callous, callused me came in, hearing him earnestly begging into his pillow in repentance, but he had yet to understand repentance was turning away from what he was doing, not just saying sorry for it. I heard him from my boudoir, his pleas reached to me through that mist He likes to bring in from The North to put in my way, but the reception was now as clear as a bully’s victim on his back being punched in the face. He was willing, a piece of fresh meat ready for tenderising; flies open. I'd've offered a piece of juicy fruit if I didn't want to pay royalties to you know who, and certainly not at this time when he was prowling like a roaring lion for someone to devour. By granny's corset, Bob was a lump of leaven to be kneaded, a man like you, a mulled wine toe-rag in the days of Noah. Nah, scratch that. He was a lost soul I could fill in in his God shaped hole. I stepped into his consciousness to test the turbulent waters. Was he serious to know? Was he ready for what he aspired to be? Was Bobby worth the effort? He was already mine in he was going to die but Nick had a legitimate claim on him, with his haunting books. He called heads. He lost; Bob was mine: pounds, shillings and pence. Yes, Bob was mine, like that gift I’d bought in the sales nine months or more ago at discount. I’d tempt him, offer him redemption with welfare stamps, not expected boring salvation but rescue from his actions with cherries on top! Would he bite? I sugared the pill with treasures, gilded the lily with shiny things, subtly. I didn't want to lose him after all that Nick agro. I had enticed him nights before in a dream with;
"Not in my strength; not in my power, but in my gifts". I knew he'd loved The Book references; that’s when I first spoke to his waking mind:
“Hi Bob”. I left it at that, I didn't want to freak him out! Just a simple hello greeting to see if he was going to respond. Bob messed his trousers, as you would too; don't you dare judge him, you plaster saints. He spoke back to me, unsure of what was going on in his brain. Was he hearing voices? Were the new pills still not yet doing their sodding job? He’d taken more than prescribed, like it wasn’t for the first time. Like I’ve said, it was that special time of year, the worst of times, the best of times; a daffodil pick if you know where to look, as if ain’t hard to find.
"I’m here Bob. What do you want?" That let lose his bodily functions, farts, puke, and the rest! It was fun! It's like that joke with the Bishop. He rejected it in his head, because that's where I was. He went to the loo to clean himself up; Holy God! The smell could’ve stripped paint! It brought to Bob’s remembrance that time in the queue to get in Zoned nightclub a few Christmases ago with his work colleagues. Result; he resigned the next shift, though still swears to this day they’d spiked his drinks, but there you go. Oh, so many wipes, and not just the cloying gluey up-the-sticky-bum-bits. "Success? Respect? Truth? Dearie me, son of Davey, what ya want? No, not what you've been told to expect, not what you're indoctrinated to desire, Bob; what do you want? I can give you glories above and beyond; I can give you metals, and rocks judged most valuable, grant you an audience with the pope, president, dictators and dealers; can bring before you all the hurt, the broken and beaten inside to heal. It's in my given power to bestow: what do you want? I can put you top of the pops, your whiney poetry book at number one on the best sellers list, move Heaven and Earth, can create for you a new flavour of crisps for you to name and claim as your own. What do you want, Bob?" Too much? Bob went to the pub and drank his way passed what his tapping cash card would allow. He thought he'd lost his noodles. When he got back, not too late, in his stupor he told me what;
"I want love." Nuts, I might lose him. I took a deep breath. He wanted that insipidus thing beyond the irksome grasp of persons such as I, despite my best efforts.
Let me set the tragic scene: The bedsit that he called home was dreadfully decorated with cheapest, gaudiest baubles from the Quid Shop but had the redeeming feature of a semi decent internet connection. Bob was on the worn carpet next to his single bed on his knees (god knows why, I never asked him to) speaking, or should I say, mumbling to me. I have been rather brief about our conversation, saying "Hi," and asking him what he honestly wants; Bob throwing his hat into the ring with his bland inane replies. It was Job all over again, though with him being him and me not Him. I offered him a plateful off sumptuous delights, after finally getting through his thick skull what I could do for him and him unknowingly trying to trick me like that philosophical rock pushed up that theoretical hill after he’d buggered off to the local to try to drown me out. And that's where we are now. He was on his knees; the bedsheets were weeks past needing changing, the fridge less bare than Hubbard's cupboard, which was the usual for Bob. Bob wept. (I had to get that in). His tears satisfied me; they made me joyous, like getting back after a dull day at your remedial five days a week then cracking open a beer to find your favourite film you never looked up on. Ney! More than so. Sorry, that olde worlde speake; it’s an awful habit of mine I must quit. Geteth ye behind me thou spell checker! Amen!
"Who the hell are you?" He challenged; it beats ‘take me to your leader’ I guess, but I was gonna play nice, so gave him that spiel at the start of this little book, you know the one; "I am Death, etcetera", in first person blabber; Bob took it well, all things considered. Then, for some bizarre, unbeknownst to me reason, he gave me the potted tale of his pathetic life, like I gave one iota. That's where we were, in dialogue:
"Love,” he reminded me, "that's what I want.” (Well, it is that time; of banal bludgeoning soggy sentimentality dressed up in a slippers and socks set from the dithering doting Aunty you don’t talk of). “I want the kind of love you get in movies and novels by who-the-face. That's what I want, Kevin.” He called me Kevin; it sounded weird when my name was said out loud; I've never got used to it; it sounds fatuous.
"Err, Bob, that's the point, isn't it? It's not 'real', it's made up, it's love without the wet patch; it's a box of chocolates that’s nothing but soft centres; it’s make-believe. The kind of love you want even I can't give you. Take that as your first wish. You've got two left." He remembered his Solomon:
"Wisdom." As if I could grant wisdom with the click of my fingers? It's not as simple as that I told him.
“You don't get given that, you must learn it, earn it; no, no fanciful wisdom. One wish left." I said with gusto, framing it in fairy tale contexts that I hoped might get him to his wants quicker, like I thought I knew what was coming next: go on, beloved, take a stab; Riches? Three more wishes? I'm not some flipping turban Genie! No, I’m not, I was just using an analogy, yet it wasn't those. Bob thought it over, over a beer fetched from said fridge that had had a lot of companions, then, after a long drawn out cigarette, he said:
"Then in that case I wanna be lucky. Yeah, that's it! That’s what I want, I want to be lucky." Bingo! I had him! Yes, that’s what you were going to say, dear reader? On the tip of your damp searching tongue, wasn’t it? No, anyone who knows me knows I'm no Yes man, never have been, never will be. I say it like it is, a spade’s a spade; so, when he made his request I gave it, and it was counted unto him for stupidity. (my best line thus far?) Think that contradicting to what I’ve just said? You'll see. "Well? Do I need to sign a contract or something, Kevin?"
"No," I informed him, "if that was so, I’d have to have told you what you were signing for before I could grant it, that's how it works. Ergo, no contract.” He looked crestfallen from that, like he had missed out on some ceremonial, celestial event. I was glad he didn’t call my bluff.
"What, so I'm ‘lucky’ now?" He said, doubting me, sensing subterfuge. "What now?" I'll tell him what! I exposed myself! (Yeah, I could’ve used another word but what's one cheap laugh between friends?) I showed my true form. As he saw with his googling eyes I was not no hooded, skeletal figure carrying a scythe; nor was I Ebenezer’s ghost of Christmas yet to come, and reliably not there to bring him chance of redemption. He groped at my Oxfords, my tailored jeans cradling my junk and 'Got Truth' t-shirt I got off Shamazon, which made the rumpranger clack back a smirk. He didn't know what hit him, like jingle bells, like holly on the branch sprung back in your face.
When I step into this piteous existence you lot occupy it has always been a bit of a jolt from the plane that I live in, where even the rocks and flowers sing songs of praise to Big Him. Sorry, my real beef’s not with him, it's with Eve. (Quick joke; it had to be beef, not pork! He's Jewish! That's another few years in purgatory for me but was worth it). Yes, my reality is way beyond your jaded, blighted senses, and purgatory is…wait, I'm getting ahead of myself, I do that. I’ll be gentle.
"I'll tell you what, Bob; get off your bloodied knees for a start, sort this mess out (indicating this flea pit he paid too much rent for) and pull yourself together." I said. He did it again! It was as he got off his knees to go clean himself up, expert at the task by now, when there was a bang on the door; It was his unemployable 'get stoned to Pink Floyd then guilt his neighbour for a bacon sandwich' mate Jason, or 'Jay' as he preferred. I think I'll call him Knob Boy. Before we go any further with this tale let me get one thing straight; I know Big Him upstairs, He's a half decent bloke once you get to know Him, and I've clashed beers with His progeny each year to celebrate His birthday, though, to be pedantic it’s still Him, in disguise (I don’t let on; it's His thing). Yes, along with the other one, His other pretence, His other 'undercover'. Do you know Him? I don't think many of you do, do you? He's that manifold of Him you don't talk about much, but when you do, you talk about Him way too much; just another 'all or nothing' to add to the bucket list that’s your factory setting modus operandi. He's the salt bringing flavour to your food, the doubling backgammon dice that makes the game worth playing; your next best friend. Give Glory! Glory! Glory! in the highest. No, I'm not being sarcastic, though I do propose a grammar mark for that, but purgatory isn't a nice place to be, it's not one big party with your mates, take my word for it! Note to self: I sure do gotta do that; but not here, not yet.
