“Taking a break, back in five.”
The dead paused at the end of the jetty, blinked, looked around uncertainly. They’d heard all sorts of strange things about the afterlife but no one had ever mentioned something like this.
They waited. Five seconds, five minutes, five hours… Some sat, some tried to swim, it wasn’t until some tried to go back that the powers that be realised that something was wrong.
Some luckless stiff from middle management was sent to Charon’s place to see where the ferryman was. They found the note.
My last passenger was an employment rights lawyer.
Oh gods. Everyone who worked in death knew that lawyer was a bad word.
Per her recommendation I'm going on strike until my demands are met.
I’m a dead man, management is going to resurrect me just to kill me again.
I require sick leave and 28 days paid holiday per year.
Don’t we all.
I also want a pay rise in keeping with inflation and back dated to the turn of the millennium, the first one.
Does he think we’re made of money?
The note went on, dovetailing into legalese and the illegible hand of the lawyer who would shortly be residing in the most unpleasant afterlife available. Well, once they got the paperwork signed.
The stiff sighed, looked at the note again, thought about the likely response should he deliver it and decided that maybe going on strike wasn’t such a bad idea.
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