Happy Halloween, Dear Reader 😀

As you may or may not have realised by now, there has not been an Underdog Anthology published this year. Unfortunately, publisher and co-editor, Leggy, has not been up to it. The first volume appeared in December 2016 and he’s published 3 volumes a year ever since then. That’s quite some going for a one man band and he deserves some time off, especially to recover from illness. That’s why there has been no follow up to this post from earlier this year.

So, my submission for the spring 2025 Underdog Anthology volume has been languishing, much like last weekend’s Hobnobs, pristine but unseen ever since. That’s annoying but as Halloween does get a mention in it, I thought I’d offer up this latest instalment in my Ronageddon short story series for your enjoyment. Feel free to dunk on it, or not, in comments 😉

Otherwise, enjoy! ❤

*******

Enter The Underdog

by Roo B. Doo

The quarterly State of Souls meeting in room 2B of the God Lobby was about to wrap up having reached the AOB stage of the agenda. God sat at one end of the enormous boardroom table that dominated the room and Death sat at the other. Brian, the goose who performed the duties of God’s Chief Scribe – and occasional wingman – sat between them taking minutes. A fourth seat opposite to Brian remained empty throughout.

As usual God chaired the meeting.

Last item: Any other business. Anything from you, Big D?

Death glanced at the empty chair and then at Brian, who was busy scribbling with a magnificent white feather quill that he’d grown himself. “I do Ma’am but it’s a particularly delicate matter and one I’d much rather wasn’t minuted.”

The scratching from Brian’s quill ceased immediately. Death could feel animosity radiate off the goose in his direction. Their relationship had always been antagonistic at best.

Death was not deterred. “Indeed, the delicate matter in question is one of a somewhat private nature that I would, ideally, like to discuss with you alone, if-”

Brian interrupted Death with a plaintive honk and withering stare.

“Yes, ‘really’,” Death replied to the angry scribe, before continuing with his entreaty to God. “If possible. Thank you, Ma’am.”

God looked from Brian to Death and back again at Brian, who’s shoulders slumped in resignation.

Thank you, Brian. That will be all for now.

God had spoken.

Death waited for the goose to gather up his sheets of parchment, inkwell and quill and waddle from the room before climbing down from his own chair. The top of the vertically challenged grim reaper’s pointy hood barely reached table height, as he smoothly glided down the length of the room toward God. He bowed deeply when he reached her. “Ma’am-”

Now God interrupted.

Is it about Marge?

Death bowed again. “Yes and no,” he answered cryptically.

God was intrigued.

Continue.

Death did as he was commanded. “It has been obvious for some time now, Ma’am, that the Great Birthing Stork has been severely afflicted by the very great crime that has been perpetrated upon humanity.”

God nodded.

Agree. I was hoping Marge would snap out of it but if anything, she’s getting worse.

“Her deterioration correlates perfectly with humanity’s plummeting fertility rate since the introduction of the injectable poison.” Death had thought long and hard over how to broach the subject of Marge with God. He decided to be blunt. “The trend is not Marge Gerana’s friend, Ma’am. I think it is time you consider replacing her.”

God was not pleased.

Are you seriously suggesting the Great Birthing Stork should be replaced?

“Temporarily, of course,” Death added hastily, having second thoughts over opting for bluntness. “Until Marge has fully recovered and is back on her feet.”

Replace her with whom, Big D? The Easter Bunny?

When God slipped into sarcasm, Death knew he was on shaky ground but he also knew from experience that the only way to respond was to do so it in kind. “Well, it’s not like rabbits are renowned for their reproductive skills, Ma’am, now is it? What a terrible idea.”

God blushed.

I’m sorry, Big D. This is a sensitive matter.

“Indeed it is. However…” Death paused. Had he lips or tongue, he would have licked them nervously. “Although related, the condition of Marge is only part of the delicate matter that I wished to discuss with you.”

God raised her eyebrows.

Oh?

“I’m afraid the other part is in regard to one of your actions, Ma’am,” he said gravely.

The second it took before God replied yawned like an eternity.

One of my actions?

It was too late to turn back; Death decided he would go all in and continue. “Yes indeed, Ma’am. It was your decision to offer a single soul the option to remain on the mortal plain as a ghost after death. I’m afraid it is having serious ramifications for the Grim Reaper Service now.”

Four years ago, Death had strenuously argued against God permitting ghosthood to Aida Roundtree, an elderly midwife who’d died of natural causes, and it had been a regular bugbear of Death’s ever since.

God’s brow furrowed.

Oh.

“Ma’am, souls scheduled for collection are now demanding the right to remain on as ghosts. As if that is a good thing!” Death was perplexed as to why this choice held any appeal whatsoever to humans, not to mention the endless additional paperwork spawned as a result.

God shuffled awkwardly in her seat.

My intention was good, Big D. You understand that.

Death softened his tone. “I do understand, Ma’am, but we’re both old enough to know where good intentions can often lead.”

God didn’t say anything, so Death continued. “The Reincarnation Complex is already under considerable pressure from the heinous attack on humanity. Your intervention, no matter how well intentioned, is making it more difficult to rectify the situation.”

God stood up in a rush, as if her seat was on fire. She placed her hands on the gleaming surface of the boardroom table and stared down at her reflection for a beat before turning to face Death.

What can I do?

It grieved Death to see anguish on God’s face. “Ma’am, it would be best if you did nothing,” he said, gently. “There is a reason why non-intervention strictures were put in place. You are too good.”

God sighed.

Can anything be done?

“Potentially.” Death paused, smoothing the front of his robe with a skeletal hand before continuing. “I do have an idea that could solve matters both sensitive and delicate.”

God remained sceptical.

But what of your intention, Big D? Isn’t the intention behind your idea also good?

“Ma’am, last Halloween I went to meet a coach party of obnoxious zombie cos players. Not only did they insult everything about me, from my height to my attire, to the very purpose of my being, but they demeaned the whole process, only to refuse to depart with me at the end of it. I have never experienced a more colossal waste of time, effort and dignity before, and I never ever want too again.”

Rant over, Death pulled his shoulders back and shot his retractable scythe from the sleeve of his robe. He slammed the handle against the floor, causing electric sparks to shoot up along its length and danced across the wicked blade. “Ma’am, I can assure you my intention behind this idea is entirely selfish.”

God was relieved.

Then it might just work.

***

Peter Peabody didn’t see the dog on his first circuit round Victory Park. It was raining hard, and he was concentrating on running in the pack behind Wanda, who was loping away ahead of them, setting the pace. She loved running in the rain; the exhilaration of it gave her energy and extra bounce, and by far the best place to view that extra bounce was from behind. Or from in front, if I could only run backwards fast enough, Peter thought as he jostled with the other Fighting Fit runners to lead the pack, close the gap, chase her down. Besides, Wanda was his girlfriend; Peter figured he should have prime position in the pack.

So, he didn’t see the dog at all, but then nor did he see the football that sailed through the air, targeted at him. It was a direct hit, passing straight through his shocked, sweat and rain-streaked face and out of the back of his head. Peter stopped in his tracks, allowing the other runners to surge by. “What the?!”

“You, OK?” Graham called, looking round at Peter, but hardly slowing down. Peter gave a thumbs up and waved him to carry on. “OK,” Graham acknowledged through laboured breath, as he sped up to rejoin the pack.

Peter stood, bent at the waist with his hands on his thighs, breathing heavily. He glanced up to see when the Fighting Fit runners were out of sight and earshot before standing up straight to admonish the football kicker. “Craig!”

Craig wasn’t hard to spot. He was floating by the park bench up ahead, laughing and holding his sides, as the rain poured straight through him. “Head shot! Right in the kisser!” He was immensely pleased with himself.

“Why?” Peter asked, jogging toward the ghost. “What possessed you to think kicking your football at my face was a good idea?”

“Well, it can’t exactly hurt you now, can it, Pete?” Craig teased. “It’s made of nothing, just like me.”

Peter had been dealing with the appearance of ghosts for nearly two years. Craig had been the first he’d met, and in Wanda’s shower no less. Peter didn’t know who’d been more surprised, himself or Craig. He’d met a lot more ghosts since and often wondered if he’d ever get over the fact that there were any ghosts at all existing among the living. There were a lot more of them now and their numbers were increasing daily.

“Craig, there’s such a thing as shock.” Peter stopped in front of the bench. “You could have given me a heart attack.”

The ghost’s boyish countenance suddenly changed from gleeful to sullen. He drew on the cigarette dangling from between his lips and exhaled two plumes of ghost smoke from his nostrils. The plumes reached down to his chest before seeping back and merging with his body. “You want to talk about heart attacks? Seriously? Cos’ I had two of them, one after the other and the second one killed me.”

The rain beat down steadily as an awkward silence fell between the man and teenage ghost. Peter was aware of what had killed Craig: it was the main cause of all the sudden ghost creation. It would probably end up killing Peter too, but that wasn’t something he cared to think about at all. “What is it you want, Craig?” he asked gruffly.

The ghost sighed and float away from the bench, flourishing a hand toward it. “Didn’t you see the dog?”

Peter was confused. “What dog?”

“The one shivering under the bench,” Craig said, taking another drag on his cigarette. “It’s been abandoned.”

“Where?” Peter bent down to see. Behind the sturdy front leg of the bench, a tiny dog was shaking, pushing its long body up against the leg of the bench to avoid the rain streaming through the slats, above. It wore no collar, just a thin, blue string looped around its neck and tied to the bench. “Oh my god! Someone’s just left it here. In this weather?”

“Yeah, what a knobhead,” Craig spat with fury. “I’d pick the poor thing up, but I can’t.”

Peter crouched down and held his hand out to the dog to sniff. “Hey there puppy. Don’t be scared.”

The trembling dog cautiously poked its snout toward Peter’s hand and allow him to gently stroke its head. Peter felt the blue string around the dog’s neck until he found the knot and started to unpick it. “Keep still for me, puppy, while I take this off. Good dog.”

“That’s a sausage dog,” Craig stated. “My nan had one of those. They’re cute but yappy. Oh, and they like to dry hump your leg when you’re not looking.”

The knot untied, Peter scooped the tiny creature up with one hand and cradled it to his chest, holding his other hand over its trembling body to shield it from the rain. The tiny dog was black and chocolate brown in colour, with short, sleek fur, reminding Peter of a seal. “How could someone just leave you?” he asked the dog, who responded by trying to lick his chin while its thin tail whipped furiously from side to side.

“I told you they’re cute. Is it a boy or a girl?” Craig asked.

Peter turned the dog over to check. “Female. So, we can rule out future gratuitous humping.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Craig said, shaking his head. “Nan’s dog was a girl.”

“Did you see who left her?” Peter asked whilst fondling the dog’s flappy but soggy ears.

“Nah, sorry, but whoever it was is a complete knobhead.” Craig reached his hand out toward the dog but stopped short of contact. “I wish I could stroke her.”

What an awful situation, Peter thought sadly. An abandoned puppy, found by an abandoned dead boy who can’t even pet her. He quickly pinched the prickling rain from his eyes. “We need to get her dried off and warmed up,” Peter said hoarsely.

“Well, you do,” Craig scoffed. “Mate, my work here is done. Besides, Wanda Woman’s on her way to rescue you.”

The Fighting Fit club runners were returning, and Wanda was no longer ahead of the pack but just about leading it as it reeled her in. Peter watched her slow down and peel off in his direction.

“Keep going,” she shouted at the runners. “Put some effort in!” Wanda stopped in front of Peter. “Hey. What happened? Are you injured?”

“No.” Peter lifted his hand covering the wet dog snuggled his chest. “Can you believe someone just abandoned her? In this weather?”

“People are fucked up,” Wanda stated between pants. “Here, let me see.” She reached out to take the dog but it had other ideas, barking sharply at Wanda.

“Like I said: cute but yappy,” Craig said, blowing out his cheeks. “Hello Wanda. Still not talking to me?”

Peter had always found it strange how the sudden onset of his ability to see ghosts came right after he’d first slept with Wanda. Like it was a weird STD she’d passed on because not only could Wanda also see the ghosts but, she’d confessed to him later, she’d been able to see them ‘in, like, forever.’ Of course she was just being hyperbolic but Peter thought Wanda must have been aware of the ghosts for some time because she had decided to just ignore them. She was extremely skilled at it too, as if she’d had a lot of practice. Wanda chose to ignore Craig now.

“Come here, baby,” she cooed, trying to take hold of the dog, but it barked again twice and lay its head flat upon Peter chest and whimpered.

“Uh oh.” Craig grimaced. “Careful Wanda, that dog’s stealing your man.”

“She’s probably still getting over the ordeal of being abandoned. I’ll keep hold of her for now.” Peter said, as he caressed the dog’s head. He caught Wanda looking at him through slitted eyes. “At least until we can get her dried off.”

Wanda didn’t believe in beating around the bush. “We’re not keeping it.”

“I’m not suggesting that we do,” Peter fired back, defensively. The two stared at each other in the pouring rain.

“Oh no, not a love triangle,” Craig taunted with mock concern.

“Shut up, Craig,” Peter and Wanda said in unison without breaking eye contact.

“Oops,” Craig said, making a zipped lips motion but his shoulders shook with mirth.

“You know, Jo lives close by,” Wanda said slowly, nodding at her own suggestion. “Her flat’s not far and she has towels. I’m sure she’d be happy to lend you one.”

Jocasta Darling was a friend of Wanda’s and her daughter Molly had been been one of Peter’s best students at Victory Park Juniors, despite being completely deaf. He hadn’t quite worked out the dynamics of the two women’s relationship. There was some sort of patronage involved: Wanda paid Jocasta to clean her flat but she was excessively fond of the family, being godmother to Jocasta’s son Paul. Plus Aida would be there. Aida Roundtree had been the second ghost Peter had met after Craig. She ‘lived’ with the Darlings even though she hadn’t been related to them in life.

Peter agreed. The tension was broken. “Do you want to come with us?” he asked Wanda.

“No, I’m still running the class. I’ll come along after.”

“Okay. Well, I’ll see you at Jo’s.” Peter lent across to kiss her on the cheek but instead Wanda grabbed his chin and pulled him towards her, kissing him full on the lips with a long, hard smooch. The bedraggled dog between them didn’t make a sound.

“Later,” Wanda whispered huskily and turned away. She returned to the path and continued her run.

Craig whistled. “I don’t believe it; Wanda’s jealous.”

Peter was thinking the same thing. He turned to the ghost, a broad smile plastered across his face. “So, Craig, are you coming with us?” he asked cheerfully.

The ghost took a long drag on his cigarette. “To be honest, Pete, you couldn’t stop me even if you wanted to.”

Peter nodded. “Okay. Don’t forget your football.”

***

Aida Roundtree hovered just below the ceiling of the Darling household’s living room, smoking and watching Paul playing with his toy bricks, below. He’d built several towers that morning, each taller than the last, all so he could knock them down and start again. The more dramatic the collapse, the louder Paul’s contagious laugh. Aida had been laughing all morning.

Normally, the whole family would have gone to feed the ducks at the local park by now, but the weather that morning had been atrocious. Instead Jocasta and Molly were busy baking bread and preparing lunch in the kitchen. Aida was impressed that Jocasta still made her own bread and that she was passing the skills on to her daughter. As it should be, Aida thought contentedly.

Even though she was only periphery to it, Aida enjoyed the Darlings’ family life, something she’d put off in her own life as she pursued her career. Then it became too late, but Aida consoled herself that at least she hadn’t become one of those women that filled their homes with cats to compensate for the thing missing in their lives. Now this semblance of life after her death had given Aida the opportunity to experience it up close but ultimately remain uninvolved. Except for Paul; he could both see and hear her, but then Paul was a special child indeed.

“Coo-ee, Mrs Roundtree. Are you home?” a voice called from the hallway.

“Who dat?” Paul asked Aida, before waddling to the living room doorway to investigate. “Ball!” he squealed, dropping a toy brick from each hand and charging into the hallway.

Aida was right behind him. “Craig! What are you doing here?”

Young Craig floated in the hallway, football tucked under his arm, just out of reach of Paul’s outstretched fingers. “Hello Mrs Roundtree. I was just checking someone’s in. Wanda’s boyfriend is on his way up right now.”

“Peter’s coming to see me?” Aida asked.

“Nah. To see the live ones. He’s got-” Craig was interrupted by the letterbox clattering behind him. “Well, you’ll see.”

“Coming!” Jocasta called. She left the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel, before slinging it over her shoulder and opening the front door. “Hello.”

Peter Peabody stood outside, looking dishevelled and dripping wet. He held an equally sodden puppy to his chest. “Hi, Jo. Sorry to bother you but could I bother you for a towel?”

“For you or the dog?” Jocasta asked, with a look of surprise on her face.

Peter shivered. “Good point. Could I bother you for two towels?”

Jocasta burst out laughing. “Of course! Come in, Peter. Wait right here, you can drip on the welcome mat. I’ll just fetch some.”

Aida preferred to float out of contact range of the living and indicated to Craig to join her on the ceiling. They hovered and watched as Jocasta first alerted Molly that they had a visitor, before leaving to fetch towels. Molly poked her head out from the kitchen and shyly waved to Peter but rushed out when she saw what he was holding. Paul stood in front of Peter, gazing up at the dog with his mouth open, silent.

“Where’d he get the dog?” Aida asked Craig. She kept her voice low, conscious that Peter could hear them talking. “It looks like a drowned rat.”

“Found her abandoned at the park,” Craig whispered, following Aida’s cue. “Well, strictly speaking, I was the one that found her but Pete did the actual rescuing.”

“Here we are.” Jocasta returned carrying towels. She passed one to Peter, who wrapped it around the dog.

“Can you take her for a moment?” Peter passed the bundled up dog to Molly and took the other towel from Jocasta to wipe the water off his face and arms. “I don’t want to drip on your carpet.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Jocasta said distractedly, as she fussed over the dog cradled in Molly’s arms. “Well, aren’t you a precious little thing,” she cooed.

“Mum, mum,” Paul shouted, raising his arms to be picked up. “Let me see doggy.”

“Fancy leaving a puppy out in this weather?” Aida said to Craig. “Who could do such a thing?”

“A knobhead could,” Craig replied disdainfully. “Just left it tied to a bench with some string.”

Aida tutted. “That’s cruel.”

The sudden rattle of the letterbox behind him startled Peter. He opened the front door and Wanda barged in. “Hey Jo, kids.” She was breathing heavily. “I got here as fast as I could,” she told Peter.

He handed her his towel. “I thought you were still running the class.”

“I let them off the last circuit,” Wanda said, rubbing her neck with the towel. “Oh my God, what is that heavenly smell?”

Jocasta smiled. “Bread. Molly and I have been baking. Would you like some? I’m just preparing lunch.”

“Would I? Oh, yes please, Jo, I am starving,” Wanda said. She lent over and gave Jocasta a kiss on the cheek and ruffle Paul’s hair. “I see you’ve met our abandoned pup. Peter found her in the park. Nobody wants her.”

Craig sniggered.

“What’s so funny?” Aida asked.

“Wanda.” Craig puffed on his cigarette. He had no qualms talking smack about Wanda in her presence as she always ignored him. “She is so obvious.”

Peter was looking uncomfortable. “I think we should check her out to make sure she’s not injured. ”

“Yes, of course,” Jo said. “Go through to the front room. I’ll get some more towels and some food and hot drinks.”

“Hello, little, big man.” Wanda took Paul from Jocasta and ushered Molly toward the front room. “Have you seen the puppy? Shall we go check out the puppy?”

“Doggy!” Paul shouted excitedly.

Craig rolled his eyes. “LOL! She’s so, so obvious.”

In the front room, Molly gently kicked Paul’s play bricks to the side and placed the dog in the towel at the centre of the room. She kneeled down and was quickly joined by the two adults. Wanda let Paul stand, but held on to him as Peter unwrapped the towel. Uncovered, the dog rapidly shook its long body, expelling the excess water from its fur in a fine spray.

“Ha-ha. They should have seen that coming,” Aida said at the commotion below.

The dog barked and wagged its tail furiously, looking expectantly at the surrounding humans.

“She a beauty,” Craig told Aida. “Pedigree dachshund. Really expensive to buy.”

Aida frowned. “It makes no sense then for someone to just to abandon her.”

Craig shrugged. “It does if they’re a knobhead.”

Jocasta returned with a towel for Wanda and a small bowl of cold chicken for the dog. “In case she’s hungry,” she said, passing the bowl to Peter. “I’m making chicken salad sandwiches for us.”

“Thank you.” Peter took some shredded chicken from the bowl and held it out to the dog, who sniffed at it before wolfing it from his fingers.

‘Can I?’ Molly signed. She reached over and pulled some morsels from the bowl and held them out to the dog. She giggled as it licked the the scraps from her fingers.

“You too.” Peter held the bowl out to Paul, who studied the contents carefully before pulling out a chunk of chicken and putting it straight into his own mouth.

The living all laughed uproariously, as did the ghosts and the little dog barked with excitement at the humans’ joy.

***

Midnight in the Darling household and Aida could hear Jocasta’s snoring all the way from the bedroom. She slipped through the walls to take a look: the whole family were sleeping soundly in her bed; Paul curled in to his mother on one side and Molly curled around the puppy on the other, who in turn was curled up asleep like a cat. Aida thought it a beautiful tableau, save for the sound of the wood saw coming from Jocasta.

Back in her favourite spot on the living room ceiling, Aida thought about the day whilst smoking her cigarette. Of course, Jocasta had offered to home the dog – now called Poppy – how could she not? The kids wanted to keep her and, according to Craig, Wanda was keen for them to have it. As usual, what Wanda wants, Wanda gets, although Aida thought Peter had looked disappointed. Perhaps he was hankering to settle down and have a family, but with Wanda? “Good luck with that,” she cackled aloud.

“Good luck with what?”

Aida fell with surprise at the unexpected sound of the voice. That’s twice in a day, she thought, as she hovered close to the floor. She looked up and saw the black shrouded figure of Death standing over her. “What do you want? You’ve not come for Jocasta or the kids? You’d better not have.” Aida remembered the feeling of panic; she hadn’t felt it often in life but she felt it now.

“No, Aida Roundtree, I’ve come for you.” Death said.

“Me?” Aida was relieved but confused. “But I’m already dead.”

“Indeed you are. Please sit up, dear lady, you’re making me feel tall.”

Aida floated up into a sitting position. “Is it a social call?”

“Not primarily,” Death said dryly. “I’ve come to offer you a job but we can chit-chat first if you prefer. How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Aida said flatly. “What job?”

“Head of the Births and Rebirths department in the Reincarnation Complex in service to humanity.”

“Not NHS?”

Death chuckled. “Goodness, no. The Reincarnation Complex is much bigger, much more essential than a corrupt system of socialised healthcare.”

“I see.” Aida shook her head. “No, no I don’t see. Why me? Where’s the current head of births and rebirths at?”

“Incapacitated with long-Rona. Poor Marge hasn’t recovered from the damaged inflicted to humanity’s reproductive ability by the poisonous Rona shots. Although, I think the industrialisation of abortion during the late 20^th century severely weakened her constitution. The Great Birthing Stork may never recover.”

Aida remained silent, gobsmacked at what the little Reaper was saying. “Why me?”

“You had an exemplary career as a midwife, dedicated yourself to bringing life into the world. The Births and Rebirths team is in dire need of strong, capable leadership.”

“Thank you.” Aida puffed out her chest. “It’s true, I always ran a tight ship.”

“But that is only one half of the service we provide,” Death explained. “The other deals with removals, the Grim Reaper service, headed by myself. We would have to work together, collaboratively. Do you think you could do that?”

“I don’t see why not,” Aida answered.

“Because I fully understand that we got off on the wrong foot on the occasion of your death,” the little Reaper continued. “And for that I fully apologise, even though I have been completely vindicated in my reservations on God’s offer to you at the time.”

“Wait a moment.” Aida was lost again. “What offer from God?”

“The choice to either leave with me or stay on here as a ghost.”

Aida shook her head. “No, that was Slip of a girl.”

“Yes.” Death didn’t elaborate further.

Aida waved the cigarette in her hand. “Slip of a girl? She gave me this.”

“Well, I didn’t see her give it to you at the time, but I believe that she did so. I understand the cigarette duplicates when passed from ghost to ghost.”

“Yes.” A bark of laughter suddenly erupted from Aida. “You know, being a ghost can be tedious at times. I’ve always considered this cigarette to be a blessing.”

“There you are,” Death replied. “God a generous boss.”

“Well I never.” Aida was momentarily stuck for words. “I had no idea.”

“Be that as it may, the question remains,” Death said, his tone serious. “Will you accept the position as offered?”

Aida blew out her cheeks. “It’s a lot to take in. I’d like to think about it first.”

“If you must.” Death sighed loudly. “Will you need long?”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Aida dragged on her cigarette. “Will I be allowed to smoke on the job?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Okay, that’s positive.” Aida took another drag. “What about Paul? Slip of a girl, I mean God, asked me to look over him. Is that not needed any more?”

“I believe your replacement arrived today and is already ensconced.”

Aida’s mouth fell open with realisation. Her cigarette dangled and then slipped from her lips, only to reappear in her fingers a second later. “You replaced me with a dog?”

“Dogs have souls. Remember, Reincarnation Complex. Waste not, want not.”

Aida was not placated. “It was left tied to park bench in a rainstorm. Did you do that?”

Death nodded.

“You’re the knobhead!”

“It was necessary.”

“Really?” Aida was feeling miffed and it showed. “Well, who’s soul is in the dog?”

“Does it matter?” Death asked.

“I was entrusted by God to look over the child. I’d like to know who’s taking next watch.”

“Are you always this ferocious when protecting children?”

“Yes,” Aida replied emphatically.

“Good. I’d call that a positive attribute for the job. Alright, one moment.” Death slipped his Psy-Pad from out of the folds in his robe, flipped open the cover and began to tap the screen. “Here we are: John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Murdered in the city of Dallas on 22nd November 1963. He was actually lost to the Grim Reaper Service until quite recently. It sometimes takes us a while to track down and collect murder victims, as you’ll be very well aware of from the effects of poisonous Rona shots.”

Aida didn’t respond, so Death continued reading aloud. “He was a hero of World War Two, also President of the United States of America and prevented a nuclear war. Well, that certainly worthy of some confidence, wouldn’t you say, Aida Roundtree? A war hero and President.”

Death closed the cover of his Psy-Pad and stowed it away in his robe. “So, Aida Roundtree, once again I ask if you would choose to become our new Head of Births and Rebirths. Slip of a girl awaits your answer.”

Aida floated up and out of her sitting position and stood straight. “Yes, I will. Thank you.”

“Excellent!” Death sounded happy and relieved. The retractable scythe shot from the sleeve of his robe. He held out a skeletal hand. “Aida Agnes Roundtree, will you walk with me?”

Aida paused before taking Death’s hand. “One more question. Why didn’t God, Slip of a girl, come and offer me the job herself?”

“When you died, here in this room, three years ago, I was robbed of the pleasure of escorting you to the other side.” Death took Aida’s hand and gave her a rictus grin. “I believe I already mentioned that God is very generous indeed.”

*******

Dear Reader, have a Song…