Icon #4 Grin

#4 

That night, Kent saw the face of death, and, being a good student of life, he knew what to do at the far end of it.  He grinned. He grinned right into that fucker’s face and fought back the urge to raise his hands to his ears, thumbs in and fingers waggling while screaming nyah nyah into the empty night sky.  He just couldn’t help it.

His sanity might have been in question at that particular moment in time, but what value is another thirty seconds of sanity in the face of oblivion?  Death’s face currently rode on thin, almost skeletal shoulders, was topped with a black skull cap, and had a blue bandanna around his neck.  Very stylish, as escorts into the next world go.  Very chic.  In his hand he held a key, of sorts.  It was gray, with the largest barrel Kent had ever seen on a handgun.  The key would open the door, and Kent would waltz on through – at least, that’s how it seemed.

It’s funny how words work.  Grin is only one letter from grim.  Kent wanted to ask the boy masquerading as Death if he’d considered changing his name to the “Grin Reaper,” but bit his tongue at the last second.

“Give me your wallet motherfucker,” the boy growled.  Death shook the kid’s gun hand and tried to make the trigger finger twitch.  Nothing doing.  Shaky, but steady.  Kent’s grin widened.  He reached slowly back to his hip pocket, and somewhere halfway back, it hit him.  He knew what he was going to find when he reached into that pocket, and it wasn’t going to make the boy as happy as it was going to make Death.  Something might shake loose after all.

He thought back to the morning.  Up at 6:00 as always.  Shower and shave, dressed by 6:45.  His clothes were always laid out on the chair beside his bed.  Everything he needed for the day was right there, and he knew he’d left nothing behind.  Except, it was Margot’s birthday.

He’d stopped on his way out the door to order flowers and have them sent to her office.  He usually forgot, but this one time, he remembered.  Two dozen roses, paid for with his Mastercard.  Of course, to type that in, he’d pulled out his wallet.  He’d laid it down, typed, and then caught his watch out of the corner of his eye and realized he was going to be late for work.  If he was late, they’d keep him after hours, and he wouldn’t be able to take Margot to dinner.  He’d spun and left.

Now his hand reached into his empty pocket.  He pulled it out – also empty  – showed it palm up to Death-boy, and shrugged.

“What you grinning at, asshole,” the boy squeaked.  As his nerves peaked, his voice deserted him.  Kent’s grin widened…there was nothing he could do.  Death was doing stand-up, using this boy as a vibrating, big-eyed ventriloquist dummy, and Kent was a captive audience.

“Don’ t have my wallet,” he said.  “I left it at home.”

The finger did a final dance and snapped the trigger back.  He saw red, hear a crash, and the world tumbled around him.  He felt the boy’s hands scrabbling in his pockets, tearing at his clothing, and he heard the voice of Death.  It wasn’t laughing.  It wasn’t deep or mysterious.  He was sobbing, muttering about that MOTHERFUCKER and why did he have to keep SMILING and oh shit oh shit where’s his wallet.

The grin still plastered on his face held as he passed into darkness.  He hoped Margot liked the flowers.