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DEATH
ON THE DOORSTEP
By Charity VanDeberg
Rob peered through the
peephole of his apartment door just as the doorbell rang for the third
time. Through the fisheye lens, he saw
only a distorted view of the blandly colored hallway lined by four brown
doors on each side. As he was about to
turn away, the scene before his eye filled with a deep black, followed by
ivory white. The being outside his
door stepped back and Rob was able to see his full face, surrounded by black
cloth, a blindingly gleaming scythe rested against his left shoulder. Again, the doorbell rang. Death was at Rob’s door and he had to
answer it.
“Hey, Grim! How are
you doing?” Rob feigned a grin and
patted the taller figure on his robed shoulders.
“I BROUGHT BEER,”
announced The Grim Reaper, his telepathic voice booming through Rob’s
head. “I HOPE I’M NOT TOO EARLY. I HATE TO BE THE EARLY BIRD TO A PARTY.” He looked around and saw that there was no
one else in the room. The television
blared the Academy Award pre-show.
Joan Rivers and her daughter fawned over some movie starlet Rob had
never heard of.
“No problem,
buddy.” Rob assured him. “The others should be here soon. Make
yourself comfortable. There are snacks
on the counter.”
As Grim floated toward
the couch, Rob took the chance to check his smile in a nearby mirror. He knew he’d need it to be believable all
night. Especially if War showed up. He was such a troublemaker and Rob often
had to be the mediator.
“WHERE IS FAMINE?”
“Oh, yeah. Um, she
didn’t tell you? Mina, er… Famine got
the cover of Vogue. She’s on her way to New York for the shoot. Guess it’s just us guys tonight.” Rob grinned and headed for the fridge with
the beer Grim had handed him.
It wasn’t the easiest
thing in the world to be Famine’s boyfriend.
First of all, she was always away, visiting foreign lands like China, Ethiopia,
and Russia. Secondly, when she was home, she never
wanted to go out for dinner. Thirdly,
and most importantly, she didn’t have the normal type of friends. Rob had never expected to be spending Oscar
night watching the big show with War, Pestilence, Sloth, or the Devil, much
less making potato salad “just the way Grimmy likes it.” But he loved Mina and sometimes love makes
you do strange things.
The bell rang again
and Rob quickly closed the refrigerator and crossed back to the door. Through the peephole, he saw a large man in
a red suit. Rob sighed deeply and
reached for the knob. The door swung
open nearly of its own accord and slammed against the wall, leaving a small
round dent in the plaster.
“Ho ho ho!” bellowed Santa Claus as he bounced into the
room. “Have you been good little boys
this year? How would you like a snake
in your stocking?” The fat man
suddenly spun on his heels and was replaced by a very thin, good looking
young man in a red Armani suit. “Well,
howdy doo?”
“Ha! I love that
one!” Rob laughed (hoping it wasn’t
too noticeably false). Again, the man
spun and turned into Santa. Spun again
and was Satan. Santa, Satan. Santa,
Satan. Until Rob was ready to beat him
over the head with the nearest floor lamp.
“Santa/Satan, please come in and say hi to Grim. He’s at the
counter.” Rob again gave his best
belly laugh and closed the door behind the devil.
“Daahling, how aaare
you? It’s just been soooo long since
we’ve spoken.” Affecting his best Scarlet O’Hara accent, Satan put his arm
around Grim’s shoulder and set his cloak on fire.
“YOU’VE SET ME ON FIRE
AGAIN, HAVEN’T YOU?”
“Just a little one,
for old time’s sake. There, it’s
out! You’re just so… grim, Grim.” Satan laughed at his play on words and
started stuffing as many deviled eggs into his mouth as he could. Then, he chugged straight from the nearest
soda bottle, backwashing nearly as many bits of egg as he had swallowed. “So?
What’s up? Where’s the party?
Where’s the biotches?”
Rob bit his tongue and
smiled sweetly. “It was just supposed
to be a little get together, remember?
But Mina’s away…”
“Oh, yeah, that Vogue
thing. She told me about it … in bed!” Satan laughed and gulped more of the orange
drink directly from the bottle.
Rob knew that Satan
was really just a pain and not to take anything he said seriously. “Despite his incredible good looks, he is
really just a court jester on crack,” Mina once confided to him. Rob joined Grim on the living room side of
the counter while Satan rummaged through the kitchen and the snacks on the
other side.
“I’M REALLY NOT ‘GRIM’
AT ALL,” said Grim. “I DON’T KNOW WHY HE SAYS THAT. IT’S VERY HURTFUL.” He lowered his hood and pointed one bony
finger at his face. “LOOK AT ME. IF
ANYTHING, I’M VERY GRIN-NY.” Rob
didn’t know what to say so he picked up a piece of celery and stirred
listlessly at the dressing. “THAT WAS
A JOKE.” Grim’s tone seemed melancholy
as he replaced his hood, covering the skull in shadows once again. He headed toward the living room.
“Oh yeah!” Satan jumped onto the kitchen table and
started tap dancing. “Bob, Sloth can’t
make it. He said he just doesn’t feel
up to going out tonight. And War said
he had plans at the White House. So, I guess it’s just us!” He hopped back down and randomly started
lighting kitchen appliances on fire.
“Rob.”
“Huh?” Satan
concentrated on walking up the wall leading to the hall bathroom and didn’t
look at Rob.
“My name is Rob.” He rushed to the kitchen and grabbed one of
the many fire extinguishers kept on hand for Satan’s visits. He quickly put out the fires but decided to
keep one of the extinguishers on hand, just in case.
“THE SHOW IS
STARTING.” Grim announced from his
position on the love seat. Satan
dropped from where he was leaving ashy footprints on the ceiling and took his
place in the recliner. Rob grabbed a
bottle of beer from the fridge and the bowl of chips and sat on the couch,
attempting to ignore the small sparks Satan dropped on the carpet as he
tapped his fingers on the recliner’s armrest.
As usual, the Oscars
ran more than three hours long.
Announcers missed their cues.
One pretty nominee tripped in the aisle, falling out of her $4,000
evening gown. The host was witty and
pointed, but not nearly interesting enough to keep the attention of the
restless Satan who, after just two categories, started naming the winners
before they were announced.
“Hey, I know that
guy. We had lunch just last week. What was he thinking bringing her to the show? I totally did her!” He bounced in
his seat and at one point ended up levitating just above the coffee table,
blocking Rob’s view. Rob gently nudged
Satan to the left and he floated back toward his seat.
Two hours and
fifty-seven minutes later, Satan grew quiet.
“And the award for
best director goes to…” The pretty
woman in blue silk opened the envelope.
“DON’T YOU KNOW THIS
ONE?” Grim chided.
“Well, no,
actually.” Satan collapsed into his
seat and stared intently at the screen.
“Michael Barronson,
for The Moon Has Eyes!” As the director kissed his wife and shook
hands with various members of the audience, Rob turned to a sullen Satan.
“What happened to your
great ability to guess the winner?” Rob teased.
“I wasn’t
guessing.” Satan answered, staring at
the flame that grew from Mina’s basket of flowers. “I knew who was going to win. But, in this category, all the nominees sold me their souls. I guess you could say it was the only fair
competition of the night.”
Rob rose and
extinguished the smoldering daisies, thinking to himself, “I need to get my
own friends.”
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