The Wheat From The Chaff

I flick through the scythe-making manual and roll my eyes. I miss the days of being a badass, sword wielding bounty hunter or the guy who snips the red wire with seconds to spare.

Quantum Leap has SO much to answer for. That show literally ruined careers. Now my job's low profile as shit doing quick clean ups and why I'm gluing fake blades onto plastic poles about to sell them at a Grim Reaper Convention.

But hey. It gets me in.

This place is a real life Where's Wally except there's a thousand reapers and just one 'Body Waxer'.

It's ironic really. A soon-to-be murderer disguised as Death. 

I smile. I sell. Can't believe people buy this crap.

I look around. I see him. Well, I see yet another grim reaper looking like every other grim reaper, but THIS is my guy.

The smell from his job gives him away. Formaldehyde. (I guess that's why the cops choose that particular serial killer name).

'Ah ha!' I shout, raising my scythe in the air. I may be selling the rubbish but I ain't gonna look like no chump. Plus I need to get his attention somehow and what better way than with a beautifully crafted, one of a kind, well-oiled weapon.

'Wow, man. Nice scythe. Where d'ya get it?'

'I made it.'

'May I?' he asks, hand outstretched.

'Of course.' I grin. This one's in the bag.

He grasps the handle. I don't let go. He's not happy, but soon realises it isn't that I'm possessive of my stuff when, along with the scythe, we curl into smoke and disappear into the ether. 

You don't need to know where we take them. You just need to know that the world is a much better place without them. 

Believe me, I've seen the future and it's terrifying.