Late that afternoon, Donald re-emerged aboard what the crew referred to as “Hair Forced One”. He stepped into the press cabin with one arm hanging limp at his side. Face frozen in a blank stare, eyes heavy, he reached up to steady himself on the door frame and launched into an off-the-cuff monologue, giving the press no chance to ask questions.
“Hello everybody, so, great financial numbers, low inflation, very low inflation, prices are down, way down,” he said, then stopped. His eyes drifted. He stared blankly, searching for the next thing to say. “Ah… bilge pumps. These are the best pumps. They’re less than $100 in many places, which nobody expected to see, but I did.”
With that, he slouched back to his gilded boudoir to stroke his golf clubs. He wasn’t feeling good, so it was a brief cruise down his mental fairway. All he wanted was a nice cup of cofevfe and a back rub. Maybe Tulsi, or Pam, probably not Kristi. She had nails like box knives.
They woke him after landing, wiped the drool, and slid him into his suit.
He pooped twice on the way home.
That night, his chest was tight, so he went to see how the ballroom was getting on. It was, he thought, his greatest triumph.
Standing there at the doorway, he gazed around with satisfaction. The golden carousel ponies were a masterstroke. It would be tremendous.
A searing pain tore across his chest and down his arm. He gasped and fell to his knees, tipping over face-down into the blue and silver deep-pile carpet.
When he came around, the pain was gone, and his head was clear. He felt great. He glanced about. There was a tall black woman, dressed in a tight-fitting gown, with an alluring smile, just standing there, watching him.
“Hello, Donald.”
“Who…?”
“Guess.” Flames lit in her eyes.
That’s when he realised.
“You’re Death, aren’t you?”
“There it is… I’m one of them, yes. There are about a hundred and twenty deaths every minute; I can’t possibly handle them all myself.”
“Why did I have to get the black, female one?”
“It’s the reaping‑and‑sowing algorithm. God is known for her keen sense of irony.”
Donald blanched. “Is this the end of it all?”
“Oh, heavens no. Life everlasting.”
“Am I going up, or down?”
This was her favourite moment.
“Both. You’re going to be reincarnated.”
“I get to live again. Whoo-hoo.”
“Don’t get too excited,” she said. She clicked her fingers.
Donnie woke. He was on a hotel bed. He glanced down; the equipment was there. Wait. He was black. And dressed in a negligee. Wearing lipstick. Oh God, oh-no. The door opened. In strode a tall, hatchet-faced man.
“Well, you’re a peach, aren’t you?” Pete said. Then, clutching his groin, he winked and offered that famous lascivious grin. “I’ve brought you a gift.”
