Prompt Day #117: Depict the Grim Reaper’s visit to a rave party, flash mob, or some other contemporary gathering
Cause This Is Thriller
The black shrouded figure strode silently and unobtrusively through the crowd of revelers. It was All Hallow’s Eve, the single night of the year in which he could mingle with mortals without arousing their fear or suspicion. He enjoyed the freedom the day provided and found amusement in their mimicry of the creatures that inhabited the land beyond the veil from which he hailed.
He was not here however to share in their festivities. He consulted the device hanging from the rope tied at the waist of his robes. Resembling an hour glass, each grain of sand inside represented a life. The Reaper read the name and dates on each grain like the epitaphs of a tombstone. A small grain was slowly slipping through the tunnel of glass spanning the distance between life and death. Jordan Ashe born February 12, 1968, died October 31, 2015 Times Square, NYC glowed red hot on the speck.
Looking among the crowd, he saw the aura glowing the color of the script on the mote. It surrounded a man dressed in the shreds of a flannel shirt wearing a set of false fangs, a wig and make-up giving him the appearance of a werewolf—or at least a human’s version of a werewolf. The Reaper knew that a true werebeast was a fearsome creature awaiting those souls who, in life, chose to harm children. He was an anthropomorphifaction of the nightmares of children who live in fear and pain.
He strode towards Jordan Ashe nonchalantly, enjoying his anonymity. Just as he squeezed between two partiers dressed as classic monsters, the mortals surrounding the nearly departed Mr. Ashe organized into a rows and columns of gothic dancers. Music began, seemingly surrounding everyone, and the group began to dance in synchronicity. The Reaper carefully eased his scythe downward so as to not inadvertently cut short a life as he was jostled about.
“Hey Buddy! Catch up, you’re screwing up the flash mob.” A large bloodied clown shoved at him. He attempted to keep up with the dance as they moved back and forth, hands up and down in claw-like fashion. “C’mon, it’s Thriller. Get with it or step out.” The man said again when the Reaper tripped over his scythe and it slid across the road and out of his reach.
He tried, noting that a video played on the giant TV sets affixed to the buildings surrounding them. In it a young black man he’d taken not that long ago lead a group of undead dancers in the same moves his newest target was now performing. He tried to work his way through the crowd to retrieve his scythe so that he could finish his task and return home. He leaned, reaching out for his instrument of death just as someone stepped on his hooded robe. The robe tore off exposing the dried grey flesh stretched tautly over his skeletal frame.
“Holy shit! It’s the Grim Reaper” someone yelled. The crowd cheered. “No! Like the real Reaper. Get him!” Someone else yelled and the entire group fell upon him.
“Give us Michael back, you jerk.” A girl dressed in steampunk attire and vampire fangs kicked him in the ribs.
“Yeah, bring back the King of Pop and we’ll let you go” a middle-aged mummy wrapped his hands around the Reaper’s neck. The crowd began chanting then “Michael, Michael, Michael”
The Reaper brought a hand up and rolled it in a “get on with it” gesture, then pointed a long spindly finger towards the road in front of them. The crowd turned at the sound of a high pitched “Hee Hee-Hee” and they began to cheer.
Coming down the road, dragging a strangely turned foot behind him, was the one-time self-proclaimed King of Pop himself. His skin gaunt and falling from his face in places. His nose entirely gone. The gaping holes in his face now housed larvae of multiple flesh eating beetles. His eyes, clouded in death, his flesh clinging to his small frame giving the appearance of a celebrity version of the Grim Reaper. The crowd stood, watching him approach in stunned silence. The Reaper, meanwhile, had replaced his robes and obtained his scythe.
He looked again at the death timer noting that now several of the grains were now glowing with script. The glow was mirrored by members of the crowd as well. They’d asked for him to come back after all, lucky for them it was All Hallow’s Eve, the one night of the year that request could be granted. He hefted the scythe into position and cut short the life of one Jordon Ashe.
Undead Jackson had reached the crowd, his hunger peaked. The Reaper pulled back on his weapon of choice as the glittering gloved hand reached out for its first victim. The Thriller song continued on the screens around them. It was a catchy tune. He decided he would ask the zombie to sing it for him on their way home after they’d finished. The fans accompanying them would like that too.