An interview with the Grim Reaper

He’s been called many names over the centuries: the Grim Reaper, Walumbe, the Angel of Death, Hades, and many more. And today, he — or she, or it — chose to sit down with me for an interview. Me. Ignore my squeaky voice, shaking hands, and the very suspicious wet patch on my jeans.

Here goes nothing…

ME: Uh… so, before we start, I just have to say this — I don’t want to die. I’m still young. I have a lot of life to live. I haven’t even had kids yet… please. Wait, what are you doing? Are you laughing? I’m not imagining it — your bony shoulders are shaking. Why are you laughing?

DEATH: Hahahaha. I chose well for this interview. You’re quite funny. Don’t worry, Mable — your death date is still far off. Wait… let me be sure.
(He fumbles with his robe, pulls out a scroll, and grunts as he studies it. A bony finger skims the page before he nods with finality.)
Yes. You still have a lot of life left, kid. Live it.

ME: So… you won’t even tell me when I’m going to kick the bucket?

DEATH: (laughs, shaking his skeletal head) Such a human term — “kick the bucket.” You people are hilarious.
(He leans back in his chair.)
Go on then. Ask all the questions you’re dying to ask.
(I think he winks. Maybe I’m seeing things.)

ME: You know I’m not a journ—

DEATH: I know. That’s why I chose you. You’re… different.

ME: Okay. That answers that. So… how are you even able to talk? I mean, you’re… dead. Nice-looking skeleton, by the way. Very polished. But also… extremely eerie.

DEATH: I have many forms I may appear in, but this is my base form. Don’t I look beautiful?

ME: Er… yes. Yes, of course. And I’m not just saying that because I don’t want to die.

DEATH: Good answer. And thank you. Oh — and I’m speaking directly into your mind.

ME: So… uh… Mr. Death, sir—

DEATH: Call me Grim. All my friends call me Grim.

ME: You have friends!? I said that out loud, didn’t I?

DEATH: Of course I have friends. For example…
(He looks around.)
Aren’t you my friend, Mable?

ME: Uh…

DEATH: See? I have friends. Don’t believe what they tell you.

ME: (hesitantly) Sure…

DEATH: (claps his bony hands) Good. Don’t believe what they tell you.

ME: What — who tells me? And what do they say?

DEATH: Those who spread lies about me. Even Zeus, in all his puny might. I have friends, and I am good to my friends.

ME: Oh…kay. Moving on. Quick-fire round.

DEATH: Oh, goody.
(His face looks eerily gleeful as he claps again.)

ME: Tell me what you think about some issues that are very prevalent right now.

DEATH: This is exciting.

ME: Right. So… feminism?

DEATH: Doesn’t matter. You’ll all be dead in a few years.

ME: Okay… a bit ominous. Pro-life or pro-choice?

DEATH: Doesn’t matter. You’ll all be dead in a few years.

ME: Trump or Hillary?

DEATH: Trump or Hillary… hard choice, isn’t it? But it doesn’t matter. They’ll be dead in a few years. Very few, actually. Can I tell you a secret?
(I nod.)
They’re old.

ME: Child marriages?

DEATH: Those, I detest.

ME: Oh. Now we’re getting somewhere. Domestic violence?

DEATH: It doesn’t matter. He or she will be dead in a few years… I like those.

ME: What does your scythe do? Is it decorative? To make you seem more nefarious and ominous than you already are?

DEATH: It does make me more ominous than usual, doesn’t it?

ME: It takes you from one hundred percent to two hundred percent.

DEATH: Why, thank you. But I can’t tell you what my scythe does. That’s… a secret.
(Pauses.)
Well, that’s all the time I have. I’ll see you.

ME: Hopefully never.

DEATH: Yeah… sure.
(He scoffs, gathers his robes, and disappears.)