FFM 9- Alarm Clocks and Death

     The alarm clock went off. Mike smashed his fist down on the snooze button. Three minutes later, it went off again. Snooze. Buzzing again. Snooze. Buzzing-

     The offending alarm clock shattered into many smaller pieces upon colliding with the wall. Two minutes later, long enough for Mike’s eyelids to glue themselves back to his cheeks with the heavy duty adhesive of total exhaustion, the second alarm clock went off.

     Mike groggily wobbled out of bed and slipped a hammer out from under the mattress. The hammer slammed into the alarm clock with gratuitous violence. He flopped back onto the bed.

    His final alarm clock went off. It sounded like a police siren, punctuated by the screams of the wicked and the howls of hellhounds. He woke now with a smile on his face. It was always nice to hear such sweet music.  

     Mike hurled himself out of bed, knowing that velocity was the only way he would be free. Mike put his shoes on. Mike made coffee. Mike was not clothed.

     He felt cold, and realized that he was making coffee with his magic wand and golfballs hanging out. The phone rang just as the coffee mug moved towards his lips. He answered it.

     “Hey, Mike, this is Phil,” the caller said.

     “Cool,” he drawled.

     “We’re actually pretty dead here, so if you don’t want to come in you don’t have to,” Phil said.

     Awesome.

     “Okay, see you tomorrow then,” Mike crooned.

     He hung up and kicked off his shoes. He glanced at his phone and smiled at a new text message.

     “387 dead,” it read. “No fatalities.”

     He loved nonsensical messages from unknown senders. Naked and happy, he ran back to his bed and crawled into it. He clutched his pillow and began to sob with happiness.

     Thirteen minutes later, the phone rang again. Mike erupted from his bed with a scream.

     “Yeah?” he demanded.

     “Okay, so Jimmy had a family emergency, and the new guy-“

     “No.”

     “If you could come in, we’re really going to need the help.”

     “Go make love to a wind turbine,” Mike instructed his boss.

     “Mike, I’m so sorry about this,” Phil said. “But I can’t handle this on my own. Please come in.”

     42 minutes later Mike pulled into the parking lot of Lucky Joe’s Hardware.

     17 minutes after that, he was hiding in the bathroom.

     “Seriously, Mike, I need help out here,” Phil begged.

     “No. I’m using the bathroom.”

     “A kid just thought the display toilet was a real toilet and went in it,” Phil said.

     “Number one or two?”

     “Two.”

     “I’m going to shoot myself,” Mike cheerfully proclaimed.

     “At least distract people while I clean it up,” Phil begged.

      Mike could do that. Mike left the comfort of the bathroom stall for the circular returns and customer service desk towards the front of the store.

     Phil scrubbed the toilet while weeping softly into the ceramic bowl. Mike’s attention shifted from Phil and to the automatic doors when they slid open to permit a tall businessman who carried a briefcase.  

     The man strode directly up to the desk, stopped, placed his palms on the counter, and smiled. Mike glanced over the counter. The briefcase was hovering in the air, anxiously nudging its owner’s thigh.

     “Did you get my text?” the man asked.

     387 dead, no fatalities…

     “No,” Mike said. “No otherworldly stuff today. I’m retired.”

     The man grinned, his overly sharp teeth slipping out from behind his thin lips with a masterfully implied menace.

     “That’s not the word below,” the man said. His words were smooth; they tasted like caramel.

     “Okay, I was fired,” Mike admitted. “But that’s what happens when some egotistic jerkoff frames you.”

     The man lifted a hand. “Guilty.”

     “SATAN!” Mike screamed. “Worm! You ruined my life!”

     Mike started to climb over the desk.

     “Look,” the man said, stepping back and raising his hands defensively. He widened his grin until the top of his head was in danger of ripping off.

     He read Mike’s nametag. “…Mike. You have to come back. We really need you.”

     “They fired me. Why would they want me back?”

     “The new guy’s really made a mess.”

     “What could he have done that was any worse than my transgressions?” Mike argued.

     The businessman had the facial expression of a sinister lizard.

     “He broke the system,” the man said. “The whole thing.”

     “Oh shit,” Mike said. He scooted his bottom back until he plopped into a comfortable sitting position.

     “Why no fatalities?” he asked. “I showed him how to collect souls.”

     “Oh, people are dying,” the man assured him. “They just can’t go anywhere. Both heaven and hell filled up, overnight.”

     Mike started to laugh. He felt his eyes water, his lungs ache. The man looked offended.

     “You ran out of room?” he asked.

     “No,” the man said, tersely. “He started reaping ahead of schedule. He also reaped Eighth World, last week.”

     Mike felt his stomach writhe.

     “Eighth world?” he parroted.

     “I’m sorry,” the man said, though he wasn’t.

     Mike felt his features harden. His hand clenched into fist. Silently, he slid off the counter.

     “You have to be reinstated first,” the man reminded him. “Then you can take you rightful-“

     “I don’t need your permission,” Mike growled, his voice deepening. He moved towards a display of tools. With each step he took, tiny cracks spider-webbed through the concrete.

    He picked up a wrench. In his hand the wrench transformed, lengthening and changing color as well as tone. The blade became a silver half-moon, a wicked scythe. His work clothes began to shift as well, darkening and thickening. His robes fit him better than anything else ever had. They were snuggly.

     He turned to face the man.

     “I sent everything I loved to Eighth World,” he said. “I will fix your mess, and I will restore them.”

     The lights blew out.

     “Theatrical,” the man said.

     “Lead me to him, Serpent,” he said.

     “Calm your tits,” the devil said, and led him away.