Week 29 "Milkshake Duck"
Aug. 3rd, 2020 10:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rayasoI have used all three prompts in each of the triple-prompt entries, including this one. For Gary’s purposes, the prompt for this story is “milkshake duck,” which I have not designated as an entry's prompt before.
A duck milkshake, properly made, is creamy, frosty cold, and has a real kick at the end. It goes down easy and for many people, it comes up the same way. Make one badly and it’s chunky, with the visible remains of feathers, eyeballs, and beak. It has enough tequila to make it past the tongue, but not enough for anyone to keep down. When it reappears, all the pieces are there plus breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Bill knew this – he’d had both kinds, when one had been more than enough. He’d vowed never to have another, but still, there it was, right in front of him, with a bar full of people daring him to drink it. There was only one way out.
“Where’s the egg?” he said to the barkeeper. “I said I’d drink a duck milkshake, but this isn’t one without a raw duck’s egg on top.”
“It’s not in the recipe,” said the bartender.
“Recipe? Amateur.” said Bill. “If you don’t need a recipe for a single malt Scotch, neat, bring it to me over in the corner.”
He headed to a table, his stomach and honor intact.
Generally, Bill didn’t much care for bars, but once in a while he went to one for his job. The Glass Cliff was a neighborhood joint that was beginning to show the signs of creeping gentrification. He didn’t care, since he wouldn’t be back, especially after some aggressive regulars had dared him to drink a duck milkshake. He couldn’t back down – he never did.
He liked the music in the Cliff, which made waiting for the woman easier. There was a classic jukebox with oldies, and right now it was playing “Bye Bye Love” by the Everly Brothers, with their incredible harmonies.
“Part of rock’s dark side,” thought Bill.
He knew that in their early days, the brothers had used their voices in other ways – as hit men for the mob. They could harmonize on the death note and cause a listener’s head to explode. They had never been caught because no one had thought it was possible. When their rock career had taken off, they had put that part of their lives behind them. But Death knew.
Bill knew a lot of things no one else did, dark things, evil things. It was all part of his job as an agent of Death. He ranked below doomlets and deathlings, who could reap souls. He was so insignificant he couldn’t carry a scythe or wear scary robes, unless loud Hawaiian shirts counted. At the moment he was wearing an eyeball-searing red one.
“We want you to locate lost souls,” the Administrator had said when he had first been hired. “We lose track of them every now and then. If people don’t die at their appointed times, it’s embarrassing and drives our stats down. It’s quality control.”
Bill like to think of himself as Death’s bounty hunter. It sounded better than just “agent,” and it conjured up an image of some leather-clad, beefy guy barely on the right side of the law.
The job paid extremely well and had a great death benefit. For each day he worked for Death, his own end would be delayed one-half day.
The job involved a lot of travel, but Bill didn’t mind. He had been a police detective, so he was pretty much non-social, with an ex-wife, no children, and few friends. He had been looking for work after he’d been kicked off the force for accidentally shooting his partner during a drug raid.
Not long after, he had been approached by a deathling, and offered the agent’s job.
“You’re just what we need,” the deathling had said. “You’re great at finding people. Once you’ve found a soul, you just fill out Form 32 with the current address, then turn it in.”
Working for Death wasn’t his dream job, but Bill had taken it until something better turned up. It never did.
At the moment, Bill was looking for Rose Arbogast. At 27, her time was nearly up and Death had lost her. Dwizzle, her case doomlet, had sent Bill a Form 142 “lost soul” notice.
So far, he’d tracked her down to the Cliff as a Happy Hour regular. All he had to do was wait, so he studied her file.
“Pretty thin,” he thought, “even for 27.”
She was due to die in three weeks in a car crash following a night at the bar.
“Single, college, work – probably Purgatory,” he thought. “Not good enough for Heaven, not bad enough for Hell.”
Death had no input on Final Destinations, but he still liked to guess.
Bill nursed his drink, but he didn’t have to wait long.
“There she is,” he thought, when she came in the door. She had long blond hair, a sweet face, and she was wearing a tight blue dress with style.
“No contact,” he sighed.
That was Rule 1 – agents could not interfere in a soul’s life. Just do your job and move on.
He filled out the Form 142 with her current location. With that, Rose was now found and Dwizzle could track her until the end.
“No drama, no fight, no nothing,” Bill thought. “Where’s the fun in being Death’s bounty hunter?”
He daydreamed about quitting and interfering with Rose back at his hotel. Passion would lead to love and he would save her from that car wreck.
“What the hell,” he thought. “In a few months, she’d be gone and I’d be out of work with Death mad at me.”
Bill watched her until she left with some guy who thought he was a pick-up artist, then he headed back to his hotel.
A large manila envelope was waiting for him at the front desk with another assignment. Death was stuck in the paper age because the budget didn’t include computers. Those were reserved for Heaven and Hell.
“That’s why I lose souls,” Death would fume during budget meetings.
Bill went upstairs, sat down, and opened the envelope. The lost soul was for a baby, only four months old. Bill hated these and he always felt like quitting rather than do them. He and his ex-wife had never had children, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. They had given up after the third miscarriage.
The form was marked “urgent,” so Bill started right away. Putting it off would only make him feel worse.
The baby’s last known location was St. Matthew's Hospital, where little Emily had been born. It was just around the corner so Bill walked over, found Maintenance and stole a uniform. He went to the maternity ward and started cleaning a computer which someone had left open, found Emily’s file, and got all the information he needed.
Emily’s family had moved and some doomlets had lost track of her, but Bill hit gold with the grandparents’ address. He went to their house when they were gone and, using his special all-access agent key, entered and found her new address. All he had to do was get visual verification.
Verification was crucial. One agent had gotten sloppy and the wrong person had died. No one saw that agent again.
Bill sat in his car and waited until he could see the baby.
“I just can’t do it,” he kept thinking. “Let this one go.”
But as soon as the family appeared with Emily, he did what he had to do and filled out the form.
Everything went blank and Bill found himself in Death’s office. Death was tall and wore black flowing robes with a hood which hung low over his skeleton face and burning red eyes. The blood-tinged scythe was leaning against the wall.
“That’s it,” thought Bill. He imagined himself being sent to the part of Hell reserved for stupid agents who didn’t follow orders.
“Relax,” said Death. “You’re not in trouble.”
His voice was surprisingly normal.
“Every year I get a week’s vacation. I need a substitute while I’m gone, and this time the honor’s yours.”
Bill’s brain locked down. Death waited until his eyes regained their focus.
“What does that mean?” said Bill. “How can I be Death?”
“You don’t have to kill anyone,” said Death. “Just wear the robe and sit behind the desk. The operation pretty much takes care of itself. Of course, we’ll have to change bodies.”
Bill’s brain shut down again.
“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Death said. “Do this, and little Emily gets to live, along with that blond, Rose, who will find you unbelievably attractive.”
Bill knew he had to do it.
“Why me?” he asked.
“You’ve always been reliable with even the most difficult cases,” said Death. “I knew I could count on you. Rose and Emily were tests, and you passed; if you could report them, I knew you could be me, at least for a week.”
The transfer of consciousness was painless. Bill found himself in Death’s skeleton and Death was in Bill’s body.
“You should take better care of yourself,” said Death.
“Easy for you to say,” said Bill. “You’re a skeleton.”
Bill enjoyed being Death for a week. He didn’t have to do anything deadly and he got to swing the scythe and scare some doomlings.
Death asked Bill what he should do first for some fun.
“There’s this bar, the Glass Cliff,” he said. “Order the duck milkshake and make sure it’s with the egg. You’ll never forget it.”
Death didn’t. He liked it so much, he had a second before leaving for his vacation.
When the week was over, Death re-transferred their consciousnesses. He felt refreshed and ready for more reaping of souls.
Bill is still Death’s bounty hunter. He checks in on Emily from time to time to see how she’s doing and he visits Rose much more frequently. He still won’t drink a duck milkshake.
* * * *
If you enjoyed this story, you can vote for it along with many other fine entries HERE.
"Bye Bye Love" by the Everly Brothers. Listen at your own peril.
THE BOUNTY HUNTER
A duck milkshake, properly made, is creamy, frosty cold, and has a real kick at the end. It goes down easy and for many people, it comes up the same way. Make one badly and it’s chunky, with the visible remains of feathers, eyeballs, and beak. It has enough tequila to make it past the tongue, but not enough for anyone to keep down. When it reappears, all the pieces are there plus breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Bill knew this – he’d had both kinds, when one had been more than enough. He’d vowed never to have another, but still, there it was, right in front of him, with a bar full of people daring him to drink it. There was only one way out.
“Where’s the egg?” he said to the barkeeper. “I said I’d drink a duck milkshake, but this isn’t one without a raw duck’s egg on top.”
“It’s not in the recipe,” said the bartender.
“Recipe? Amateur.” said Bill. “If you don’t need a recipe for a single malt Scotch, neat, bring it to me over in the corner.”
He headed to a table, his stomach and honor intact.
Generally, Bill didn’t much care for bars, but once in a while he went to one for his job. The Glass Cliff was a neighborhood joint that was beginning to show the signs of creeping gentrification. He didn’t care, since he wouldn’t be back, especially after some aggressive regulars had dared him to drink a duck milkshake. He couldn’t back down – he never did.
He liked the music in the Cliff, which made waiting for the woman easier. There was a classic jukebox with oldies, and right now it was playing “Bye Bye Love” by the Everly Brothers, with their incredible harmonies.
“Part of rock’s dark side,” thought Bill.
He knew that in their early days, the brothers had used their voices in other ways – as hit men for the mob. They could harmonize on the death note and cause a listener’s head to explode. They had never been caught because no one had thought it was possible. When their rock career had taken off, they had put that part of their lives behind them. But Death knew.
Bill knew a lot of things no one else did, dark things, evil things. It was all part of his job as an agent of Death. He ranked below doomlets and deathlings, who could reap souls. He was so insignificant he couldn’t carry a scythe or wear scary robes, unless loud Hawaiian shirts counted. At the moment he was wearing an eyeball-searing red one.
“We want you to locate lost souls,” the Administrator had said when he had first been hired. “We lose track of them every now and then. If people don’t die at their appointed times, it’s embarrassing and drives our stats down. It’s quality control.”
Bill like to think of himself as Death’s bounty hunter. It sounded better than just “agent,” and it conjured up an image of some leather-clad, beefy guy barely on the right side of the law.
The job paid extremely well and had a great death benefit. For each day he worked for Death, his own end would be delayed one-half day.
The job involved a lot of travel, but Bill didn’t mind. He had been a police detective, so he was pretty much non-social, with an ex-wife, no children, and few friends. He had been looking for work after he’d been kicked off the force for accidentally shooting his partner during a drug raid.
Not long after, he had been approached by a deathling, and offered the agent’s job.
“You’re just what we need,” the deathling had said. “You’re great at finding people. Once you’ve found a soul, you just fill out Form 32 with the current address, then turn it in.”
Working for Death wasn’t his dream job, but Bill had taken it until something better turned up. It never did.
At the moment, Bill was looking for Rose Arbogast. At 27, her time was nearly up and Death had lost her. Dwizzle, her case doomlet, had sent Bill a Form 142 “lost soul” notice.
So far, he’d tracked her down to the Cliff as a Happy Hour regular. All he had to do was wait, so he studied her file.
“Pretty thin,” he thought, “even for 27.”
She was due to die in three weeks in a car crash following a night at the bar.
“Single, college, work – probably Purgatory,” he thought. “Not good enough for Heaven, not bad enough for Hell.”
Death had no input on Final Destinations, but he still liked to guess.
Bill nursed his drink, but he didn’t have to wait long.
“There she is,” he thought, when she came in the door. She had long blond hair, a sweet face, and she was wearing a tight blue dress with style.
“No contact,” he sighed.
That was Rule 1 – agents could not interfere in a soul’s life. Just do your job and move on.
He filled out the Form 142 with her current location. With that, Rose was now found and Dwizzle could track her until the end.
“No drama, no fight, no nothing,” Bill thought. “Where’s the fun in being Death’s bounty hunter?”
He daydreamed about quitting and interfering with Rose back at his hotel. Passion would lead to love and he would save her from that car wreck.
“What the hell,” he thought. “In a few months, she’d be gone and I’d be out of work with Death mad at me.”
Bill watched her until she left with some guy who thought he was a pick-up artist, then he headed back to his hotel.
A large manila envelope was waiting for him at the front desk with another assignment. Death was stuck in the paper age because the budget didn’t include computers. Those were reserved for Heaven and Hell.
“That’s why I lose souls,” Death would fume during budget meetings.
Bill went upstairs, sat down, and opened the envelope. The lost soul was for a baby, only four months old. Bill hated these and he always felt like quitting rather than do them. He and his ex-wife had never had children, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. They had given up after the third miscarriage.
The form was marked “urgent,” so Bill started right away. Putting it off would only make him feel worse.
The baby’s last known location was St. Matthew's Hospital, where little Emily had been born. It was just around the corner so Bill walked over, found Maintenance and stole a uniform. He went to the maternity ward and started cleaning a computer which someone had left open, found Emily’s file, and got all the information he needed.
Emily’s family had moved and some doomlets had lost track of her, but Bill hit gold with the grandparents’ address. He went to their house when they were gone and, using his special all-access agent key, entered and found her new address. All he had to do was get visual verification.
Verification was crucial. One agent had gotten sloppy and the wrong person had died. No one saw that agent again.
Bill sat in his car and waited until he could see the baby.
“I just can’t do it,” he kept thinking. “Let this one go.”
But as soon as the family appeared with Emily, he did what he had to do and filled out the form.
Everything went blank and Bill found himself in Death’s office. Death was tall and wore black flowing robes with a hood which hung low over his skeleton face and burning red eyes. The blood-tinged scythe was leaning against the wall.
“That’s it,” thought Bill. He imagined himself being sent to the part of Hell reserved for stupid agents who didn’t follow orders.
“Relax,” said Death. “You’re not in trouble.”
His voice was surprisingly normal.
“Every year I get a week’s vacation. I need a substitute while I’m gone, and this time the honor’s yours.”
Bill’s brain locked down. Death waited until his eyes regained their focus.
“What does that mean?” said Bill. “How can I be Death?”
“You don’t have to kill anyone,” said Death. “Just wear the robe and sit behind the desk. The operation pretty much takes care of itself. Of course, we’ll have to change bodies.”
Bill’s brain shut down again.
“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Death said. “Do this, and little Emily gets to live, along with that blond, Rose, who will find you unbelievably attractive.”
Bill knew he had to do it.
“Why me?” he asked.
“You’ve always been reliable with even the most difficult cases,” said Death. “I knew I could count on you. Rose and Emily were tests, and you passed; if you could report them, I knew you could be me, at least for a week.”
The transfer of consciousness was painless. Bill found himself in Death’s skeleton and Death was in Bill’s body.
“You should take better care of yourself,” said Death.
“Easy for you to say,” said Bill. “You’re a skeleton.”
Bill enjoyed being Death for a week. He didn’t have to do anything deadly and he got to swing the scythe and scare some doomlings.
Death asked Bill what he should do first for some fun.
“There’s this bar, the Glass Cliff,” he said. “Order the duck milkshake and make sure it’s with the egg. You’ll never forget it.”
Death didn’t. He liked it so much, he had a second before leaving for his vacation.
When the week was over, Death re-transferred their consciousnesses. He felt refreshed and ready for more reaping of souls.
Bill is still Death’s bounty hunter. He checks in on Emily from time to time to see how she’s doing and he visits Rose much more frequently. He still won’t drink a duck milkshake.
* * * *
If you enjoyed this story, you can vote for it along with many other fine entries HERE.
"Bye Bye Love" by the Everly Brothers. Listen at your own peril.
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Date: 2020-08-11 04:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-08-11 04:31 pm (UTC)