Disclaimer: I own nothing anyone recognizes.
A/N: Ok this was a little dream I had last night. It's a weird idea so just bear with me for a bit. I have no idea where this will go but oh well.
He was a tall and dark man, but he was nothing close to handsome. His lips were thin and panted black against his white panted face. His almost black eyes were lined with a heavy black. He had long dirty hair with faded strips of color that at some point he put in. He couldn't remember exactly when he put them in, but he guessed it was around the early 1980's when punk started to become cool.
With the manila envelope in one hand he sauntered down the red and white hall way. He had done this day after day; every day it was the same kind of envelope that went to the same door to the same man who was in the exact middle of the business, and every day this man tried to ketch a glimpse of his employer. The dark man stopped in front of door 41. He starred at the gold numbers for just a moment longer than normal. He shook his head slowly to land him back to reality; He slipped the folder under the crack of the door and then sauntered down the hall back to the gold platted elevator.
His heavy boots made no sound on the carpeted floor and the flowers that he accidently brushed on his way down the hall way withered in the Chinese vase. The man frowned and looked at the now brown tulips; looking at them made him very sad actually.
He was not like his brother who gave life a beauty to everything he was the one stuck with the shitty job; he was Death. Unlike what most thought Death was not his name, It was Graverobber. It may have been a weird name, but it was his name. The sound of door 41 slowly opening brought him back to reality, making him quickly duck into the elevator when the doors opened wide. He left the old man yelling to him saying he knew he was there, and he would see him.
"No you won't." Graverobber whispered as the gold doors closed.
Graverobber actually liked to listen in on his reapers conversations, even more this town then others. He would sit with his back to them in the next booth over. He would eat his pancakes and sipped his black coffee in silence and listen to their bickering.
"Why don't I get one?" The British boy complained.
"You're a fuck up that's why," The old man said slowly. It was true; the British one was a major fuck up. Graverobber couldn't help but smile at this as he looked through his newspaper for the obituaries; they were always the best part to see his handy work.
Every day for the mortals he would take on a different look; an old and rich business man here, a high school delinquent there. He would never show his real form in this place though; it would always be a "normal" look for in here. What the hell was normal any way. He never really cared for his fake looks and fake names; he wished he could go out as himself.
He heard a burst of laughter from the other table and dared himself to look over; the British fuck up was trying to juggle jelly packets. He was failing miserably at it, the packets flew everywhere. Some landed in meter maids breakfasts, one in Toilet seat girl's coffee, and the last one in Rube's chocolate milk. There were some playful jabs and more laughter.
"I wish I could have a normal life." Graverobber whispered to him self
"Don't we all sweetie." Startled, Graverobber looked up at the big black woman. "More coffee?" She asked
"Yes, thank you." He said slowly, Graverobber tried to make a habit of not talking to mortals or the undead. Then it dawned on him, why the hell did he have that rule? He could go out looking like himself, just without the makeup if he wanted. There was no reason for him not to; the only thing was his little problem with taking the souls out of people, but he could control that. He could pose as a reaper and get more work done in less time to boot.
Graverobber took a sip of his hot coffee. He could leave a note with, what was his name? Rube that was it. He would leave a transfer memo with him tonight with his delivery. He would have a life at last, he would be normal.
His name would be Greg Rogers. He was transferred from Alaska because there weren't many deaths up there for accidental reapers. He grew up in California and died in the late '90's from heroin over dose, He was 28. He would be arriving at Dur Waffle House at 7 AM tomorrow morning rested and ready to go.
Graverobber read over the memo once more, making sure he remembered all the information before he slipped it into the file with the normal names and death times. If he forgot something he was fucked. The Gold doors to the elevator opened and he stepped out of the small box, he slipped the sheet of paper into the folder and walked down the hall way to door number 41 once more. Graverobber could smell fresh Gnocchi's drift down the hall way, as he came closer to room 41 the smell became stronger.
Graverobber slipped the folder under the door way and briskly walked away; he could hear the door open again tonight.
"Wait wait wait!" Rube called as Graverobber stepped into the elevator. "Why don't you just come back here and have some of this fresh food, just out of the oil; they're still nice hot and crispy." Graverobber answered the man by closing the elevator doors.