100 Original Murders~

This is what happens when I'm waiting for my laundry to be done.

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There were several things Peter Pete Peterson had not expected from Death.
First, he had not expected Death to be a woman. Yet underneath the frayed black robe that floated about her and seemed to melt into the night, she was most definitely female. The girdle that seemed to be made of human femurs, the earrings made from molars, and the presence of blood red lipstick supported this.
Second, given that Death was female, he had not expected her to be attractive. Yet despite the maggots in her pin-straight inky locks, and the way she hunched over herself like there was a great burden on her back or something heavy hanging from her neck, and the fact that she was easily eight feet tall, Death was definitely beautiful. The artful structure of her heart-shaped face, the perfect clarity of her milk-white skin, and the spark of wisdom and wit in her red eyes supported this.
Third, given that Death was an attractive female, he had not expected her to be the single most frightening being he had ever encountered. Yet upon realizing that he was standing over his own bloody body and she was standing over his now faintly luminescent self, the rain not seeming to touch either of them, he had felt an intense fear for his very soul. The fact that he had attempted to wet himself, failed on account of being reduced to a faintly luminescent soul, and dived behind the nearest bush to trembled and curl into the fetal position supported this.
“Car crash in the rain on a dark mountain road,” Death droned. “Hardly original.”
Peter thought about raising his head and defending himself, but decided against it. Part of his mind was mildly annoyed he no longer possessed the power to urinated, but mostly he was just terrified. More terrified than that moment when he realized his car was doing somersaults down the side of the mountain, or when he realized he was standing over his body here, but most of the car and his legs were there.
“At least you died in an interesting position,” Death continued. “How did you manage to bring the steering wheel with you after your torso went out the door the tree took off?”
Ah, so that was how that happened. Some part of Peter wondered if Death had purposefully given that piece of exposition, but like the part that was fretting over urination, it was readily ignored by the rest of his mind.
“Well? What do you have to say for yourself?” Death’s voice was suddenly incredibly close, like she was standing right behind him again. He peeked through his fingers and promptly screamed.
She was standing right beside him, bent over so her face was inches from his, looking bored and impassive. Peter scurried away from her as quickly as possible. She followed with soundless steps.
“I suppose by now you’ve gathered what’s going on,” she said in monotone. “You died, obviously, and I’m here for your soul. What brand of afterlife would you like? Considering you were coming back from mass, I’m guessing you want to go to Heaven. But if you ask me, Valhalla would be much more exciting.” She paused and as he attempted to hastily climb a tree to get away from her. “But I don’t think you’d get along well there, would you?” For the first time some semblance of an emotion besides boredom graced her voice, and unfortunately it was a mild sort of contempt.
Clinging to the branch that had brought him to eye level with Death, Peter realized his masculinity had been questioned, and he set about putting her straight. “I–I took k–karate in s–s–sixth grade,” he blubbered.
She blinked dispassionately at him.
“D–don’t you have other souls to reap?” he asked, hoping she would go away and leave him glued to his branch.
She very slowly cocked her head to the side without moving her face in the slightest. “Even if it takes all night to deal with you, I can visit everyone else who dies all over the world in the same night.” She paused and then added in an equally detached manner, “I’m like Santa Claus.”
Peter wanted to cry,
“Well? Do you want Heaven or not?” She blinked again, slowly. “You’re not going to be one of those stupid people who regrets what he’s done and asks for Hell, are you?”
“Um,” said Peter quietly, “can I go back to being alive?”
Death stared at him for a very long time, then wordlessly raised her arm and pointed with a long, boney finger at the pile of metal that had once been his car and his disembodied legs still pressing the brake.
“Obviously not,” she said finally.
“Please?” he asked.
“No,” she answered.
“You’re a lovely woman,” he tried.
She said nothing to that, although the air of mild contempt was back.
“I promise to have a more interesting death next time,” he said, shifting himself from a cling position to a sitting position on the branch. This brought his head above Death’s, and she inclined her face to keep eye contact. She was still the most intimidating thing he could imagine.
“I fail to believe you’ll keep that promise,” she drawled. Peter noted the contempt was gone and decided to pursue this angle.
“No really, you just tell me when my time’s up, and I’ll do some sort of crazy suicide. Something really original no one’s done before.”
“Too much work,” she answered simply, and then reached for his head.
Peter shrieked and fell backward off the branch. It didn’t hurt, seeing as he was a faintly luminescent soul, and he was quickly on his feet and trying to run in any direction where Death wasn’t. Death was faster, though, and grabbed him firmly by the hair.
“Just tell me what type of afterlife you want, or I will eat your soul like you were an atheist,” she said calmly.
“I will give you a hundred original deaths!” Peter screamed desperately and futilely tried to pull away from Death’s iron grip.
Death actually raised her eyebrows at that, which had not happened in decades.
“And how do you propose to do that?” she asked.
Peter stopped struggling physically and began a mental struggle to figure how exactly he could do that.
“Well, I, you see, I um,” he blabbered, “I’ll start a, uh, theatre group and–” She began pulling him toward her.
“I only deal with real deaths,” she intoned boredly. “And suicides get old fast.”
“I’ll– I’ll–I’ll–” Peter mentally rifled through his brain. The parts concerned with urination and exposition where kicked aside, and he found a dark sort of corner where he had bottled up all the sinfully thoughts his weekly trips to church had banned.
“I will commit one hundred original murders,” he said.
Death removed her hand from his hair and the corners of her mouth were raised an almost microscopic amount.
“Deal,” she said.