Written by Cricket. In a school computer lab. When there were much better things to do than this, but couldn't resist the sweet opportunity to dabble.
There was something tricky about being a Death Reaper. You learn more things in this suspended state then you had in your entire living existence. Your basic beliefs obliterated as you slowly slip into the reality you'll never get back to that pink skin, and dark brown hair.
One of the more important discoveries was that there is in fact, a heaven and a hell and you pass them with each fleeting soul assignment. Your faith being shattered as you simply cannot reach what you had worked so hard for. This is your own purgatory, one that simply does not end, your state of neutrality is its own reward and punishment in the same.
And you lead these poor souls into their eternal happiness, or their eternal damnation.
Give them to the warm embrace of the light or happily throw them into the tongues and tendrils of the fire.
It's really not that difficult.
You continue your physical research of the human mind, and your own over the extended decades since you have died, and yet, as all things come to be, your body is not as useful and youthful as it once was.
Its only wish, to unravel under the stress of the wet air and retire as the ribbons that shelter your brittle bones. What those scientists call skin. You have experienced this extreme as well, your limbs sliding out of their sockets, being held together only barely by this strong twine you use to stitch up those beauties with their wombs carved out.
Cover your once-desirable body in the thick coats to hide the rot, but slowly, you are falling apart.
The regulars to your shop do not notice this-all save for the demon, but he alone knows your age.
Yes, he alone because you have existed much too long to remember the actual number of the years you have trudged through with that cheeky grin on your face. That silver hair covering your bright, fading eyes which hold the answers to everything.
The answers to everything living inside this torn body of this once-beautiful woman. You sympathize with her cold lips which have lost their cherry sheen. Make peace with the holes in her abdomen where her womanhood was torn from her rather violently, but with precise cuts taken with great care. Love this woman of the night ruined by the swift knife of The Ripper.
And you ask of one thing in payment, because they are always new.
Ask of this one thing because entertainment is hard to come by.
Tell me a joke.