Let these first few paragraphs be of use in order to disambiguate some inaccuracies and misunderstandings.
You have been given many epithets and monikers over the course of your career. Death, the Grim Reaper; this one is among the most prominent. Others include Thanatos, King Yama, and Marzanna (Of note is that skeletons do not have overt gendered features and neither should you). All of these names are an accurate one-to-two-word summation of the nature of your existence, your profession, and the dominance you hold over the fates of mortal men. But you'd really prefer if people more often called you by your real name: "Sam". Simple, short, personalized. No one's gonna make much of a fuss at a skeleton in torn bath robes named "Sam". You'd also accept "Michael". But you digress.
Another misconception of note is the concept of the psychopomp. You know very well where to go in order to reach Hell from Earth and back, but your main duty is not to eternally cart the deceased back and forth like a particularly malnourished wandering wheelbarrow man. Oh, sure, maybe you get stabbed thirty-six times in the throat. No physical object can cut up and destroy a mortal's soul in such a manner. That is your duty. That is why you have a bone-white scythe of infinite malevolence in the first place. You are the REAPER.
The third and final misconception that you will be addressing for now is that, as humans are wont to do, caught up in the broiling and turbulent nature of their own messy Life, many mortals believe that Death, eternal, inevitable, powerful and poignant all in one, would be altogether a much cleaner, better-managed affair.
You should probably apologize.
Within the past century, the human population has skyrocketed to an unprecedented level. With more people being born, there comes a deluge of people on the precipice of death. Bleeding, broken, shut down, yet with that persistent blue-white wisp known as a soul still keeping them in spiritual comatosis. You don't know why the Boss gave humans those things in the first place, especially with all the problems it causes during a surplus. They'd surely be much happier being able to comprehend their own brains, too, without all that pesky emotion getting in the way.
Again, you digress. A lack of focus is probably what is causing this problem in the first place.
In essence, your own imperfection is catching up with you. You used to be powerful, worthy of infinite respect for being that ominous figure that awaits all Life at the end of the road. But now, you are currently one billion, five-hundred and twenty three million, four-hundred thirteen-thousand, eight-hundred and ninety-one souls behind. Ninety-two, now. Ninety-four.
Physically, you're hunched over your ivory-made desk and watching the papers float on by to land on the neat stack of them currently taking up a completely incomprehensible amount of space. You'd pity yourself more, but that's really what you've been doing for the past hundred years.
You need to fix this before your bones rattle into another plane of existence.
Author
Topic: Roll to Reaper (Read 14328 times)