7:15 AM. Time to wake up. Starting the day. Work to get to. Wake up the wife. We can't be late to the office. Death waits for no one, after all.
8:10 AM. Kiss Clara goodbye for the day when we turn up at Home Office. She heads off to the legal department while I head downstairs. Yes, grim reapers need lawyers. Clara's a good one.
8:20 AM. Clock in for the day. Say hello to Charlie, Alex, Kate, and Jill. They're checking their Reaper schedules for the day. Must pick up mine. Coffee first.
8:30 AM. Oh, rats. I've got to see one of those celebrities off to the great beyond? That never goes well. They keep whining and complaining that this isn't the way they intended to go out. Yes, well, if you didn't drown in your own vomit from drinking too much, you might not have kicked the bucket forty years too early, Dimwit. Oh, well. At least that's not scheduled until this afternoon.
9:15 AM. Took two hundred forty souls after a commuter train crashed into a Star Trek convention. Much confusion among the souls of commuters and Trekkie fans alike. No, I'm not a Vulcan. You'd think the hooded cloak and skeleton body would give it away. I'm the Grim Reaper, and you're dead. No, you may not update your Facebook page. What part of being dead do you not seem to understand yet?
10:45 AM. Have dispatched all of the commuters and Trekkies to their respective destinations. Trekkies go on and on about something called the Nexus. No, that's not what the afterlife is like. Some of you cross over to pleasant places. Others... not so pleasant. Let's just say you'll have to get used to Bob Dylan and an accordion player performing songs like I'm A Little Teapot for the rest of time.
11:05 AM. Time until next appointment. Stroll down street, whistling Jailhouse Rock. Reminds me of time I brought Elvis over to the other side. Not a pretty sight. What a rotten way to die. Don't expect much better from celebrity demise this afternoon.
11:10 AM. As expected on time, forty five year old accountant Bob Billings collapses of massive heart attack while trying to figure out where all of the money he stole from his clients went. Bob looks surprised to see me. Bob, you're not going to like where you're headed to. Get used to the sounds of a mumbling folk singer and an accordion.
11:55 AM. Stop in at a deli for lunch. Always do like a nice roast beef and honey mustard sandwich. Still get stared at by other customers. Must be the scythe.
12:20 PM. Off to Sahara to make my next pick up. Hope there's no sandstorm.
12:30 PM. Rats. Sandstorm. Found my next pickup. Desert nomad stranded too far from anywhere. Just kicked the bucket. Sooner I can get him off, the better. I hate getting sand in my robe! It gets everywhere!
1:10 PM. Check in at Home Office. Just enough time for a thorough cleaning after getting sand everywhere. The team in Bone Cleaning always do a good job. Hand over my robe for a fast dry clean, and head over to Bone Cleaning to get scrubbed.
1:40 PM. All clean. Chat with Andy at Dry Cleaning while waiting for the robe. We trade stories about the days of the Black Death. Andy just hasn't been the same since getting his right leg broken during the Battle of Waterloo, so he's taken a desk job. Must be kind of tedious at times, but at least he doesn't have to worry about getting sand in his eye sockets.
2:55 PM. Off to Hollywood. Not looking forward to the celebu-death.
4:10 PM. Washed up rock singer finally passes on after choking on own vomit. Takes one look at me as he exits his body, and says, "I'm buggered, aren't I?" I nod. He stares down at his body, surrounded by needles, weed, bottles of scotch and rum, and dwarf porn, and asks how this will look on Entertainment Tonight. From there, it deteriorates into a fit of pleading, bargaining, denial, and tears. And begging for just one more gulp from the bottle of rum. Note to self: get Charlie or Jill to take on the next celebu-death. These things never go well....
6:10 PM. Off the clock. Time to head for home. Look in on Clara. She's just about set to go. We chat about our day. She spent hers in court arguing with deceased lawyer. Seems he wants to file an appeal to go back to Earth and straighten out his idiot family, who spend all their time being famous for being famous on reality shows. Much too late for that. Besides, he's condemned to Hell. Much harder to get out of there. Clara told him he might as well just get used to hearing Bob Dylan mumble his way through Itsy Bitsy Spider for the next million years.
7:10 PM. Home at last. Time to get dinner ready. My turn to cook tonight. Feel like pancakes and strawberries. Always did like that. And it's been long enough since I watched the final moments of Mr. Electric Guitar God, so my appetite's come back.
7:35 PM. Finished eating strawberry pancakes. Chatting about where to go on vacation this summer. Maybe Venice? Somewhere that doesn't get sandstorms. Will settle down to watch movie with Clara. Oh, crap. She wants to watch Meet Joe Black. Sweetie, come on. I'm much more handsome than Brad Pitt, and I hate the ending of that film.
11:20 PM. Finished watching the movie. Time for bed. Long day tomorrow. Hopefully won't have to see that movie for awhile. Don't understand what women see in that Pitt guy anyway.
11:55 PM. Feeling grains of sand bouncing around in my femur while lying in bed. Damn! Thought I got rid of all of it! How am I going to sleep now?