Knock! Knock!

A Thursday Prompt story
© 2020 by Walter Reimer


Prompt: call


Dan smiled at the comments his latest podcast had engendered. Based on a random glance at some of them, nine out of every ten comments were negative, ranging from “immoral” to “Are you fucking insane?” Some of the favorable comments were creating flourishing discussions and arguments.

It was something that the weasel felt was important to air. This idea of keeping the country on lockdown until the disease had run its course was crippling the economy and throwing millions out of work. It was high time, he argued, to accept some losses as the price of doing business. It was like triage, he’d said.

That had raised a howl, mainly from people who claimed that they were medical personnel, or who claimed that they’d lost friends or loved ones.

The weasel stretched to relieve a crick in his back before logging onto a porn channel, and his short ears perked at a tapping sound coming from his front door.

Who could that be? he asked himself as he stood up and headed for the door. He wasn’t expecting a delivery.

Dan’s ears perked further when he opened the door. A canine femme stood there, smiling at him with a very friendly expression. Her fur was black, so dark that light seemed to fall into it, and her eye color was a steely gray. She was wearing black denim trousers and a black t-shirt bearing the words When You Least Expect Me in white. “Hello,” he said. “Can I help you?”

Her smile widened slightly. “Dan Parsons?”

“Yes.” Was this some sort of salesman?

“I’m very pleased to meet you!” the woman exclaimed. “I’m Death.” She stuck out a paw. “We need to talk.”

Wow, she’s pretty – pretty crazy. “I’m sorry, I’m really not interested,” he said with every show of being very sincerely apologetic, and closed the door, locking it before turning away.

She was standing in his front hall, her pleasant smile still very much in evidence. “That wasn’t very good manners, Dan.”

“How – how did - ?”

“I get past you?” The woman chuckled and she turned away from him, stepping quietly into the living room. She wasn’t wearing shoes, and her claws made no sound on the hardwood floor. “Come, come now. Do you honestly think a closed door can keep me out?” She chuckled again, a soft sound that brought to mind the sound of water running over rocks.

The weasel shook past the childhood memory and said, “You need to leave.”

“Yes? Or what?”

“I’ll call the police.”

This seemed to amuse her. “Go ahead. I’ll stand right here.” She put her paws behind her back as Dan lunged for his cell phone.

First, it wouldn’t open, then he was unable to get a signal. That was impossible; emergency numbers were supposed to automatically access the network.

“Having a spot of trouble, are we?” Death asked brightly. “Don’t be so tiresome, Dan. I’m not here for you today.”

That brought him up short. “You’re not?” She shook her head. “So, when you’re done with whatever brought you here – “

“I’ll leave,” she said. “Alone.” There was a pause that lengthened into a silence. Finally, muttering something about people no longer having manners, she took in an easy chair and waved at the couch. “Sit down, Dan. Like I said at the door, we need to talk.”

The weasel stood there a moment. The coffee table was in front of the couch, closer to where he’d be sitting, - and his pistol was in a drawer under the table. If she tried something, he’d put a hole in her, and state law allowed him to do it.

He walked past her and took a seat. “What do you want to talk about?” he asked.

Death smiled and crossed her legs. “I caught your podcast, the one about ‘acceptable deaths.’”

“Did you like it?” he asked.

“It wasn’t bad. You made a good argument, and so have some other furs on the same subject,” the canine said. “As Iosif Starling said, “One death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic.’” Her smile returned, as if recalling a memory. “When his time came, he actually tried to argue with me.”

“So you agree with me, then?”

“Would it please you? Would it validate your position in your eyes?”

Dan thought about that. “I guess it would,” he finally said. “I mean, c’mon, everyone likes to hear that they’ve had a good idea.” He kept his eyes on her as he spoke.

Death put both feet on the floor and leaned forward. “You left out a piece of the puzzle. A lot of people do, you know.”

“What?”

Death . . . smiled, showing far too many teeth than any canine had a right to have. “What about you?”

“Huh?”

From across the room, she raised an index finger and pointed it at him, and he could feel the claw poke him in his chest over his heart. “What if you are one of those ‘acceptable losses,’ Dan? Are you willing to join all those dead you’re so willing to see collected by me?”

The weasel blinked. “Um . . . I hadn’t . . . “

“Of course you didn’t, Dan,” Death said in a soothing tone. “Do you know what the Greek word for ‘man’ is?”

“Homo?”

She shook her head. “That’s Latin. It’s anthropos, ‘He Who Looks Up.’” She sat back with a chuckle. “Too many furs rarely see beyond their own noses, so I don’t hold it against you for not being able to imagine that you might fall ill, and die, in order to keep your country’s economy operating.” She dipped one ear.

The weasel gulped. “You said that you weren’t here for me, today.”

“That’s right.”

“S-so, does th-that mean – “

She raised a finger, and he shut his muzzle with a snap. “Read the shirt, Dan. And I can come as a friend or as a predator, but rest assured,” and those teeth were back, “I will come.”

Dan gulped again. “Are – are you here to change my mind?”

That caused her to laugh, genuine and unaffected, and he felt chills run up his spine as the room temperature seemed to drop. “Of course not, Dan! Why should Death want anyone to reduce her business?”

She was suddenly sitting beside him on the couch, and she leaned into him as he nearly pissed himself. “Mind you, Death’s her own boss. Don’t try to tell me my job.” She was seated in the easy chair, grinning as he suddenly leaned forward and scrabbled at the coffee table, coming up with his pistol and pointing at her with a shaking paw.

“Really?” she asked, and he jerked the trigger.

The pistol spoke, the slide slamming backward as the 10-millimeter round left the weapon. She was less than ten feet from him; there was no way he could miss drilling her dead between her breasts.

Death gave him a pitying look. There wasn’t a mark on her, but when she stood up there was a ragged hole in the back of his easy chair. “That was pointless, wasn’t it?” she asked. “I’ll be going now, Dan. Lovely talking to you. Keep up the good work, and I’ll see you again.”

“Wait!” She paused, and turned to look at him.

Hell’s flames were reflected in her gray eyes.

The pistol dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers. “Y-you said you weren’t here for me today,” he said. “Will – will you tell me - ?”

“No.” She appeared seated beside him again.

He did wet himself this time.

“But we will meet again.” She smiled. “One more thing: There’s a saying that saving one life is like saving the entire world. I’ve gathered many worlds into my paws since this started.”

And she was gone.

His teeth chattering, Dan Parsons dove at his computer and began composing an abject apology for his latest podcast.



end