The Missing Boatman Part 33

Frank was not amused.

"But you aren't bothered by that," Tony pressed on.

"Alright, 'Death' is fine," Death finally conceded.

"I think I'll call you Death from now on," Tony said, his head abuzz with the amount of booze he had consumed in the last few hours. Maybe some of that funky time travel or distance warping or whatever the h.e.l.l it was had something to do with it, too.

"Unless you think it sounds suspicious or something. You don't listen to Speed Metal, do you?"

"I listen to Ministry," Death admitted. "And old country songs. From the 70's. Not the 90's s.h.i.t. And the Carpenters."

"That's all good," Tony said, inspecting his drink. They made this one strong. The mule had some kick. He could not recall who the Carpenters were, however.

"It is all good," H added, over his coughing fit. He was beginning to like this Mundane.

"He listens to boy groups, too," H said, indicating Death across the table.

Tony pointed at his drink. "And I'm a princess for this?"

"And he sings karaoke," H went on, "He's not bad, either."

Frank was beginning to feel a little betrayed by his long-time companion. "Anything else you want to share with the audience, Toolboy?"

But H kept smiling. Perhaps the beer was affecting him, as well, but Tony realized more and more that H was an ally, and that made him feel much better. Then, something went off in his head, and he pointed a finger at H.

"I know who you are-or what you are-you're Hope!"

H's grin spread even wider, but he acknowledged nothing.

"Yeah, you're Hope," Tony saw it all clearly now. "And you're still an a.s.shole," he flung at Death.

"You sure have a strange way of convincing folks to get back to work," Death said, shaking his head at the b.a.l.l.s on this man.

"And f.u.c.k if I know what I'm doin'," Tony slurred. "All I know is I'm supposed to convince you to get back."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, well, I'll give you a hint," Death went on. "Calling me an a.s.shole or any of that other s.h.i.t from earlier ain't gonna do it."

"What do you want, then? You're on strike, and you're talking about... what? PR s.h.i.t. What is it you want? Exactly?"

Death took a long pull on his beer. He thought about it.

"What I want, you can't deliver," he finally said.

That was probably true. "But maybe I can pa.s.s on the request?"

Death smiled tightly. "I can guess who that will be."

"Yeah, well, what is it then? C'mon, let's hear it. People are waiting for you, man. C'mon back to the stage and get the show moving again. Rock star! People are sufferin'."

"No one suffers cuz of me. I told you that. People suffer because of something else. And then, when I come along, they resist. They fight me when I'm trying to save them. They cling on. Only the nastiest go with."

"So people should just give up and die?"

"No," Death said sardonically. "Look, that's the problem right there. You f.u.c.kers just don't know when to stop whining. In all my travels I've never come across any one race so d.a.m.ned self-centred. It's all me, me, me!"

Tony blinked. Any one species?

"People are scared of me. They fight me. People curse me when all I'm doing is my job. Which is to simply end their suffering and bring them across to the other side. To ensure a safe..." Death stifled a beer burp, "a safe transition. I'm not there to hurt them; I'm there to make sure they get to where they're going. I..." Death's shoulders slumped. "I don't want to be feared, or... hated anymore."

Tony felt kicked in the gut. "That's what you want. Only that?"

"Yeah," Death stared at him. "You get it all?"

Tony c.o.c.ked his eyebrow and considered his drink. How the h.e.l.l was he going to be able to accomplish what Death wanted? "Yeah, I got it all. But I'm sure going off and playing golf isn't going to help your case."

"No?" This time Death's expression posed a question. "It got yours, didn't it? It got someone else's attention, too. Soon enough, others will tune in, millions. And then, we'll see."

This information silenced them all. Tony had heard this already from Lucy.

Death fixed his attention on Tony. "Still think you can help me out?"

"f.u.c.k, yeah!" Tony blurted. "Sure thing, man..." and trailed off with an expression of anything but confidence.

It was okay by Death. He'd seen that look before on many of the faces of his pa.s.sengers: The look of futility. There was no way this side of the Purge that a Mundane could help his situation. No way in h.e.l.l, either. The thought made him pause and look into the gold that was his beer. Not since the Ages had he felt this way, so utterly fed up with the entire show, as H would sometimes refer to it. And he remembered what happened then. He remembered what the others did to get him out of his funk. This was different, trying to get a Mundane to get him back on track. Death smiled to himself then. He and H2 would sometimes play chess together. H2 was a p.r.i.c.k, but he played a mean game of chess. When in doubt, move a p.a.w.n, he would sometimes say.

When in doubt, move a p.a.w.n.

Death regarded the Mundane across from him. A mortal mind trying to decipher how to set things right. Maybe even strike a bargain of sorts. It would be amusing to see what he came up with. That was something Death both admired and despised in them, their undeniable creativity.

And their s.p.u.n.k.

Across from him, Tony downed the strawberry goodness that was his daiquiri.

"Next one's on me," H said, looking at Tony fondly.

"Thanks," Tony said, and went back to thinking about the impossible.

"Time for a pish," Death announced. He suddenly had enough of the merriment "You pish like a horse," H observed.

"Yish," Death smiled and got up. "Get another pitcher for us, b.i.t.c.h."

H frowned at him. He didn't like to be bossed around in front of Mundanes.

Death walked unsteadily towards the washrooms, saying something to the bartenders in his wake and making two of them grin. Then, he was gone around the corner.

"He really has a problem with his plumbing?" Tony asked aloud. He wondered if Death ever had trouble with his prostate. Seriously, how old was the guy?

"I'll let you in on something, but don't tell him," H said, his eyes darting in the direction Death went. "He caught something from a woman he picked up in a bar once. Chlamydia."

"What's that?"

"STD that goes after your urinary tract. He couldn't stop p.i.s.sing. He was like a running faucet all the time.

"He... caught an STD?"

H nodded. "f.u.c.ked up, ain't it? Don't know who you are sleeping with these days."

"So what happened?"

H caught the attention of the waitress and motioned for another pitcher. And another daiquiri. "Saw a doctor and got treated."

"Death saw a doctor?" Tony repeated.

"Yeah."

"This is too G.o.dd.a.m.n weird for me. He's just like one of us, for Christ's sakes!"

"At times, he is," H agreed. "He feels that, by being one of you, he can help you better when the time comes. Empathy, y'know? And he understands where you guys are coming from. Just that, well, say job satisfaction for him is at an all-time low."

Tony was speechless.

"You're doing well, by the way," H informed him.

"I am?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Don't feel like it," Tony admitted.

"Just talk about normal s.h.i.t, okay?" H told him. "Talk about-I dunno-t.i.tties for example."

Death appeared in front of their table.

"What about t.i.tties?" he demanded. "G.o.ddammit, I said what about t.i.tties!"

"Just referring to the lovely waitress coming to us with our beer," H said.

Death looked. The woman was new, curvy and unsmiling at the way Death was sizing her up. She placed the pitcher and the daiquiri on the table, took H's money and retreated, ignoring Death.

"Christ," he muttered, watching her go. "Some right big t.i.tties on her," he exhaled and sat down. "Getting h.o.r.n.y here, H. Drunk and h.o.r.n.y."

"Dangerous combination," H said. Tony was filling their gla.s.ses, and H nodded his thanks at him. Death watched the Mundane with a drunk's intensity. He just couldn't decide what to make of the young f.u.c.ker.

"Hitting on a waitress," H said with disdain. "You know they get hit on every night of the week. Every hour of the night on Fridays and Sat.u.r.days. Why do you even bother?"

Death fixed the man with a curious look. "Cuz I'm h.o.r.n.y. Didn't I just explain that?"

He drained his gla.s.s. H drained his. When they placed their mugs on the table, Tony filled them almost immediately. H nodded at him with appreciation. Death merely frowned.

"Starting to like you," he sighed and raised his drink. "And when are you two gonna come over?" he yelled out. "Jesus Christ! You need a special invite or something?"

A second later, Lucy and H2 appeared. H2 carried half a pitcher of beer. "Like gold," he said with drunken affection.

"Took you long enough," H told them.

"We were talking," Lucy said, her eyes just a little heavy lidded. Was she drunk, too? Tony couldn't believe it. In the short time he'd known her, it seemed so un-Lucy-like to be smashed. She also looked gorgeous.

"About what?" Death asked.

"Guys with big p.e.n.i.ses," Lucy said, without blinking.

Her words made Tony's jaw drop. The others did not seem to notice.

"What do you mean?" H asked, squinting at her.

"Freaks of nature," Lucy explained. "Athletes, whatever. Some guys are just naturally freaks of nature. I mean really, really big. Really. I can't get over it sometimes how large some of these boys are, you know. Like, how big can they get? Really? Know what I'm talking about?"

The table was silent.

After a very unsettling moment, Lucy decided to go hunting. "How about you, Frankie. You ever see any freaks of nature?"

Death thought about it. "You mean chicks with big d.i.c.ks?"

And the table went up. Uproarious laughter escaped from them all except Lucy, who merely smiled sweetly and shook her head.

"Forget about it," she said, waving her hand before her face.

"No, really," Death persisted. "I really want to talk about this now, especially in front of our Mundane Tony here. Don't worry," he said to him. "She always talks filth after a few beers. A real hypocrite our Lucy is. 'Oh I don't swear.' 'Oh I hate it when you say that.' But after a few pitchers, she gets really nasty."

H leaned in. "The other day, I even heard her say," he paused and glanced furtively around, "fudge."

"Sweet pickles," Death threw in.

"I like that one, actually," H2 grinned. Lucy elbowed him hard.

And Tony simply sat and watched and listened. He was at the borderline separating p.i.s.sed and s.h.i.tfaced, and from his warped point of inebriation, he couldn't care less about anything except for the looming words in his head 'Lucy said p.e.n.i.s!' There was something oddly erotic about it, and he felt himself stirring. Only for a moment, as his bladder quickly reminded him. Booze. He had to slow down. He had to pace himself with these people. People! They were like people! Real, honest-to-G.o.d people, and that confused Tony. Weren't they, for lack of a better word at the moment, like ent.i.ties or something? How could they have personalities? How could they get p.i.s.sed off at work or have s.e.x or get drunk or talk about male appendages or female fun bags or even have time to do all that?

How could they just sit around a table and get plastered? They were like kids, for Chrissakes!

He abruptly nudged H to move over, indicating that he had to get to the washroom, and H complied. Tony stood up, swayed and shuffled off towards the washroom. The shuffle quickly became a run. He had to get away from them. Had to get to a toilet. He felt his stomach contract and his throat lurch, and he knew he had to make best speed to avoid voiding right in the middle of the bar.

They watched him disappear around the corner.

"Now you did it," H muttered. "You've made him sick. I hate having folks around with puke breath."