george lass excels at not giving a shit (andthenyoudie) wrote in safezonethreads, @ 2010-02-16 16:13:00 |
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Entry tags: | !in progress, !open, george lass |
WHO: George Lass & OPEN TO ANY/ALL
WHAT: Yet another soul to reap.
WHEN: Mid-morning
WHERE: Central Park
RATING: TBD
WARNINGS: Language and non-descriptive NPC death
STATUS: In Progress
Early lunches, late lunches, holidays for religions that she in no way celebrated, made up days off for doctors appointments she didn't have and family arrivals that weren't taking place. George was starting to seriously miss the days when missing work had consisted nothing of having to tell Delores that she was a recovering alcoholic who wanted a drink and needed to go to a meeting.
Not that she couldn't also use that excuse here. She could. But considering the stress level of being a Reaper in a post-Apocalyptic world, she really didn't want to have to fall off that proverbial wagon she wasn't even on in the first place just to unwind after a hard day at the office that only existed in a figurative sense. Hell, she wanted to be able to have a beer to unwind after a hard day at the office that did exist in a literal sense, if she wanted one.
So being in recovery was out, unless she claimed she was addicted to crack. Somehow, she couldn't imagine Those In Charge would keep her employed very long as a receptionist if she told them that, and while George didn't particularly like her day job, she also didn't want to starve. Or get kicked out. Or... whatever in the hell they did to you if you wouldn't be a contributing member to this new, fucked up little society they were creating. The point was, she wasn't going to claim a crack addiction that didn't exist. Which left her with other, far more bizarre but much less socially stigmatic, reasons to need to come in late or duck out early.
Sometimes, having a higher calling really sucked.
Such as today. It had started out fairly normal. She woke up. She had some coffee. She cooked some breakfast. She glanced through her PDA for anything new and exciting. She heard the slap on the front door that signaled her post-it note had arrived. Then she had read the time on it - E.T.D. 10:26 A.M - and had promptly begun to swear in a way that would make most sailors blush and feel the urge to wash their mouths out with the nearest soap they could find.
It was ridiculous, really. Whoever sent those damn post-its had to know that she had another job. A 'mortal' job, that paid the bills (okay, not really) and provided her with food (again, not so much) and enabled her to blend seamlessly in with the living world around her (seamless, she thought, was a bit of a stretch but she was going with that reason as a good one). Yet here they were, giving her a reap to do right smack in the middle of her morning shift. Clearly, death waited for no man, woman, or Reaper.
Had she mentioned yet that having a higher calling really sucked? Because it did. Especially when she had to call the Welcome Center and come up with some total bullshit story about how her cat - a cat she didn't even own, mind you - had gone missing and she was just so worried and could she please come in a little late and take the time to look for him before he froze to death or starved as it was a very skinny cat on the brink of death apparently, or was eaten by zombies or something equally tragic and stupid. It made her feel a mixture of contempt and pity at whoever was buying the reason for being late as a valid one. Yet the excuse had worked and she'd gotten the morning off.
Which is how she able to walk through Central Park at ten o'clock in the morning, freezing her dead little ass off, while pretending to search for an animal that didn't even exist. Fluffy, or as George was starting to think of him, 'hey you damn cat that's never going to answer me anyway because you aren't fucking real, was of course no where to be found. However somewhere in the vastness that was Central Park, there was someone with the first initial of P and the last name of Williams who was about to meet their Maker whether they were ready or not.
They better fucking be ready, George thought darkly as she stomped on a bit of snow and nearly toppled over sideways for her effort. Glaring at the pile as though it was somehow to blame for all of her troubles, she shook her head and stuffed her hands further into her pockets. "Here, Fluffy. Come here, you stupid cat," she mumbled flatly as she glanced around.
No cat, of course, and so far no sign of a P. Williams either. With a heavy sigh, the girl continued moving further down the path in search of her next reap and very much not at all looking like the frantic young woman with a missing, beloved pet like she was currently supposed to be.