George Lass (reluctantreaper) wrote in parabolical, @ 2008-06-14 12:20:00 |
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Entry tags: | george lass, narrative |
who| George Lass
what| A reaper arriving in LA. [NARRATIVE]
where| From Der Waffle Haus, Seattle to Los Angeles.
when| June 13, Evening
rating| PG-13, for George's mouth.
The short and (boring) long of it was that there were alot of fucking people in Los Angeles dying. Not that they were dying while fucking (though a few of probably them were), just that there were a fucking lot of them and they were kicking buckets faster than the LA reapers could keep up with. George had been gung-ho about being selected to go, until she found out she'd actually be working.
"I have a job," George had protested, "From which I don't get a vacation because I'm always leaving to do reaps. What am I going to to tell Dolores? I've killed all of Millie's grandmothers--even the step ones. Probably more than once."
"I don't care what you tell her, Peanut. It's none of my concern. What is my concern is that you pack your bags and get on that plane, and do your job." Rube had replied, spearing a piece of his blueberry pancake with restraint.
"Why can't you send Mason?" She was trying to reason, but it came off more as bargaining in whine form, "He doesn't have a job. And what's with the ticket? You'd think they'd spring for First Class if we're doing them a favour." The envelope was flapped petulantly back at Rube. "Why does death always have to fly economy?"
"Because Mason's a fuck-up, and how does it make us look if I send a fuck-up? Now stop yammering, Peanut, these pancakes deserve a more respectful pallet than what your voice is turning mine into." At least George could be a little smug about keeping him from enjoying his breakfast.
Eventually, she'd been forced to give in, like she always was. The excuse she had given Dolores was forgotten five minutes after she'd departed from Happy Time--Although, she was pretty sure something about saving Cambodian crack children from something as part of her rehabilitation had entered into the stream of lies--with a check advancing her pay for two months. Whatever it had been, it had worked.
Packed and petulantly parked in an uncomfortable chair in the terminal, she was mildly surprised when Rube sank down into the seat beside her. He was looking calm, if serious, which seemed to imply her being there had smoothed over the insult of having spoiled his pancakes. She didn't bother demanding how he'd bypassed security, even though they'd all but cavity searched her over a nailfile Daisy had thrown in her carry-on. They sat in nearly aimiable silence, interrupted only now and then by a breif discussion of what LA would be like, until the call for Economy passengers to board rang out. George mumbled some sort of goodbye, Rube waved, and three hours later, George was dragging her suitcase out to the curb and trying to flag down a taxi.
Her first Los Angeles reap was up in an hour, and she had to find her way to a hotel before then. She checked her watch as she shoved her bags in the trunk. It was 8:15 PM, and Rube's speech was still ringing obnoxiously in her ears.
"I hope you packed your sneakers, George. There are going to be alot of creepy-crawlies out there that you ain't seen before." He'd said.
Creepy-crawlies. The only creepy-crawlies George had to worry about were maggots. What could the rest do to you when you were already dead?