“You know, also, that Lazarus can’t talk.” “Inspector?” The Emperor smoothed his beard and shot the lapels of his dingy tweed overcoat, composing himself to offer assistance to a citizen in need. He can take my word for it that’s what the sign says.” Lazarus, who was seated behind his companion, panting peacefully, looked away so as not to compound Rivera’s embarrassment. No dogs allowed.” He pointed to the sign on the door, which not only was facing the street, but was in a language Bummer did not read, which was all of them. “You guys aren’t even sup- posed to be in here. “I don’t have anything for you,” said Rivera, feeling as if he should have somehow known to have treats handy. In an instant, Bummer, the Boston terrier, and Lazarus, the golden retriever, were behind the counter with him, the former standing up on his hind legs, hopeful bug eyes raised in tribute to the treat gods, a pantheon to which he was willing to promote Rivera, for a price. Rivera stood up from his stool and set his reading glasses on the counter by his book. “Why the names of the dead, of course,” said the Emperor. He kept an electric stun gun under the counter that in the year since he opened the store had been moved only for dusting. Twenty-five years a cop, the habit was part of him, but now the gun was locked in a safe in the back room. Rivera was not alarmed, but by habit his hand fell to his hip, where his gun used to ride. “The names must be recorded, Inspector,” the Emperor proclaimed, “lest they be forgotten!” ![]() The old-fashioned bell over the door rang and Rivera looked up as the Emperor of San Francisco, a great woolly storm cloud of a fellow, tumbled into the store followed by his faithful dogs, Bummer and Lazarus, who ruffed and frisked with urgent intensity, then darted around the store like canine Secret Service agents, clearing the site in case a sly assassin or meaty pizza lurked among the stacks. It was a cool, quiet November day in San Francisco and Alphonse Rivera, a lean, dark man of fifty, sat behind the counter of his bookstore flipping through the Great Big Book of Death. Part OneĪny more than a baby can stay forever in the womb Do not, under any circumstances, let a soul vessel fall into the hands of those from below-because that would be bad. You do not cause death, you do not prevent death, you are a servant of Destiny, not its agent. Do not waver in your duties or the Forces of Darkness will destroy you and all that you care about.Ĩ. People may not see you when you are performing your Death duties, so be careful crossing the street. Don’t tell anyone what you do, or the Forces of Darkness etc. You will know the vessels by their crimson glow.ĥ. ![]() The number is how many days you have to retrieve the soul vessel. In order to hold off the Forces of Darkness, you will need a number two pencil and a calendar, preferably one without pictures of kitties on it. You are all that stands between them and destruction of the collective soul of humanity. Since then, Forces of Darkness have been trying to rise from below. Some time ago, the Luminatus, or the Great Death, who kept balance between light and darkness, ceased to be. If you fail, Darkness will cover the world and Chaos will reign.Ģ. It is your duty to retrieve soul vessels from the dead and dying and see them on to their next body. Congratulations, you have been chosen to act as Death, it’s a dirty job, but someone has to do it. (Selected from the Great Big Book of Death: First Edition)ġ.
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