who| George Lass and [OPEN] what| Reaping is a dangerous occupation. where| Your standard abandoned street. when| 8:15PM, and counting. rating| PG-13 for George's language, and Deady McDeadguy' demise. status|
R. J. Brenson 9847 Meyer Blvd E.T.D 8:17PM
George had taken Rodney Brenson's soul at the corner, after he'd tried to steal her wallet and she had chased him half a block to get it back. She knew it was him because she had gotten a good look at the contents of his wallet when she'd snagged him by his big baggy pants and kicked him in the calves. Reapers didn't get paid out of the Universe's petty cash fund(Or anything else, for that matter.), and she had to work--or at least give the illusion of working--to earn that money. No punk petty theif was going to rob her like some hapless tourist.
"And don't fucking try that again!" She'd said, and kicked him in the ribs. So really, it might have been more accurate to say she'd punted his soul out at the corner. Who knew reapers could reap with their feet? It was kind of gross, actually, she'd thought to herself as she hobbled back a few yards to find the sneaker that had flown off in persuit.
She could have gone back down the street and waited around the corner until Rodney Brenson had kicked the bucket, but there was the unsatiable curiosity to know how exactly death unfolded. Would he fall into oncoming traffic? Was there a fellow pick-pocket lurking at the mouth of the alley with a score to settle and cap just waiting to be busted in someone's ass? Were there any appliances or musical instruments about to plummet from the windows above?
A rickety Camero came speeding down the street, and George had her winner. Two torsos with bandana-covered faces on top shoved themselves out through the windows that didn't exactly roll down all the way, and opened fire. She threw herself to the ground, a little too late to avoid a bullet to the ribs, which was less than comfortable. A curse(Hers) and a scream(Not hers) later, she was lifting her head from the pavement and looking for Rodney Benson's soul. It wasn't there. She looked at her watch. It was 8:16, with ten seconds left.
Her reap was just begining to think it was safe to push himself off of the ground when a flower bed two stories up dislodged from it's sill. It had been poorly attached by the previous owner, and having been hit by a stray bullet, decided to succumb to the downward path of gravity. Along the way, it met Rodney Benson's spine. George winced at the sound of vertebrae cracking. It kind of sounded like popcorn. She didn't eat popcorn anymore.