Mortimer and his “Friend” Nick

Mortimer was constantly busy with his job. It was a never-ending job that only he could accomplish, but he didn’t mind. He wasn’t going to let some idiot handle souls and send them off to the various Afterlifes all willy-nilly. Even if he got constant migraines from the endless paper work of having to approve the transfer and shipping of souls to their rightful destinations and having not so helpful assistants, it was still his job. In private, Mortimer still thinks he got the short end of the stick when it came to duties. His older brother, Larry, got to create things and give them life while Mortimer had to deal with their souls and catalogue, organize, and arrange where they would go. Definitely unfair. Especially with some of the shit Larry would come up with. Why would the primordial being of Life decide to make a platypus? Mortimer was afraid to ask.

Everything changed, though, when he met Nick. Mortimer didn’t realize it at the time, but his days of peace and quiet were over the moment Nick decided that they were to be the best of friends. Mortimer was well and truly fucked.

. . .

Mortimer just knew that he hated Mondays for a good reason. It was on a Monday that he met Nick and so he declared all Mondays abhorrent and told them to go fuck themselves; with a lot of colorful language he has learnt throughout his long existence. But back to that first abhorrent Monday. It started out just like any other day for Mortimer. He got out of the bed he didn’t sleep in, although he tried, then took a quick shower then got dressed for work in one of his numerous black suits. Seriously, he owned thirty of the same exact suit. He then grabbed a protein bar he most likely wouldn’t get the chance to eat and made his way out the door after grabbing his keys. He locked the door then teleported to his office at Afterlife Inc.

Mortimer let out a sigh as his office door opened before he could even sit down in his office chair. He looked forlornly at his chair. It was a work of art, truly, with how comfortable it was and he couldn’t even sit in it yet. He almost cried when he noticed the slice of divinely rich chocolate cake on his desk. He just knew Santa Muerte, the Mexican personification of death and the only assistant he actually liked, made her famous secret chocolate decadence cake just for him and he wouldn’t even get a single bite of it.

“Boss, there’s a problem in Sector 11.” Thanatos informed Mortimer, his face not once changing from its seemingly perpetual bland stare. Mortimer had no idea how little or huge this problem was since his annoying assistant, the Greek God of Death and Mortimer’s reaper of Greek pagan souls, never gave anything away.

“What is it this time?” The overworked and under appreciated primordial being asked as he rubbed his face tiredly. “Why is something always going wrong in Sector 11?” Seriously, it was just a suburb in Baltimore MD, what could possibly be going on there? He frowned but no answer was forthcoming. Why couldn’t today be an easy day where he got to eat that tantalizing slice of heaven and just relax?

Thanatos just continued to stare at him unblinkingly then shrugged, his black wings making the gesture look overly dramatic. “Nergal is the one in charge of Sector 11 so ask him.” And with that, the unhelpful shit walked off and Mortimer’s left eye twitched with his irritation. He knew asking Nergal would do nothing to help fix the situation, what ever it was. In fact he would only make things worse. Nergal, the Mesopotamian God of the Underworld, was a drama queen almost on par with Zeus. Mortimer had no idea how his older brother dealt with that man. Shaking his head he teleported to Sector 11, leaving behind the cake that would be gone from his desk before he returned.

. . .

Sector 11 was where Mortimer ran into a man dressed in a smarmy three-piece suit who was getting suburban housewives to sign over their souls to him in exchange for the gift of magic. Dumbasses. The man had the audacity to smile at Mortimer and introduce himself as the Devil, “Call me Nick please.” Mortimer was so done with the day and it wasn’t even 9am. Nick then proceeded to swindle Mortimer out of those five souls that clearly belonged to Mortimer, as he was the overseer of souls. Mortimer’s not even sure how that happened or how the conversation ended with him agreeing to lunch and another two souls for Nick to do with as he pleases. The Devil really did have a silver tongue and Mortimer just knew he was developing a permanent twitch in his left eye.

. . .

And so, from that day on Mortimer despised Mondays and was stuck with an annoying Devil on his shoulder who politely demanded his attention. It was maddening just how polite that smarmy bastard was. Mortimer couldn’t deny Nick’s demands for attention either. Not unless he wanted to be enslaved by a petulant Devil who decided to start the apocalypse just so he could force Mortimer to obey him. Mortimer’s cousins, the three other Horsemen of the Apocalypse, would also make the rest of Mortimer’s existence miserable if he allowed their enslavement to happen. So being the unwilling friend of the Devil was now Mortimer’s lot in life. Great.

Mortimer blamed Nergal and demoted him to filing in the archives. It was all his fault in the first place. Mortimer didn’t know how, but it was. He couldn’t even remember why Nergal was in charge of Baltimore MD. Why would a state in the U.S.A. need a Mesopotamian god of a dead religion? He’d have to take it up with Reaper Resources. On the plus side, for a few months after the incident, his assistants were actually helpful and did their jobs correctly, though no one fessed up to eating his cake. It was a nice break from their usual unpleasantness. If it wouldn’t be an insult to himself he’d say all Death gods/goddesses (his reapers) were little shits, but he digressed.

. . .

“So…”

“Yes Mortimer?” A smug smile stretched the skin of Nick’s face tightly.

“Why exactly are we here?” Mortimer frowned at the man sat across from him wearing a three-piece suit like the smarmy bastard he was.

“I thought you enjoyed our little chats.” The smarmy bastard said as he moved his rook on the chessboard between the two of them. “Why else do you show up?”

“I don’t ‘enjoy’ our chats. You always stress that I must meet up with you in order to discuss something of the utmost importance.” Mortimer’s frown deepened as he contemplated the chessboard. He didn’t even attempt to hide his displeasure with his companion. “And yet, when I arrive all you want to do is play a game of some sort and waste my time. Time I don’t have by the way.” Mortimer carelessly moved a pawn a space forward, not caring about winning or losing.

“You wound me Mort.” The well-dressed man over dramatically pressed a hand against his chest. “No one has time for Old Nick anymore.” Nick’s eyes teared up a bit as he stared into Mortimer’s eyes.

“Oh please you giant drama queen.” Mortimer rolled his eyes and crossed his arms against his chest as he leaned back in his chair. “You still have plenty of groupies worshiping you across the world, so shut up Nick.”

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous my dear Mortimer.” A smirk now stretched the skin of Nick’s face, making him look inhuman. A scoff was his only answer. “Since you’re so impatient, let’s get down to business. A few dozen souls will be disconnected from their earthly vessels in two days time. I want your reapers to stay away and allow my minions to take control over those souls.” Nick gave his companion a charming smile. It in no way made his face seem any more natural.

“You want me to allow your inept demons, demons who can’t tell right from left, to handle the souls of humans?” Mortimer couldn’t keep the incredulity from flashing across his face. “You do remember how delicate the human soul is, don’t you? How could you trust those apes with something so important?”

“Oh please Mortimer. Don’t act like you care overly much if a few souls go missing. It’s not like you have to keep a census on them.” Nick picked imaginary lint off his suit trousers. “We’ve known each other long enough that there is no need to pretend now is there?”

“Fine.” Mortimer huffed and pushed the chessboard closer to Nick. “Then from now on, when ever you want to make a deal, be forthright about it instead of stalling by playing games.”

“But games are your specialty! Aren’t you known for making wagers and playing games with mortals, competing to allow them to continue living or to follow you where ever you choose to lead them?” Nick reset the chessboard. “I was only trying to be considerate of your preferred tastes.”

“Funny, the Devil trying to be considerate.” Mortimer stared blankly at Nick before leaning forward against the table between the two men. “Then next time you want to be ‘considerate’, why don’t you get a body that fits you better? That one is a little small and stretches tightly in places it shouldn’t. Quite honestly, you look ridiculous.” Nick’s smile then was all teeth and sharp angles.

. . .

Of course the bastard wouldn’t take Mortimer’s advice. The next time they met up for Nick’s little chats, Nick was wearing a little girl and it was downright disturbing. Nick’s creepy smile and mannerisms on the face and body of an eight-year-old child; it was wrong on so many levels.

“Was this really necessary?” Mortimer was actually afraid of the answer.

“What ever do you mean, my dear Mortimer?” Did Mortimer say how disturbing the situation was? He just stared at Nick waiting for an explanation that would never come. Honestly, he thinks Nick did these things just to fuck with him. “I just wanted the two of us to have a nice lunch to catch up on how our lives have been since our last get together.” The sharp smile on the innocent face was just wrong.

Mortimer sighed and felt resigned to his fate. He was stuck with the Devil as a friend. Nick was the gum you could never truly get off of your shoe after accidentally and mistakenly stepping in it. Mortimer running into Nick was the biggest mistake of his life and he still blamed Nergal for his misfortune. Speaking of Nergal, Mortimer was sure to leave all his paperwork for the reaper to deal with once he returned to the office. That would teach the god that irritating his boss was never a good idea and it would free up some of Mortimer’s time so he could just relax with a nice cup of coffee and hopefully Santa Muerte’s sinful cake. Yes, Mortimer would do just that once this incredibly scarring lunch appointment with Nick was over. At least the bistro Nick had chosen had chocolate cake. It wasn’t the same as Santa Muerte’s home baked cake, but it was something that would help him keep his sanity in these trying times.

. . .

In the archives of Death’s office building, Afterlife Inc., Nergal shuddered and looked around the stacks of filing cabinets. He felt as if someone had just walked over his grave and the feeling did not bode well with the Mesopotamian god.

. . .