The Night I Almost Died, Part IV: The Grim Reaper Makes a Modest Proposal

Hoisted atop whisky-stained barstools in the notorious Dice’s Inn Klantastic saloon, the Grim Reaper and I were discussing the intricacies of the universe amongst a sea of lowlife hillbillies. Criminals, miscreants, and toothless fuck-ups populated this hellish tavern – and separated from my car keys, your Novanator was stranded. Like the sheets on a porn set, things were about to get sticky.

Thinking of nothing better to do, I tried a little small talk: “So… what color are your panties, Reaps? Are they black? They’re black, right? You can tell me.” I turned my head and hollered at the tobacco-chewing barkeep for a tall beer to reassure my backbone, and also ordered a purplish shot known as “The Red Death” for the Reaper. I thought that my beverage choice for Miss Skeletor was appropriate. But on this soon-to-be-infamous night, the Mistress of the Damned was not in a jovial mood.

“Cut the bullshit, Nova. I could lay waste to this accursed saloon with a single twitch of my eyelid! And the color of my undergarments is NONE of your concern.”

“I’ll bet they’re black. I mean, what other color would a Reaper’s panties be? Certainly not pink, I can tell you that.” Upon speaking, your humble Novanator paused a few seconds, unsure of the proper conversational protocol. Somehow, I needed to convince my buxom nemesis to metabolize her bubbly shot of happy-juice; for an obvious drinking novice like her, alcohol served as an internal kamikaze pilot, destroying everything from the brain to the colon – but in a professional like me, booze greased the adrenaline gland. With enough alcohol, a violent revenge plan would surely emerge in the Nova-mind. A nd as we’d drink, I’d grow stronger while she fell weaker. Now more than ever, I needed Uncle Alcohol to protect his wayward nephew.

“Mock me at your own peril, Nova. You are hereby warned,” the Reaper, well, warned.

“Just drink the shot, Reaps. It’ll loosen you up a bit. Might even help you get that problem off your INCREDIBLY impressive chest. I haven’t seen tits like that since Al Roker had his stomach stapled. What are those anyway? 38 Double-Ds?”

I downed my beverage and called for another. By contrast, “The Red Death” sat idle before the Reaper, untouched and unused, like a tanning salon in downtown Harlem. Since she was unwilling to voluntarily partake in its fermented goodness, I’d have to somehow put her in the right frame of mind to desire an inebriating elixir.

“I grow tired of your incessant chatter, you loathsome earthman. It is time for you to decide if you are going to help me.”

“Well, Grimmy, if you want Big Daddy Nova to ease your pain, then I want some answers of my own. Like, what’s the meaning of life? How come tittie-flicks always switch to a close-up on the dude’s face, right when I’m shooting my load? Why do Mexicans smell funny? That’s the LEAST you owe me, considering that the last time we met, you forced me to fuck a fat girl! That she-blimp had cellulite around her pussy, for fuck’s sake! If I hadn’t banged her by dusk, you vowed to take my life – and my life is something I value more than anything, except maybe beer. I’m not ready for the Divine Afterlife and you know it! Say… what is after death?”

I hoped that these questions would keep her busy for awhile. I had to buy some room to maneuver. By now Stinky had probably tied his urine-stained jockeys to the Nova-Wagon’s antennae. Time was running out…

“There is nothing for you after this life, Nova,” she answered me, in a voice as cold as an Eskimo’s nipple. “Death offers nothing but emptiness and eternal solitude.”

“Dammit, that sucks. No beer and no broads? No nachos? IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, PLEASE TELL ME THERE ARE NACHOS!!” I was suddenly depressed.

“Nothing but never-ending darkness, you scum-sucking maggot. Alone, lost forever in the eternal void. That is, unless you help me.” She turned her cloaked face my way – and although she continued to act tougher than a stale Slim Jim, I sensed the quivers of insecurity lurking beneath the Reaper-exterior. Like a denuded Janet Jackson, she secretly feared that unveiling too much would prove embarrassing.

“I think you’re bluffing, Death-Babe! You want me to believe that I need you – but the Novanator needs nothing except beer, nachos, and quilted toilet paper. You think I fear your wrath? Fuck no, bitch! Nothing scares me – except maybe the thought of Stinky sitting bare-assed on the Nava-Wagon’s upholstery. I’ll have to get that dry-cleaned.” I drank another beer. I ordered one more. I still didn’t have a clue how to escape.

And then – like a priest’s boner during sleep away camp – it hit me! I knew how to convince the Grim Reaper to start guzzling alcohol! Obviously, she’s a deeply unhappy babe, right? Well, ALL miserable self-loathing losers lack the ability to tell their life’s story in a bar without drinking excessively. It’s a scientific fact, like the Law of Gravity, or that Asians have tiny peckers. All I had to do was redirect the conversation towards her life experiences. Armed with this strategic knowledge, I dived in immediately: “You still haven’t told me who you really are. Where are you from? What’s your deal, Kevorkian?”

She sat quiet for a moment. Then – on cue – she reached for “The Red Death” and downed the concoction in just one gulp. The sheer spontaneity of her decision amazed even me.

“Alright, you bastard! You want answers? Here it is: I have been a Reaper for as long as worthless humans have populated this wretched, revolving rock known as earth. I no longer remember how I became the Goddess of Death. Perhaps I angered a Higher Power during my original incarnation. Perhaps I did impure deeds. I used to ponder my fate, but such things no longer matter. Things are as they are. I gain nothing by letting these questions eat me up inside.”

“Speaking of eating you up, Grimmy, would you ever let an earthling go grazing along your folded pancake? Because I’d love to be the first! Eating out death would be the ultimate X-Game! And you should know that going down on a babe isn’t the easiest thing in the world. Basically, I’m snacking on an open wound – and depending on your personal hygiene, it could get pretty gross down there. I mean, let’s face it: I’ve already fucked one girl tonight with a filthy asshole, and I haven’t seen anything to convince me that your cleaning techniques are any better, and—”

“Shut the FUCK up, you sad excuse for a man!”

“I apologize, sugar-nipples. Please continue.” As she babbled on and on about her unfortunate place in the cosmic scheme and the divine nature of God (blah, blah, blah), I noticed Stinky sneaking back into the building, still minus his pants. He was pissed off (literally and figuratively) that the girls had ditched us, and had picked a fight with a supersized redneck in a Confederate bandana – and wearing a blood-stained t-shirt that read “Guns don’t kill people. I do.” Worse yet, Stinky still had my car keys. The ornery hick backed Stinky up against the bathroom doors, readying to alter the configuration of his facial features. Playtime was over; the hour of our reckoning was now at hand.

“But enough about my past,” Reaps concluded. “Here is my proposition: I’ll allow you to live if you do one thing for me.”

“And what’s that?” I asked, keeping one eye glued on Stinky’s ass-whooping.

“Assist me,” she answered with a sad, unhappy sigh. “For reasons I still cannot fathom, your Nova sub-species seems to have acquired strange, transcendental powers. Unlike the other humans—” Grimmy and me both glanced around the Dice’s Inn bar, studying the motley hodgepodge of sapiens who were busy spitting peanut shells, assaulting women, dealing drugs, and kicking the shit out of Stinky. Honestly, I was glad to be excluded from that prize-pack. “—you’ve somehow acquired the ability to communicate telepathically with others in the Novaverse, as well as the power of the Hummingbird. I could use an ally such as yourself.”

Interesting. But what did she want with the Hummingbird Technique?

“Interesting. But what do you want with the Hummingbird Technique, Reaps?” your Novanator inquired. I ordered her a double-shot of “The Red Death.” Once again, she swallowed its contents with a single gulp. I noticed that as the sweet alcohol hit her bloodstream, her words and reflexes were gradually slowing.

“My inability to claim the souls of the various Novas across the many parallel universes is frustrating; this I readily admit. You’ve evaded my capture and angered me greatly. But rather than waste my days chasing you and your vulgar, hedonistic ilk across infinite planes of existence, I’d prefer to utilize you as my personal ally.” She paused briefly, either for dramatic effect or because those adult beverages were derailing her train of thought. Regaining her composure, she then continued: “Through the wisdom accessed in the Novaverse, you’ve mastered many methods of manipulating the feminine mind – and with your legendary Hummingbird Technique, you’ve fine-honed the art of unequaled sexual pleasure.”

“So you wanna ride on the Hummingbird Express, Grimmy?” I queried. “Is that what you’re asking the Big Novowski? That’s even better than going taco-munching! Oh, yeah. I’d treat you like a postage stamp: lick you, stick you, and then send your ass out the fucking door. Besides, I’m kind of curious to see what you look like naked. And I still say your panties are black!” I licked my lips and loosened my wrists, readying the Nova-hands for the vag-conquest of She-Death.

“Not for me, you blithering idiot!” she ruefully spat. “You humans repulse me!” She shook her head in utter disdain, ordered another hit of “The Red Death,” and quickly chugged the shot. “No, I want you to use the Hummingbird on the women of this planet – and while they’re distracted, I’ll blot their identities from all earthly existence! To Hades they go! You see, Nova, you’re going to help me slay millions of females!” With that, the Reaper tilted her head and roared with diabolical glee.

“Slay millions of females?! What, are you mad ‘cause nobody let you rush their sorority, or something?”

“You still don’t understand my problem, Nova,” she sighed. “Human males are pathetic, stupid creatures. Through warfare, guns, drinking, drugs, and random acts of violence, claiming the lives of human males is hardly a challenge. All it takes is a bottle of tequila and a box of firecrackers. But the females of this species… that’s proving far more difficult.”

“Why? W hy are the souls of women so much more difficult to claim?”

“Because – and this is just between you and me – women actually don’t HAVE souls,” she answered.

Wow. I had to admit, this little factoid made a helluva lot of sense. All the great earthly inventions – cars, the light bulb, airplanes, nachos, and Jack Daniels – were all the handiwork of the ingenious male mind. A soulless creature could NEVER create anything as innovative and useful as a plate of warm toasty nachos. But I needed to know more:

“If babes don’t have souls, then what’s the secret of their life-force?”

“Women are essentially parasitic organisms,” answered the Reaper, who was starting to noticeably slur her words. “They absorb the energy of those around them. And because they’re completely dependent on the energy of others, they’re unable to live a fully quarantined existence. Have you ever noticed that there are never any female nomads? Or that it’s only MEN who survive as castaways on islands, or undergo solitary religious odysseys – like the Christian priests or the Zen Buddhist monks?”

I hadn’t thought of that before… but she was right!

She-Death continued: “Because of their vampire-like composition, women only care about perpetuating their OWN existence. That’s why they strive to reproduce, pretending to swallow The Pill before copulation; they know that their own lifecycle will one day end, and the act of reproduction allows their DNA essence to continue. By contrast, men wisely realize that the pleasures and principles of life are of FAR greater importance than life itself – that there’s more to life than simply living – which is why they’re so easy to kill. Men will gladly sacrifice their souls to defend nebulous ideals of honor, freedom, and liberty. Women don’t think like that. Instead, they live an average of EIGHT YEARS longer than men do – and STILL demand increased funding for diseases like breast cancer! And you idiot males happily acquiesce to their selfish demands! Women have extended their lifespans by such a wide margin, it’s thrown the entire balance of the cosmos into disarray. The scale must be leveled – and the only way this can be done is to annihilate millions of women as quickly as possible!”

The Reaper was swaying quite a bit in her barstool, a tell-tale sign of being hammered. She jabbed her finger at my chest, continuing with her diatribe: “Because women are innately selfish, they’re highly susceptible to the allure of the Humming Bird – and its implied promise of sustenance, love, and sexual ecstasy. And, Mr. Nova, since you’re a misogynistic, woman-hating bastard, you’d be my PERFECT ally in ridding the planet of these long-haired, uterus-wielding parasites! Do we have a deal or not?”

I turned towards my nemesis. I stared her down and spoke slowly, like the time John Rambo told Murdoch to find the rest of the POWs:

“Never! I will never join you!” (I had always wanted to say that – but until now, no one had ever asked me to join them.) “And you got me all wrong, Grimmy. I don’t hate women. I’m a LOVER of women, especially their squishy parts below the waist. Yeah, gold-digging bitches deserve my wrath – and I deliver pure Nova-fury against those money-grubbing fiends – but my motivation isn’t to destroy earthly females. It’s to ENJOY them. And to help them experience the toe-curling pleasures of the Hummingbird. Do I care that women outlive men? Not at all! That’s the gender-tradeoff for men being bigger, smarter, and able to be President. Furthermore, killing millions of women would throw the entire girl-to-guy ratio all out of whack! Sure, a handsome sexual beast like the Novanator would still get laid – but what about those less fortunate? What about the computer geek with poor conversational skills? What about the twice-divorced schmuck who’s driving a Kia? What about the impoverished immigrant who prays every night for just a WHIFF of blonde-colored pussy? Those sad saps are barely getting any action as it is – and you want me to lower their ratio even further?! No WAY could I do such a deplorable thing to my fellow man! So, to answer your question, let me be perfectly clear: I will never be your ally, you big-tittied, death-dealing BITCH!”

Furious at being spurned, the Grim Reaper erupted from her chair – but all those shots of “The Red Death” caused her to stumble on her feet. The bitch couldn’t hold her booze! Off balance, she staggered towards me, thrusting her pasty fingers in the general direction of my Nova-skull, ready to fire her Death Rattle.

I ducked.

With her equilibrium recalibrated by my old friend Uncle Alcohol, she missed wildly, striking Stinky and that big-ass redneck (who was really kicking the shit out of my smelly friend) from across the bar. The redneck instantly dropped to the floor, killed on impact; Stinky was still too high to know that he was supposed to be dead. Instead he exclaimed, “Crap! I pissed myself again! You stupid cunt! Ol’ Stinky is gonna fuck you up!” The Stinkster crawled through the minefield of peanut shells towards us, leaving a trail of yellow liquid in his wake.

Outraged, the Reaper lunged towards me, ready to strangle my Nova-neck, but all that drinking had wreaked havoc with her balance.

I deftly stepped aside.

She clumsily missed by several feet, falling face-first over my now-empty barstool, sprawling herself atop the seat – with her ass stuck up and her feet kicking the air.

I saw my chance! I hiked her death-robe all the way over her head, exposing her Reaper anatomy from the waist down. Spying her fully disclosed panties, I chortled triumphantly, “Ha! I KNEW they were black!” Indeed they were. Black lace, actually. And her ass looked GREAT! To further satisfy my curiosity, I yanked down her panties and parted her butt cheeks. She-Death was clean – which put her three-points ahead of my messy-assed country whore in the Nova ranking system.

I grabbed Stinky and pushed the half-naked moron through the front double-doors. The Reaper screamed in anger – furious at the indignity of her exposure.

We raced towards the gravel parking lot out front. The Nova-Wagon lay there in wait – our one final chance for escape. As soon as we jumped in and fired up the engine, a horde or rednecks poured out from the Dice’s Inn. The Reaper staggered out with them – her panties still wrapped around her ankles. She pointed at my trusty wagon and bellowed: “Kill them! Kill that damn criminal Mr. Nova… and also kill that half-naked smelly guy who keeps pissing himself!”

“Stinky, hold on for your disgusting life!” I shouted. The wagon spun in a semicircle, spraying a cloud of dust and gravel at the inbred masses. We almost stalled out, but I floored the gas pedal and hauled ass for the highway. A Conga-line of trucks and motorcycles followed us in hot pursuit.

Stinky was terrified. It didn’t help that he was higher than a Dead Head in Amsterdam – and paranoid, too.

“Oh shit, man! We’s gonna die! I shoulda told you them girls we fucked had boyfriends! I’m soooo sorry, Nova-dude!”

“Shut up, Stinky. Just shut the fuck up. And by the way, my name is ‘The Novantor’ to you!”

With that, I released a special panel underneath the dashboard. A hot red button begged to be pushed.

“Hold on!”

I pressed the button and explosive nitrous flooded my car’s system. We shot up to 120 MPH in mere seconds, leaving the pursuers far behind.

As we sped away, laughing like maniacs, I could hear the Grim Reaper cursing me in the distance. I knew she would be back again… but just not tonight. This outing also marked the last time I ever saw Stinky. He wanted to take a leak (again) by the highway, and I drove away while he was pissing in the woods. Someone told me that Stinky is now a program director for FOX News, but I cannot confirm this.

As for the Dice’s Inn, I have never been back. Maybe one day I will return to settle the score.

And I never did get my fucking nachos.