It is Ward 10 in the local hospital, and he is breathing his last. I often think cancer is our best friend; if it was not for Big Tobacco, things would be way more time-consuming and tedious for us. Oh wait: ’our/us’. I know, right? Total shock for people like you who are not actually in the whole ‘collect their souls’ business. Turns out there is more than one religion and more than one way to collect souls and deliver them to Hell: who knew? But he is my religion, and my responsibility. My wings and horns and spiny tail and pitchfork, really just psychodrama: to be honest, the Buddhists do it with more style. But I do carry the whole scaly demon thing off pretty well, because he is, like, shit scared.
So, as he lies there on his death bed, I do the echoey voice:
‘You fucked around, drank like a longshoreman, did more lines than a Shakespearian actor, and totally ignored your wife and son. You were an asshole your entire life, and now it’s time to count the cost.’
When I say that kind of stuff, I like to think I am channelling Charlton Heston in ‘The 10 Commandments’. Or maybe it is ‘El Cid’. But, you know, big, important, portentous.
He looks up at me with dying eyes, which, personally, I hate. They spend a whole life screwing around and then on their deathbed they look up at you with the puppy-dog eyes.
‘I am sorry’, he says, and a single tear drips its way slowly down his cheek.
Can I tell you, right now, how much I fucking despise those tears that drip slowly down the cheek? I have him bang to rights, and now, with the whole ‘tear dribbles down the cheek’ thing, there is a last-minute appeal to a court of higher authority. So anyway, I grit my fangs and I phone the Higher Authority: and before you ask, no, you cannot afford my cell-phone plan.
There is a long delay. There is always a long delay. He is lying there, expiring, and I am drumming my claws on the bedside cabinet listening to the busy signal. Eventually, I get through. They tell me:
‘He hath repented, and his path to Heaven is secure.’
And I think:
‘For fuck’s sake! I have the pitchfork ready and everything. Plus, if I hear that ‘hath’ crap one more time, I am going to tell them to fucketh off.’
Then the asshole dies and slips out of my grasp forever.
But then the phone rings again, and the celestial voice tells me:
‘There is a submissive in Ward 8 who is close to death. He spent his entire life lying to, and stealing from, any domme he could trick into collaring him. He secretly served several dommes at the same time without telling them. He pledged lifelong obedience to each domme and then as soon as it became inconvenient to him, he ghosted them. On SL, he pestered dommes in IM and would not take ‘no’ for an answer. We do not have a final tally, but estimate he used over two dozen phony alts at the Dominion. He made life so miserable for some of the dommes that they left the Dominion and never returned. You are to visit him and seek his final confession.’
So, I sharpen my horns and my pitchfork, give the old spiny tail a shake as I get up to go, and I think:
‘OK, Mr Ward 8, let’s see you cry your way out of *that* bad shit, motherfucker.’
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