Flash Fiction: Grim Paperwork

What happens when the afterlife is bureaucracy?

“But why do you sound like my uncle?”

“Its part of the service, sir. Everyone will hear a voice that is most comforting to them. Very tailored.” William droned off his explanation with the dullery of over repetition. He rarely ever had to really think about the answers anymore. The questions seldom varied.

“Uh...but…”

“Now if we could review your assignment so we can get you on your way…”

“But, sir?”

A deep exasperated sigh escaped before William could remember to be professional. If his eyeballs had been visible, this clod, this time waster, this Marshall Steven Smith, would have seen them roll. “Yes, Mr. Smith?”

William has had better days. Not many. But they exist.

“I...uh… Steve. Call me Steve. It's just, I know this might seem silly, it's just that my uncle was a right bastard. Stole the old house from Mum, kept that car I was supposed to have come to me, got my sister kicked out of the family because she liked girls. So… so why would you think that bastard would be comforting? I mean…”

Mr. Smith had started out quietly stumbling over what he was trying to say, but each word had exponentially increased until his voice was something like a squirrel with its tail on fire.

William tuned out, lost in thought. This was boringly, predictably normal. No little fit has been able to entertain him for at least a few decades.

‘There was the one that had come out guns blazing, still screeching about the goods being setup. He’d been so attached to those guns. It took him most of a week to realize his weapons never ran out of ammo, they never hurt me, and he couldn’t leave my office. Shell casings were ankle deep. Finally he stopped and was escorted to Oblivion. He hadn’t believed in anything apparently. Except those guns. The Uppers had not been happy. My caseload was a towering heap of way behind by the time old Guns had shuffled off. They made me work around the clock to catch up. Now they check in on me whenever… oh right…’

William had come out of his musings. Mr. Smith was shaking and staring wide eyed at his file on the desk. Behind Mr. Smith, holding open the door to the tiny office just wide enough stood Magistrator Tineill. She oversaw his division and was most unhappy with her charge.

Ever the professional, she maintained her Grim even though only William could see her. No one else could soul meltingly glare through empty sockets like Tine.

Dropping his gaze to shuffle through the file, William found the assignment discharge paperwork.

“Oh this explains it, Mr. Smith.”

“Steve.”

“This explains it, Steve.” William pushed the bright yellow triplicate form across the scuffed expanse of wooden desk. “It says that you have been assigned to Hell, Seventh Circle, Second Gate. Hmm, your uncle must not have been the only bastard in the family, aye?”

Steve Smith’s mouth gaped wider and wider until it quite literally split his face. And this is literally as it’s literally meant to be taken. A fine shimmer of sweat popped out all over him, but dripped heaviest from his greasy brow and above his thin lip. William tuned out again as the young man screeched and clutched at his falling jaw. It all became static to bored William except for this one oddly large drop of gooey perspiration trailing slowly down the side of Steve’s face to drip unceremoniously into his ripped cheek and disappear among the blood and saliva churning there.

It would be such a mess to clean up before he processed the next soul.