Hello, my name is Mort.
I’ve been doing the same job for what seems like centuries. Day in and day out, I wake up, get a list of who to pick up, then leave my home to shuttle around the world to fetch my listed people with my black ’69 Ford Mustang. Sometimes I don’t get any sleep at all, because it seems like every few seconds there’s someone new that I have to pick up and bring away. They’re all kinds of people – young, old, male, female, everything in between. You’ve got the aggressively sick, the terminally ill, the 50/50, the instant goners, the ones who never stood a chance.. I take them all to their destination. It’s taxing work, but it’s what I do best, and it’s what I enjoy.
Make that their final destination.
Hello, my name is Mort. But you probably know me as the Grim Reaper.
On a rare day that I had a bit of a break, I drove Sally (my car, I named her so I wouldn’t be lonely) down the block to this Greek taverna I liked, parked it, then went inside. I sat at this booth by the window, and the friendly waitress Miss Doris came by to take my order. She was in her late 50s, hair close to being completely white, with deeply-engraved smile lines from years of serving customers. I told her I wanted my usual lunch order- pita bread with three different dips – before she nodded, jotted down on her little notepad, then scuttled off to the kitchen to pass it on. I feel kind of sad to see her go, especially since she’s one of the few people I get to see more often than once – unfortunately, my job means meeting people just at the brink of their death, which equates to a lot of awkward conversation in the car. I suppose being the Grim Reaper is lonely work, but it’s the only work I’ve known. Continue reading “A Slice of Love, a Shot of Death. – This is Mort.”