Death: Why do you think they call me the Grim Reaper?
The dead man (frightened): I… I don’t know. Because you bring death to people?
Death: Wrong. I am death. I’m what’s brought to you when your time on earth ends. That confusion causes a lot of misunderstandings. “Reaper,” fine, that’s technically accurate. I harvest what’s ripe. But “grim”? I beg your pardon. I’m ecstatic.
The dead man: What does any of this have to do with me?
Death (laughing): Confusion is typical. Especially in your circumstances. What’s the last thing you remember?
The dead man: I was running from some kind of monster.
Death: Hmm?
The dead man: That makes no sense. Things like that don’t exist.
Death: You were dreaming. Your heart wasn’t. It was terrified for real, and it gave up.
The dead man: So what happens now?
Death: Well, you’re a problem. There are generally two options. Hell, for the bad: eternal torment, no way out. Heaven, for the good: eternal joy and bliss, and… also no way out. (He chuckles.) You weren’t bad, certainly. But you weren’t good either. The most boring, passive, bland life a person can pull off. Surprisingly common lately. That puts you nowhere.
The dead man: Purgatory?
Death: No such thing. It’s fairly binary. There is a third option. I don’t like to use it, but I don’t see a choice. You simply cease to exist.
There was no time for confusion this time.
Death moved on to his next assignment.
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