In which there is a misanthrope
Sep. 12th, 2012 10:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
katzenstreuAuthor: Katzenstreu Gesicht
Date Written: September 12th, 2012
Fandom: Crossover, Dead Like Me/One Man Cleanup Crew
Rating: PG-13
Author's Notes: Let's try this again...
B.S. Frisk probably stands for something mundane like Benjamin Sullivan, but it more or less represents Body and Soul, but whatever.
I'd like to preface this by saying I have a day job, of the typical corporate America temp type, but it would be more accurate to say that in reality I have two. The first, and by default less important in God or Buddha or whatever's grand tapestry of a cosmic scheme, is working at the Happy Time Temp Agency, where I do exciting things like paperwork and filing and a number of other mundane things you wouldn't normally subjugate yourself to. That is, unless you're like everyone else and want to eat and sleep in a comfy bed at night.
The second job is being a Reaper. Derived from the term Grim Reaper, although we aren't that grim, for the most part. I mean, no scythe, no cloak, no skeletal frame. Just a bunch of normal undead people that pop souls out before they die and guide them to their lights and Heaven or something, I dunno. It'd be alright, if I had actually taken the job voluntarily and not because I filled some prick's quota and had to take his place because of it.
Story of my life.
I get dragged into shit with getting asked, hey lady, is this okay with you?
Like today.
Supposedly, Rube owes his buddies over at the Plague Division a favor for something. I don't know what for, but I guess it doesn't fuckin' matter in the long run. I mean, I have my suspicions, but nothing concrete. Anyway, getting back on track of things, one of them has got a job here in good 'ol Seattle, and I got signed up for my apparently new day job, tour guide.
Did I mention I don't get paid for this shit?
Yup.
I only got dragged into this because, as Rube so poetically puts it, Mason is a fuck up, Daisy is not far behind on that list, and Roxy... also has a day job, but I guess she also has a gun to give her some weight to that argument. Whereas I have jackshit and a not so convincing attitude.
Maybe I should be happy, because that makes it sound like I'm the dependable one, but really, I'm starting to miss the days when I screwed the pooch and got to be a little bit lazy. But... I guess it's nice not being chaperoned anymore.
Fuck. I hope this dude gets here soon.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
By the time she got through the ungodly traffic that always seemed to be coming to and fro from the airport, found a place to park and had her foot ran over at least five times by a variety of suitcases, she was more than a half-hour late to picking this unfortunate Reaper by the name of B.S. Frisk. George tried looking through the crowd for a few minutes, but found it to be in vain and instead settled on picking up a discarded sign from the trash, turned it over from where it read 'Tori Black' or some such and wrote on the back in blue ink.
As soon as she was done, and made it face the world, she noticed a man was seated and staring at her in an almost incredulous way. Actually, scratch that, it was completely incredulous and with a touch of disgust, too. George stared back at the man, wondering as to what his problem was.
He was middle-aged, with graying black hair and wrinkles made up entirely from thought and stress, but certainly not laughter. Caucasian and well dressed, but the part of him that seemed to stick out among the crowd were the gloves upon his hands, of brown leather and odd in this summer heat. Also, there was the fact he was coming straight towards her, and stopped directly in front of her. She met him with a raised eyebrow as he said, "Did you honestly just do that?"
"Do what?"
"Take that out of the trash like some homeless beggar. You can't even be bothered to to purchase one yourself?"
George blinked, composed herself, and replied with perfect deadpan. "It's called recycling."
The man scoffed, and walked past her. Once more, George was left to wonder what the problem was when he stopped, and turned back to her and said, with all the impatience in the world, "Are you coming or not?"
George stared for a moment, putting two and two together. "Are you B.S. Frisk?"
"Obviously," he said, with a sneer, "but I'd prefer it if you referred to me by last name only. Now, really, come along. You've made me late enough as it is." He talked in a very rushed way, and gestured for her to hurry up. With no other choice, she tossed aside her recycled sign and followed after Frisk. Upon stepping outside and making their way to her car, they got in and made their way out of the parking lot and onto the road without another word between them. At least, until George figured to ask the million dollar question.
"So, uh, where exactly is your reap?" Instead of a vocal answer, however, the other Reaper simply passed her a note, of the yellow notebook variety, with an address written on it that she recognized as the local hospital. "Alright, then," she said, with a sigh, "good talk."
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Meet B.S. Frisk.
Yeah, I'm not his biggest fan either.
And I didn't know what to say to ease the awkwardness of the situation. Small talk was never my specialty, even though it seemed almost everyone I knew was a master of it to some extent. But what can you say?
If you look to your right, you'll see the sprawling city and smog, along with what appears to be a drug deal going on. To your left, a homeless person digging through the trash.
On our list of stars you can visit, we have Tori Black, renowned porno star.
We're famous for that one movie with Meg Ryan about insomnia or something.
You get the picture.
It's been a while since I've had a car ride that silent and tense, but there you have it. B.S. Frisk one-upped my own mother.
Not to mention, something else hung in there air that I didn't know how to voice...
---------------------------------------------------------------------
When they got to the hospital, Frisk took back his note and made his way to the entrance, but turned back when he noticed her following him. "You should stay outside," he said, "you've done your job, so be on your way."
George frowned at the brush off. "But don't you need help or something finding your reap?"
"I've been at this for thirty years; I don't need a chaperone or tutelage."
"Yeah, but, y'know. Chicago hotdogs are different from New York hotdogs," she said, completely butchering a half-remembered metaphor. Frisk stared at her, nonplussed. "Look, I'm your guide, aren't I? Shouldn't I... guide you?"
Frisk continued to stare, and then something seemed to clicked as his mouth moved in a silent 'ah'. "Are you curious?"
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Truth be told? Yeah.
There's some sort of morbid wonder at what exactly the plague is like, I guess. You try and tell yourself, it's dangerous, stay away, but maybe it's because I've lived so long working around death, it didn't scare me away as much as it did.
But you know what they say away about curiosity and cats...
---------------------------------------------------------------------
The left glove was removed and George's stomach gave a little turn, a little twist. The fingers on it were black, like they had been burned or suffered terrible frost bite, and the nails were the color of a Hawaiian blue snow-cone. But she couldn't look away, like someone caught up in gawking at a car wreck, at once both terrible and fascinating.
"There you have it," said Frisk, hiding the horrible hand with his glove.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
...They say satisfaction brought it back.
What a bunch of bull.
My first thought had been to tell him to put it away, because what if someone saw? And also I would never be able to look at that particular shade of blue ever again.
But I guess that's what I might do if someone asked me in a roundabout way if they could tag along. Especially someone you didn't know, but still.
Could I not get a fucking warning before hand?
---------------------------------------------------------------------
"...A toilet seat killed me," she said, much later, as if providing her own story of death was the proper comeback for what she had seen earlier. "I didn't feel anything, but I ended up in chunks. Except for one shoe," she added, and sucked deeply the last of her fountain drink from the convenience store.
Frisk didn't appear impressed. "I was hiking, when I supposed I caught it from a squirrel or something else flea ridden. I passed out from a seizure or some such, and didn't make it to the hospital until the park ranger found me two days later. But by then," he shrugged, finding it unnecessary to finish the ending. They both knew the end.
"Alright, you may have me beat there," George admitted.
Date Written: September 12th, 2012
Fandom: Crossover, Dead Like Me/One Man Cleanup Crew
Rating: PG-13
Author's Notes: Let's try this again...
B.S. Frisk probably stands for something mundane like Benjamin Sullivan, but it more or less represents Body and Soul, but whatever.
I'd like to preface this by saying I have a day job, of the typical corporate America temp type, but it would be more accurate to say that in reality I have two. The first, and by default less important in God or Buddha or whatever's grand tapestry of a cosmic scheme, is working at the Happy Time Temp Agency, where I do exciting things like paperwork and filing and a number of other mundane things you wouldn't normally subjugate yourself to. That is, unless you're like everyone else and want to eat and sleep in a comfy bed at night.
The second job is being a Reaper. Derived from the term Grim Reaper, although we aren't that grim, for the most part. I mean, no scythe, no cloak, no skeletal frame. Just a bunch of normal undead people that pop souls out before they die and guide them to their lights and Heaven or something, I dunno. It'd be alright, if I had actually taken the job voluntarily and not because I filled some prick's quota and had to take his place because of it.
Story of my life.
I get dragged into shit with getting asked, hey lady, is this okay with you?
Like today.
Supposedly, Rube owes his buddies over at the Plague Division a favor for something. I don't know what for, but I guess it doesn't fuckin' matter in the long run. I mean, I have my suspicions, but nothing concrete. Anyway, getting back on track of things, one of them has got a job here in good 'ol Seattle, and I got signed up for my apparently new day job, tour guide.
Did I mention I don't get paid for this shit?
Yup.
I only got dragged into this because, as Rube so poetically puts it, Mason is a fuck up, Daisy is not far behind on that list, and Roxy... also has a day job, but I guess she also has a gun to give her some weight to that argument. Whereas I have jackshit and a not so convincing attitude.
Maybe I should be happy, because that makes it sound like I'm the dependable one, but really, I'm starting to miss the days when I screwed the pooch and got to be a little bit lazy. But... I guess it's nice not being chaperoned anymore.
Fuck. I hope this dude gets here soon.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
By the time she got through the ungodly traffic that always seemed to be coming to and fro from the airport, found a place to park and had her foot ran over at least five times by a variety of suitcases, she was more than a half-hour late to picking this unfortunate Reaper by the name of B.S. Frisk. George tried looking through the crowd for a few minutes, but found it to be in vain and instead settled on picking up a discarded sign from the trash, turned it over from where it read 'Tori Black' or some such and wrote on the back in blue ink.
As soon as she was done, and made it face the world, she noticed a man was seated and staring at her in an almost incredulous way. Actually, scratch that, it was completely incredulous and with a touch of disgust, too. George stared back at the man, wondering as to what his problem was.
He was middle-aged, with graying black hair and wrinkles made up entirely from thought and stress, but certainly not laughter. Caucasian and well dressed, but the part of him that seemed to stick out among the crowd were the gloves upon his hands, of brown leather and odd in this summer heat. Also, there was the fact he was coming straight towards her, and stopped directly in front of her. She met him with a raised eyebrow as he said, "Did you honestly just do that?"
"Do what?"
"Take that out of the trash like some homeless beggar. You can't even be bothered to to purchase one yourself?"
George blinked, composed herself, and replied with perfect deadpan. "It's called recycling."
The man scoffed, and walked past her. Once more, George was left to wonder what the problem was when he stopped, and turned back to her and said, with all the impatience in the world, "Are you coming or not?"
George stared for a moment, putting two and two together. "Are you B.S. Frisk?"
"Obviously," he said, with a sneer, "but I'd prefer it if you referred to me by last name only. Now, really, come along. You've made me late enough as it is." He talked in a very rushed way, and gestured for her to hurry up. With no other choice, she tossed aside her recycled sign and followed after Frisk. Upon stepping outside and making their way to her car, they got in and made their way out of the parking lot and onto the road without another word between them. At least, until George figured to ask the million dollar question.
"So, uh, where exactly is your reap?" Instead of a vocal answer, however, the other Reaper simply passed her a note, of the yellow notebook variety, with an address written on it that she recognized as the local hospital. "Alright, then," she said, with a sigh, "good talk."
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Meet B.S. Frisk.
Yeah, I'm not his biggest fan either.
And I didn't know what to say to ease the awkwardness of the situation. Small talk was never my specialty, even though it seemed almost everyone I knew was a master of it to some extent. But what can you say?
If you look to your right, you'll see the sprawling city and smog, along with what appears to be a drug deal going on. To your left, a homeless person digging through the trash.
On our list of stars you can visit, we have Tori Black, renowned porno star.
We're famous for that one movie with Meg Ryan about insomnia or something.
You get the picture.
It's been a while since I've had a car ride that silent and tense, but there you have it. B.S. Frisk one-upped my own mother.
Not to mention, something else hung in there air that I didn't know how to voice...
---------------------------------------------------------------------
When they got to the hospital, Frisk took back his note and made his way to the entrance, but turned back when he noticed her following him. "You should stay outside," he said, "you've done your job, so be on your way."
George frowned at the brush off. "But don't you need help or something finding your reap?"
"I've been at this for thirty years; I don't need a chaperone or tutelage."
"Yeah, but, y'know. Chicago hotdogs are different from New York hotdogs," she said, completely butchering a half-remembered metaphor. Frisk stared at her, nonplussed. "Look, I'm your guide, aren't I? Shouldn't I... guide you?"
Frisk continued to stare, and then something seemed to clicked as his mouth moved in a silent 'ah'. "Are you curious?"
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Truth be told? Yeah.
There's some sort of morbid wonder at what exactly the plague is like, I guess. You try and tell yourself, it's dangerous, stay away, but maybe it's because I've lived so long working around death, it didn't scare me away as much as it did.
But you know what they say away about curiosity and cats...
---------------------------------------------------------------------
The left glove was removed and George's stomach gave a little turn, a little twist. The fingers on it were black, like they had been burned or suffered terrible frost bite, and the nails were the color of a Hawaiian blue snow-cone. But she couldn't look away, like someone caught up in gawking at a car wreck, at once both terrible and fascinating.
"There you have it," said Frisk, hiding the horrible hand with his glove.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
...They say satisfaction brought it back.
What a bunch of bull.
My first thought had been to tell him to put it away, because what if someone saw? And also I would never be able to look at that particular shade of blue ever again.
But I guess that's what I might do if someone asked me in a roundabout way if they could tag along. Especially someone you didn't know, but still.
Could I not get a fucking warning before hand?
---------------------------------------------------------------------
"...A toilet seat killed me," she said, much later, as if providing her own story of death was the proper comeback for what she had seen earlier. "I didn't feel anything, but I ended up in chunks. Except for one shoe," she added, and sucked deeply the last of her fountain drink from the convenience store.
Frisk didn't appear impressed. "I was hiking, when I supposed I caught it from a squirrel or something else flea ridden. I passed out from a seizure or some such, and didn't make it to the hospital until the park ranger found me two days later. But by then," he shrugged, finding it unnecessary to finish the ending. They both knew the end.
"Alright, you may have me beat there," George admitted.