So I will talk to you about my previous life, the wicked one, the one where I had a wicked job.
I’m going to tell you about the life when I was Death’s assistant manager, for operation E. east. See, Death (I used to call him by his little name: Mort, but for you I’ll keep simple), Death is a busy person. Well, his trade used to be a one man business, but that was when human beings where all centralised in Mesopotamia and the ways to die where very simple: starving, get eaten by the thing you intended to eat or get suppressed by an almost sharp piece of wood threw at you by your lovely cave wife because you came back too late from the pub.
Then, human being got clever, and it became complicated for Death to carry out his duty, as a proof, human being started to get older and older. Death sorted out the problem by inventing death by old age and disease but still that wasn’t enough. Even though, human being where somehow helping him by suppressing each other for petty reasons.
At some point, no matter how much of a loner Death was he needed help.
So he got himself a PA. Dear, you don’t want to see Death’s PA. The poor thing is wrecked, and thinking that when I started he had already been Death Personal Assistant since 3000 years. I’m thinking myself lucky not to had this honor.
So yeah let’s come back to it.
I started as death assistant manager in 1000 AD. In North Europe and later on, I would also take care of the Balkans.
I was hired almost by mistake. I was born in a deep German forest in the dark ages, I don’t even know how my parents actually met since there was only them around. I suppose both of them got lost in the dark dangerous woods, somehow survived and fell on each other, and that was it.
So, as you certainly found out, my mum had very little maternal fiber and somehow didn’t get the hint that I was to be fed.
I was starving very very slowly. Indeed it took a while for the current Death assistant to come over and finish me off. . And when he arrived well he thought that it was a pity to have gone all that way through barely existing footpaths, cold streams and lairs crowded by angry wolves just to put to an end a toddler’s wicked life. So he stuffed me in his rucksack and for the next ten year trained me to the job.
On my first day, nobody noticed the ten year old gal in rags playing near the fountain, but they certainly noticed when they all caught cholera in that lost village in France.
It did not spread much because they died quickly, but that way became my favourite way of quick and massive extermination for the next 500 years.
Actually most of those little water tricks were unnoticeable because they were my way to destroy isolated villages, but I had some fun in Constantinople and with the moguls in 1346, and while I was covering a shift for the manager form operation E South who was on vacation, I accidentally decimated one third of the population, with the 1347-8 plague in Marseille (I actually set an example because they did it again 400 years later)
Anyways, mass killing was funny, because all you had to do was get out at night and then slash randomly with your sickle, nobody would wonder.
But, let me tell you folks, that was just the big of the job.
What I really loved was make people kill each other. Not that it is hard to implement. Human beings are born with stupid feelings, like pride, or jealousy. And even more, human always want to possess.
Always.
Always more.
More than more if they can.
You greedy humans.
How easy it was to sit in a tavern and have a nice chit-chat with the strong headed lad (usually the one with a missing ear or no teeth). And within two weeks you had a revolution.
How swiftly I could raise a minority against another, just by mentioning that the farmer next door had one more cow and he wasn’t even from the village. And the whole village would start to hate the other village, because of the neighbour’s cow. Reproduce that with a country.
Of course it wasn’t always easy. I had to learn many languages to set up the swindles. Ever wondered how hard it is to sit in a public place and look like you had always been there? If you target start thinking twice about who started it, then all is over.
Trust was the word.
People would trust me to Death.
Talking about him… He was very happy with me, he would always pat me on the back when he was visiting, and say “one day you’ll be my PA”, and each time, I would feel that little chill in the back of my neck. And he would smile, with his very shiny teeth, thinking that I was shivering of pleasure.
And one day it happened. They sent me to train that youngster in the Balkans, I had fun in Yugoslavia, starting the usual mess between minorities, and we settled so many dark legends in Transylvania, when it was actually just the new assistant messing around with his fickle missing his shot and creating zombies. Nothing about vampires, really. You shouldn’t give sharp objects to a guy with such a squint. Honestly…
And then I was done training the kid, who is no longer, a kid and is still operating there and part time in china.
And they told me that Mort’s PA was off on depression. And Mort’s wanted me around.
I tried. I swear I tried.
But I could not.
Death, (death actually, the one with a little d, your insignificant little death) is generally not a happy thing, and if you ever witnessed anyone die and rejoiced then allow me to tell you that you need a doctor. Quickly. You are weird.
Working with your death on a daily basis is gloomy. But you learn liking that constant sadness, you can rate it. You learn to appreciate the suffering. You can nod in appreciation to a well executed last breath. You can be moved to tears by the beauty of a helpless cry of despair, exactly meeting the death of the loved one.
But Death, dear…
Mort is so happy. Always joking around, playing prank on you, being all nice and enjoyable.
I just couldn’t. I’m ok to deal with slaughters, sickness, miserable deaths, pompous funeral. I don’t mind inventing new ways of dying, new purpose to sacrifice a life. New ways to weaken humanity are always welcome.
But, spend my days with someone who points to your shirt with a suspicious look and pokes you in the nose when you bend your head to check if you got a spot, NO.
No, sorry, I can’t.
So, I quitted. And that’s how I ended up here.
Now you know.
So don’t complain. Or I kill you. I’m very skilled you know.
Pour mon papa :
ça :
http://translate.google.com/
et ça
(et lire les blogs au boulot c'est mal, surtout trois fois par jour)
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