Post by samuel on Apr 13, 2010 13:31:19 GMT -5
I NEED YOU HERE WITH ME.[/ul][/center][/size][/b]
"So, here's the deal. My name is
Ola and
I've been role playing for 3 years. Plus, I'm 15
years young, and I found you guys
from Caution 2.0 oh, and the secret code is mediocre"
Ezekiel wouldn't call himself cruel.
He wouldn't call him many things, just because he liked to see his work as a public service and not a burden on the entire world. Sure, people always said that they wanted to live forever, and they wanted their friends and family to live forever, but really. Look at China! People die there all the time and the place is so damn overcrowded that they had to introduce a One Child Policy. He could only scoff at those who wished for immortality, because they'd wish they were dead if the world continued copulating like bunnies on acid and no one ever died. You wouldn't be able to walk into your own home without seeing, or smelling, 100 other people tripping over your doorstep.
So yeah. He provided a much needed community service. Taking people to the other side - Heaven, Hell or Purgatory. It proved to be much more mundane than he thought it'd be when he took up the job.
With that, Death - Or Ezekiel - stood from the bench he had been sitting on, his brown cape fluttering in the autumn wind. Mortals couldn't see him. If they could, he'd look rather strange to them, with his clothing that made him look like a caravanserai rider in the middle of a desert, a deep hood covering most of his face. He sometimes wondered why he had brown as the colour of his robes, and not black as most myths and folklore pictured him.
Then again, he supposed that brown made his day slightly less depressing. And the literal golden lining, too, the little symbols and twirls running along the edge of his cape.
Anyway - as he stood, he swept his eyes over the park before him, all the people walking around. It was nice weather for mid-autumn, at least that was his opinion.
Not a very nice day for Mr. Thompson, the 89-year-old pensioner who was about to have his day cut short. It said, on his list, that Mr. Thompson was to die of a good old heart attack. As it was spoken, so it shalt be done.
He walked alongside the old man for a moment, saw him shiver and glance around. He had a cold aura around him, and he thought that it was fitting - unlike his garment.
"Mr. Thompson, Mr. Thompson, Mr. Thompson. Jerome Thompson. Jerry. Can I call you Jerry? I think I will. I think its more fitting for the occasion, Jerry, don't you think so?" His voice had a slight metallic rasp to it, from not being used too often. Again, the man couldn't see him, only continued with his walk with a content expression on his face.
Oh, the poor sod.
Walking backwards now, Ezekiel stepped in front of the man and with a small flourish - something he did for appearance's sake, just in case other Gods were watching - touched the space just over Jerry's heart.
He froze. He gasped. He fell. Writhed for a moment before lying on the cold ground, perfectly still. People flocked around him, someone phoned 991... Yadda, yadda, yadda.
Ezekiel had been through the entire thing more times than he could count.
Oh, there came the soul.
Jerome Thompson's soul, a very realistic - even though transparent - version of the man, although maybe 30 years younger, climbed out of the body and stood up with a confused look on his face.
Ezekiel went through the process with him. Why he was dead, where he was going to go, explained that whole, 'Yes, I actually am Death and you actually are dead.' thing...
And 15 minutes later, Jerry was on his way to heaven - ever the faithful Christian - and Death found himself looking for the next person on his list.
In a way, he was like God. The true God. He was everywhere at everytime, to make sure everyone died at the time that they were supposed to die. It was a strange feeling, killing thousands of people at the same time, when they weren't in the same city, country or even on the same continent together.
He felt funny, comparing himself to God, seeing as he met the old chap once. Quite a nice guy. Somewhat of a pushover, but Ezekiel believed that Genesis already proved that this quality resided in God. With the whole Adam & Eve thing. He could've just killed them. Nice and simple. Bam, bam, thank you ma'am.
Sighing, the God of Death settled himself into the exact same bench he'd been sitting in roughly 20 minutes earlier.
Now to wait for Mrs. Robinson to come by.
He wouldn't call him many things, just because he liked to see his work as a public service and not a burden on the entire world. Sure, people always said that they wanted to live forever, and they wanted their friends and family to live forever, but really. Look at China! People die there all the time and the place is so damn overcrowded that they had to introduce a One Child Policy. He could only scoff at those who wished for immortality, because they'd wish they were dead if the world continued copulating like bunnies on acid and no one ever died. You wouldn't be able to walk into your own home without seeing, or smelling, 100 other people tripping over your doorstep.
So yeah. He provided a much needed community service. Taking people to the other side - Heaven, Hell or Purgatory. It proved to be much more mundane than he thought it'd be when he took up the job.
With that, Death - Or Ezekiel - stood from the bench he had been sitting on, his brown cape fluttering in the autumn wind. Mortals couldn't see him. If they could, he'd look rather strange to them, with his clothing that made him look like a caravanserai rider in the middle of a desert, a deep hood covering most of his face. He sometimes wondered why he had brown as the colour of his robes, and not black as most myths and folklore pictured him.
Then again, he supposed that brown made his day slightly less depressing. And the literal golden lining, too, the little symbols and twirls running along the edge of his cape.
Anyway - as he stood, he swept his eyes over the park before him, all the people walking around. It was nice weather for mid-autumn, at least that was his opinion.
Not a very nice day for Mr. Thompson, the 89-year-old pensioner who was about to have his day cut short. It said, on his list, that Mr. Thompson was to die of a good old heart attack. As it was spoken, so it shalt be done.
He walked alongside the old man for a moment, saw him shiver and glance around. He had a cold aura around him, and he thought that it was fitting - unlike his garment.
"Mr. Thompson, Mr. Thompson, Mr. Thompson. Jerome Thompson. Jerry. Can I call you Jerry? I think I will. I think its more fitting for the occasion, Jerry, don't you think so?" His voice had a slight metallic rasp to it, from not being used too often. Again, the man couldn't see him, only continued with his walk with a content expression on his face.
Oh, the poor sod.
Walking backwards now, Ezekiel stepped in front of the man and with a small flourish - something he did for appearance's sake, just in case other Gods were watching - touched the space just over Jerry's heart.
He froze. He gasped. He fell. Writhed for a moment before lying on the cold ground, perfectly still. People flocked around him, someone phoned 991... Yadda, yadda, yadda.
Ezekiel had been through the entire thing more times than he could count.
Oh, there came the soul.
Jerome Thompson's soul, a very realistic - even though transparent - version of the man, although maybe 30 years younger, climbed out of the body and stood up with a confused look on his face.
Ezekiel went through the process with him. Why he was dead, where he was going to go, explained that whole, 'Yes, I actually am Death and you actually are dead.' thing...
And 15 minutes later, Jerry was on his way to heaven - ever the faithful Christian - and Death found himself looking for the next person on his list.
In a way, he was like God. The true God. He was everywhere at everytime, to make sure everyone died at the time that they were supposed to die. It was a strange feeling, killing thousands of people at the same time, when they weren't in the same city, country or even on the same continent together.
He felt funny, comparing himself to God, seeing as he met the old chap once. Quite a nice guy. Somewhat of a pushover, but Ezekiel believed that Genesis already proved that this quality resided in God. With the whole Adam & Eve thing. He could've just killed them. Nice and simple. Bam, bam, thank you ma'am.
Sighing, the God of Death settled himself into the exact same bench he'd been sitting in roughly 20 minutes earlier.
Now to wait for Mrs. Robinson to come by.
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