guillotine. Lunchtime execution!â
âAww, sir. My mumâs getting sick of washing blood off my collar.â
Â
The trouble started (as it often does in dozy, ozone-depleting stories like this) with a cheapo mail-order catalogue, an April Foolâs Day prank gone wrong, and an over-protective father who refused to allow his son a pocketknife, pocket money or even a pocket.
It was Saturday morning in the Grim-Reaper household, and Mr Grim-Reaper was embroiled in an argument with his son, Nathan.
It wasnât that old man G-R wanted an argument. Au contraire, he just wished to relax over morning coffee and the weekend edition of the Tombstone Times â the quality newspaper for the well-read undead â but Nathan was on the bug again. Lately it seemed he was constantly on the bug about something.
This time Nathan reckoned he needed pocket money.
âI feed you, clothe you and pay your school fees; what do you want pocket money for?â Mr Grim-Reaper hissed irritably, in a voice reminiscent of the Ringwraiths from Lord of the Rings .
Boy, was he sick of comparisons to that film. Everyone he met these days, first thing theyâd say after heâd introduced himself, â You sound just like those spooky Ringwraiths from the Rings Trilogy .â He couldnât wait to get his death grip on that fatso Kiwi film director and feed him and his Oscar to an orc.
âWhat do you want pocket money for?âMr G-R repeated, sounding now like a car radiator boiling over.
âI want to buy a pocketknife,â replied Nathan, as reasonably as he could manage. Always attempt to reason with your recalcitrant parent, the Undead Teenagersâ Handbook advised; adults pride themselves on being reasonable, so try to act like an adult.
âWhat do you want with a pocketknife?â Mr Grim-Reaper hissed. âYou donât even have a pocket.â
âWell, I would have a pocket if you let me wear jeans like all the other kids at school,â reasoned Nathan.
âSeven hundred generations of Grim Reapers have worn menacing black robes,â growled father G-R, âso why should you be any different?â
He took a sip of his coffee. It was cold.
âYeah,â agreed Nathan, âand seven hundred generations have carried a scythe. I wouldnât need a pocketknife if you let me carry a scythe. Why should I be the first not to have one?â
âIâve told you a hundred times â youâre too young. Youâll get one when youâre older. Scythes are dangerous. Youâll cut yourself, or take somebodyâs head off, next thing youâve got a lawsuit on your hands. First you prove yourself responsible, then you get a trainer scythe.â
A trainer scythe was made of rubber, and the equivalent of trainer wheels on a bicycle â baby stuff. Nathan frowned appropriately in response.
âThen in the meantime let me have a pocketknife,â Nathan begged.
âBut you donât have a pocket.â
And so on â¦
Nathan was notoriously argumentative, his father was worse, and if you know anything about Grim Reapers and arguments youâll know theyâre like a dog with a bone: they just wonât let it go. And you know how the saying goes â lay down with dogs, get up with fleas, start chasing cats â¦
All of which is totally irrelevant and beside the point.
The point was this: Nathan was chafingunder his fatherâs over-protectiveness. His dad wouldnât let him do anything . Wouldnât let him take any risks. Wouldnât let him act like a normal teenager.
Same old story.
Nathan tried telling his dad straight but the silly old geezer didnât get it; heâd just turned 50,000 years old and his teenage years were way too far gone for memory. Nathan consulted his teenage advice book, which was also useless; it suggested proving you were responsible through responsible behaviour, and demonstrating