Death’s Advice

On a bright and sunny day in the early springtime, Death walked into a tavern. And no, that isn’t the beginning of a really bad joke. It’s the beginning of a story. The tavern itself was of no particular importance to the story—other than the fact that Death went there to meet someone.

Even though the day was bright and sunny—there weren’t any gray clouds in sight, birds chirped happily in the trees, and a pleasant breeze was in the air—Death was dressed in his usual attire. Not in the hooded black cloak and carrying a scythe, as you might imagine. He only wore that when he wanted to sneak up on someone and frighten them to… well, you know how the expression goes.

Say what you will about his work, Death himself was well-dressed and neat. He wore a three-piece suit, black as pitch. His dark hair was slicked back, and in one neatly manicured hand, he held an ebony cane with a finely carved ivory head. His gaunt face was handsome, in a cold and cruel sort of way. It was devoid of emotion and expression. There were no laugh lines on his skin.

As a side note, I wouldn’t recommend trying to make Death laugh. There wasn’t much that amused him. And besides, he had little time for amusement—little time at all, in fact. He was rather busy, as you well know.

But he had made time for this because the person he was meeting was an old friend. Well, acquaintance, more than a friend. Death had no friends, and he preferred it. That way, he could remain impartial and unbiased.

But this individual was one he was familiar with. He had known him for a long time now. Death didn’t particularly care for him, but when he had reached out to Death and suggested that they meet, Death had begrudgingly agreed. He had a little time to kill. Pardon the expression. So, there he was, on a bright and sunny day in the early Springtime, walking into a tavern.

Since it was mid-morning, there weren’t many patrons in the dimly lit establishment. Death stood in the doorway—he didn’t crouch on doorsteps as some people thought—and observed the room’s occupants with a cold and calculating eye. Such was his custom whenever he went places. He would be back to visit with several of the patrons—some as early as next week. Eventually, he would visit them all. But for now, he would wait. It wasn’t their time.

After surveying the tavern, Death spotted the individual he was meeting. He sat in a corner booth in the back of the room with a half-empty mug of ale on the table in front of him. Death strode quietly across the tavern floor.

If any other patrons noticed him, they made a point to ignore him, as people tend to do. They’d go their whole lives trying to ignore him and his grim handiwork, pretending that he didn’t exist—or that he only ever affected other people—but sooner or later, they wouldn’t be able to ignore him anymore.

Death didn’t mind. He was used to being ignored. In some ways, he actually preferred it. There were so many wonderful things to focus on in the world, instead of constantly worrying about him. However, he wished people wouldn’t entirely ignore him. That made them think he didn’t matter. But he did. After all, he did exist.

Death unbuttoned his suit coat and sat down across from the individual in the corner booth. Looking at him, Death blinked, surprised by what he saw. That was unexpected. Not much surprised Death. Usually, he did the surprising.

His acquaintance looked disheveled at best. His clothes were stained and threadbare, patched over with wandering stitches. His beard was snarled and ragged; his hair was matted and a mess. His expression was downcast and glum.

He hadn’t always been in such a sorry state. Once, he wore the finest of clothes, richly made. His beard and hair were well-kept and neatly trimmed. His expression had been, if not jovial, at least cheerful. Even though most people had hated him with as nearly as much venom as they did Death, he hadn’t seemed to mind. Almost thrived on their malice, actually.

He looked up from gazing down at his half-empty mug of ale, and his forlorn expression brightened. Death didn’t usually get such a warm reception.

“Death,” his acquaintance exclaimed, “it’s been too long! I have to say, you’re looking well. You haven’t changed a bit—must be all the work, eh?”

His compliment received no reaction from Death other than a slight incline of his head as he acknowledged his acquaintance.

“Taxes,” Death greeted him softly. It was not a warm greeting—for Death is not used to greeting people warmly—but it wasn’t exactly cold, either. “I wish I could say the same for you.”

Taxes’ features dimmed. He shook his head with some of his former glumness and waved his mug at Death, splashing some of the ale over the rim.

“Yeah, I know, I know. I’ve fallen on some hard times. Bit of a recession. But I’ll bounce back. I always do, eh? Look, I called you up because I need some advice.”

“Advice?”

No one had ever asked Death for anything, except perhaps, for a little more time.

Taxes nodded enthusiastically and leaned forward. “Yeah, advice!” He gestured at Death, seated across from him.

“I mean, look at you—you’ve been at your trade for how many years now, and you’re still going strong! Your track record is simply incredible. No one has the same level of success as you. Not War, not Poverty, Famine, Disaster, or any of the other big names—no one even comes close! Except for maybe Life, but that’s another matter altogether. Your work ethic is admirable—even if everybody else finds the results to be less than satisfying.”

Taxes was on a roll now. Death remembered why he disliked Taxes. He was incessantly annoying. Death couldn’t get a word in edgewise, even if he wanted to. And he didn’t. He just wanted the conversation to be over. Death wasn’t particularly fond of talking.

“You and me,” Taxes rambled on, “our names used to be used in the same despairing breath. Death and Taxes—Beware! Remember when I was living large, eh, Death?”

Taxes shook his head. “Those were the good old days, Death, back when people were just as apprehensive about me as they were about you. Look at me now—I’m a laughingstock; a joke! I get no respect these days. People keep from paying me my dues, and they don’t even seem to be trying all that hard. They’re sneaky and clever, hiding their money away with shell corporations—and don’t even get me started on off-shore accounts. I can’t find their money no matter how hard I try!”

Taxes drained the rest of his mug and positively shuddered. “Tax Evaders.” He spat the words like poison from his mouth.

“That’s what people are these days—every single one. I remember when people would hide their worldly riches under mattresses and bury them in treasure chests where “X” marked the spot. Give me some advice, how do you still keep at it? You’ve got to help me out here, Death!”

With a desperate look in his eyes, Taxes reached out suddenly to seize hold of Death’s wrists.

“I wouldn’t do that—”

Too late. As he touched Death’s pale, cold wrists, Taxes’ eyes rolled back, and his body slumped in the booth. A shocked expression remained on his lifeless face.

Death sat across from him, surprised for the second time that day. He blinked. Then, he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose wearily. He regarded his former acquaintance impassively.

“Not much good it does you now,” he said quietly, “but if you must know, I believe my success stems from being unpredictable. That’s where you went wrong. You came every Spring without fail. That’s a pattern, Taxes, and people figured it out. You became predictable. You grew careless and lazy. The world around you was changing, and you didn’t change with it. You got sloppy.”

Death shook his head and stood from the booth. Buttoning his suitcoat again, Death gave Taxes one more moment of his precious time and attention.

“I don’t know why we were ever associated together. People were apprehensive of you. They’re all terrified of me. We were never on the same level, you and I. This only goes to prove it. You’re avoidable. I am not.”

With that, Death strode out of the tavern and back into the bright and sunny day. There would probably be repercussions to this—such as a world without Taxes—but what did Death care? He had a lot of work to do. He was very busy, after all, as you well know.

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