6. How To Be Dead

3 May

< 5. Afterlife

Dave Marwood was dead. This is not how he had imagined his evening would turn out.

He was sat in a pub having a drink with Death. Actually, Death was the one doing the drinking. Being a ghost, whenever Dave went to pick up his pint glass, his hand passed straight through it

The pub was tatty and so dark Dave was not sure where the barmaid’s nicotine stains ended and her fake tan began. Ignored by the customers, Death was just another drunk muttering to himself in the corner.

“This is the only night of the year when I can go out for a drink,” Death explained, “Halloween has become so commercialised now. You lot have forgotten the true meaning of the undead walking the Earth.”
As Dave concentrated on picking up the beer in front of him, he remembered his last living thought.
“I’ll be honest with you. I was expecting a tunnel of light or something. My life flashing before my eyes at least.”
Death choked on his pint. He wiped his unseen face with the sleeve of his robe.
“Tunnel of light? Load of rubbish. I got bored and held a toilet roll close to a few people’s faces while shining a torch down it. Do you want to see your life flashing before your eyes?”

Did he? Perhaps Dave could learn something from this. His past actions could give insight to his destiny. His old life as prologue to the story of his re-birth. Also, he might get to see Lisa Daniels naked again.

“Yeah. Alright.”

Death clicked his fingers and reality lurched to the side.

Dave found himself watching the Long Dark PowerPoint Presentation of the Soul. His achievements had been reduced to a series of slides smashed together with every kind of heavy handed dissolve, transition and clip art file. And written in Comic Sans.

Dave saw himself aged seven years old winning a cuddly toy from a seaside crane machine. Then time jumped forward ten years and he was successfully parallel parking a beaten up car into an impossibly narrow space. Then a fruit machine hitting the jackpot, coins cascading everywhere. Star wipe to Dave sat at his desk at UberSystems International. Late at night, he throws a screwed up ball of paper across the length of the office. It bounces off of the wall into the waste paper basket. Dave punches the air.

End of slide show. Click to exit.

“Is that it?”
“What are you talking about? That was a really good piece of parking,” assured Death.
“And nobody saw it. That’s the sum total of my existence?”

Dave wasn’t expecting much, but that was pitiful. He resolved to become a better person, to look at this second chance as a gift. He turned to Death to tell him this, but he was concentrating on his mobile phone.

“What are you doing?” Dave asked, “I’m having an existential crisis here.”
“I’m just updating my Twitter,” Death showed Dave the phone screen, “I am currently talking to the world’s most miserable man.” He pressed the send button.
“I am not the world’s most miserable man!” Dave objected.
“I’m sorry, but you must be. It says so on the internet.”
Dave never imagined that death would be like this. Tragic? Yes. Devastating? Inevitably. Annoying? Not so much.
“I am Death. I am merely a ferryman between your world and the next. I am not here to judge. I will mock, though,” Death looked at Dave’s untouched drink, “You not drinking that?”
Dave shook his head. Death picked up the glass and quaffed the contents with noisy gulps. He slammed the glass back on the table and let out a supernaturally long burp.
“I’m going to let you into a secret. Magic exists in your world, Dave. The way shopping trolleys stop at supermarket car parks should be evidence enough. Though their bags for life are a source of constant disappointment to an immortal being.”
Dave had no idea what to do with this information so just let him continue.
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this job, you always cut the blue wire, never the red one. Another thing is that life is hard. People are cruel. But remember that… Nope. I don’t know where I’m going with this. That’s it. Life is hard and people are cruel. But you have an untapped gift, Dave. You’re a good man. You could be the best.”

Death slid a business card across the table. Dave picked it up and turned it over in his fingers. Expensive, weighty and black. It was embossed with simple white text that said “1 CROW ROAD”.

Dave was aware that something important had happened here. The moment was heavy with expectation and promise. Then Death’s mobile phone began to ring. Dave had never considered what Death’s ring tone would be, but if he had ‘Uptown Girl’ would have been pretty far down the list.
“Do you mind if I get that?”
Dave shook his head and Death answered the phone.
“Steve speaking… Well, I didn’t agree that it was a silly name… Really..? I’ll be there in a minute.”
Death threw the phone back down on the table.
“Busy?” Dave asked.
Death let out a long weary sigh.
“I’m always busy.”
“How do you find the time to do it all?”
“Time is relative. In fact, he’s my cousin. Who owes me money.”
“Time travel?”
“It’s not time travel as such. It’s more that I exist simultaneously at all points in time. Or something. I wasn’t really paying attention. Quantum physics was put together on a Friday afternoon. That’s why humanity will never figure it out. Some of the bits are the wrong way round.”
An ambulance siren cut through the awkward silence.
“Sounds like your taxi’s here,” Death nodded towards the door.
Dave could feel himself being pulled from this place. The voices in the room grew dim and the walls faded like a memory. Before he went, Dave realised that he should probably ask at least one metaphysical question.
“Answer me this. What’s the one true religion?”
Death seemed disappointed.
“It’s not a bloody competition, Dave.”

Dave’s heart kicked in and he slipped into the warm embrace of life.

7. Heroic Failure >

5. Afterlife

26 Apr

< 4. Awkward

Dave opened his eyes. He could not feel any pain. He could not feel the ground beneath him, nor the cold night air against his skin. The only sensation was panic. He remembered a TV show where a paramedic asked a road accident victim to wiggle their toes. This little piggy went to market. Dave went through all the piggies and their activities. Somehow, it was the world that was numb, not his body.

He pushed himself up onto his elbows. A fog had descended, reducing everything to a ghostly presence. He seemed to be alone. How long had he been there? Surely his friends wouldn’t have abandoned him?

The mists parted and a figure that haunts all of humanity’s nightmares glided ethereally towards him. Its black cloak absorbed the street light. The scythe in its hand glimmered with the memory of a thousand dying suns. This guy had really made an effort with his Halloween costume. The image was ruined, though, when he crashed to the floor like he had been shot. His feet waving in the air, Dave could see the roller skates.

“A little help, please?” the figure cried out with a voice like a polite killing spree.
Dave pulled himself up and helped the struggling and swaying man to his feet. He dusted himself down.
“Sorry about that. I was just trying something out.”
“Good night? Had a few drinks?” Dave asked slow and loud. He searched for a face under the cowl, but all he found was an all-consuming darkness that tugged at the loose threads of his being.
“Oh dear, Dave. This is going to be awkward. I am Death.”
Dave looked confused. Death pressed on.
“The whisper on the lips of the damned? The dark companion who walks in the shadows of humanity’s souls? But that’s terribly depressing. I’m thinking of calling myself something else. Steve, perhaps.”
Dave knew the words the stranger said were true. The shock hit him harder than the car, a punch to the gut that caused him to double over.

The Living World crashed down around him. Dave saw that a worried crowd had gathered around his own shattered body lying in front of the car. Gary frantically paced back and forth shouting into his mobile phone. Melanie, smeared with Dave’s blood, pumped his chest with her fists. She locked her lips over Dave’s in a kiss that he would never taste.

“What? I’m dead? But there were so many things that I wanted to do.”
“Really?” asked Death.
Dave wondered if it was worthwhile taking offence to things in the afterlife.
“Well, I hadn’t finished watching all my DVD box sets.”
“You’re not going to cry are you? Oh, I don’t like it when you lot cry.”
Dave decided that it was worthwhile to take offence to things in the afterlife.
“No,” he snapped.
“I shouldn’t worry,” says Death in what Dave assumed was an attempt at a reassuring tone, “This is what you Meat Puppets call a Near Death Experience. If it makes you feel more comfortable, I’m thinking of this as a Near Dave Experience.”

Relief flowed through Dave’s body in exactly the way that his blood did not.
“Oh. Right. Lovely. Sorry about the shouting. So, what happens next? Do we just…?”
“Pretty much.”
Dave was stood before Death. He could ask him anything right now. Questions on the fabric of space and time. Your past. His present. Our future.
“You know you’re a lot shorter in person?”
Death shrugged and nodded as if this observation had been regularly made to him since the dawn of creation. Death took a very expensive pocket watch from his cloak and examined it.
“Do you fancy a quick pint?”

6. How To Be Dead >

4. Awkward

25 Apr

< 3. Commuting is Hell

“Do I want to go for a drink?” Gary asked himself. He ran the unfamiliar sequence of words around his mouth to see if they were a good fit, “But ‘My Big Fat Geek Wedding’ is on. Your favourite. Footage of brides crying because they can’t find a vicar who speaks fluent Klingon.”
“But we never go out. We never meet new people,” Dave argued.
“You know my motto,” Gary replied, “A stranger is just an arsehole I haven’t met. And, anyway, we went out for your birthday.”
“That was a terrible night.”
“It was a brilliant night! We gave you the bumps!”
“You pushed me down the stairs!”
Gary sighed. He realised that the inevitable outcome from this would be Dave sulking for the rest of the evening.
“If you want to go out, I know somewhere holding a pub quiz,” he suggested.
Dave could feel the conversation slipping from his control.
“I’d be useless. I don’t know anything about pubs,” Dave said, “But my work is holding a Halloween party.”
A knowing smile broke out over Gary’s face.
“I presume that girl from your office going to be there? Melissa?”
Dave was prepared for this, but still tripped over his words. “Melanie? I think so. Maybe. Perhaps.”
“I knew it. I don’t know why you just don’t admit you like her.”
“I do not. That’s ridiculous. What makes you say that?”
“Every time you tell a lie an angel punches a unicorn in the face with a kitten.”
“I am not lying!”
“Whenever I bring this up, you react in the same way as when I ask if you’ve eaten the last biscuit. I’m not judging you or anything. All I know is that it’s been a long while since I had a custard cream,” Gary sighed, “We’ll go. What are we going to do about costumes?”
“We’ll get something on the way.”

Dave always ate the last biscuit.

And so Dave was back on the streets, surrounded by people so desperately trying to have a good time he feared they may burst a blood vessel. He and Gary stopped at the corner shop on the way to the tube station and had discovered their costume options were limited. Dave had found some flashing devil horns. Gary wore a pair of fluffy pink bunny ears because, according to him, both of them wearing the same thing would make them look “fucking stupid”.

“Dave!” someone called above the noise of the crowds. He turned around to see Melanie and an unimpressed friend forcing their way through the tide of bodies. Her face painted like a cat, Melanie teetered on high heel shoes.

Dave gazed at Melanie like Professor Brian Cox eyeing up a particularly thought provoking mountain range. He adjusted his devil horns to what he believed to be a jaunty angle. ‘Can devil horns ever be jaunty?’ Dave thought to himself. ‘Yes. This is the area to focus on right now.’

“Nice devil horns. Very jaunty,” Melanie said, “What are you up to?”
“Oh. We’re just on our way to the party,” Dave shrugged.
“UberSystems International endorsed employee focused entertainment set between pre-defined boundaries?”
“I can’t get enough of it,” he smiled sheepishly.
Gary cleared his throat. Dave supposed he was asking a lot to hope to avoid introductions.
“Melanie, this is my housemate Gary. Gary, this is Melanie.”
“Hi,” said Melanie, “This is Sarah.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Sarah, her tone of voice indicating that she was nothing of the sort. The four of them began to walk in silence. Dave decided to blunder blindly into the world of small talk.
“So how do you two know each other?”
“We went to university together,” said Melanie.
“Now she’s crashing with me since she and her loser boyfriend split up,” Sarah continued.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Dave lied.
“Don’t be. We’d been drifting apart for a while. He was… well… He made things complicated, shall we say? He tried to make an effort at the end, but it was all too little too late. As opposed to his bedroom proficiency, which was too little too early. Clitoral stimulation? Give it? He couldn’t even spell it. I’m not entirely sure why I told you that. I may have had a drink.”

Dave opened his mouth a few times. He was slightly relieved when Melanie stumbled over on her ridiculous heels. But she continued to stagger and she slipped off of the kerb into the road. Dave saw the oncoming headlights. He heard the brakes squeal. He instinctively stepped into the glare and shoved Melanie out of the path of the oncoming car.

Everything was a blur. Sound. Space. Time.

Then. Stillness.

Dave felt the wet tarmac beneath his broken body, a rag doll thrown by the petulant child that is chance. He was surprised by how uneventful his last moments were. There was no tunnel of light. Nothing flashed before his eyes.

With as little fuss as he had lived, Dave Marwood died.

5. Afterlife >

3. Commuting is Hell

18 Apr

<2. The Tao of Middle-Management

At precisely five thirty, Dave stepped from the glare of the office to the soft phosphorous glow of the streets. He side-stepped a family staring at a mobile phone as they slowly spun around trying to align themselves with Google Maps.
“Bloody tourists,” Dave muttered under his breath.

Some are born in London, some move to London and some have London thrust upon them. The city had lost its charm for Dave. Like the seaside pebbles he had collected as a child, what once sparkled with pretty promise had quickly faded to dull stone. The cynicism hung in the air like commuters’ breath. It stuck to them like the grime pumped from the idle engines of the gridlocked cars. The unknown soldiers in the city’s war of attrition against the soul.

Dave followed the path of least resistance and was swallowed by the anonymity of the crowd flowing into the underground station, a waterfall that splashed down the escalator and pooled on the platform. He jumped on the first train and, as it pulled away, he put his wrap around headphones over his ears. Normally the warm cocoon of sound would be his one chance to unwind, but not this evening. Something was distracting him in the corner of his eye, almost imperceptible, like a smudge on a photograph.

It was the man stood across from him. At first, Dave put his fedora hat and tweed suit down to an hipster affectation, but he seemed out of place. More than that, he seemed out of time.

They made eye contact. A schoolboy error. The man said something to Dave. Gripped by the traditional English fear of awkward social situations, Dave reluctantly removed his headphones.
“I’m sorry?” Dave said.
“You can see me?” repeated Fedora Man, who seemed genuinely relieved.
“Of course.”
“You’re looking at me. Not through me. At me.”
“You’re not trying to sell me something are you?”

Dave felt the woman next to him take a step away. Looking around, he could sense that all the other people on the carriage were deliberately looking where he was not. He turned back to the man but he was not there. Dave knew that he had never been. He had been talking to the dust motes dancing in the air.

This was not the first time that this had happened. Dave often saw and heard things that nobody else did. Odd things. Odd even for London. As a child, he learned not to mention them for fear of ridicule or worse. It started with his imaginary friend, Emily. His parents had been concerned with the amount of time he spent in his room playing on his own – playing with Emily – but she had disappeared from his life as he grew older and the matter was dropped. Dave sometimes wondered where in his sub-conscious she had gone to play Hide-And-Seek.

Once he was back on the surface, Dave joined the hordes of vampires and zombies roaming the east end streets where he lived. Rows of Victorian houses that had somehow survived the blitz and slum clearance, but not the property developers. Their interiors ripped out, shifted, squeezed and re-shaped into barely affordable flats.

After his conversation with the man who wasn’t there, Dave wondered whether he should relax a little. A plan began to formulate. A two bird/one stone interface as Fiona would probably have called it.

Dave let himself into the flat and walked into a living room that would have tested the euphemisms of the most devious estate agent. His housemate Gary was collapsed on the sofa, staring blankly at the television. A grunt and a fart was his acknowledgement that Dave was home and welcomed.

“Remember,” beamed the show’s presenter, “You can get in touch by phone. Or text. Or email. Or Twitter. Or Facebook.”
“Television has turned into my mum,” spat Gary, “That’s how they track you. It seems an innocent enough question, but that’s how they know what you’re thinking. Where you are. What you’re up to.”

Dave believed that Gary was a man who would start an argument with himself if left alone for long enough. As far as Gary was concerned, the glass was not only half empty, it also contained a mind control drug placed there by the military-industrial complex. He had recently split up with his girlfriend by telling her “It’s not you. It’s them.”
Dave rolled his eyes, took a deep breath and asked the question that would change everything.

“Do you want to go for a drink?”

4. Awkward >

2. The Tao of Middle-Management

12 Apr

< 1. He Is Death

Some days you are Godzilla. Other days you are Tokyo.

Beneath the office lighting scientifically engineered to both increase productivity and crush the spirit, Dave Marwood stared out of the window. At twenty five, he had learned that there were three key stages to employment:
A) “Oh. This is new!”
B) “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
C) “Could someone please stab me with this pen?”

Dave listlessly toyed with a chewed biro when he noticed Fiona marching over to his desk like some corporate stormtrooper. A rictus grin carved into her face, she brandished her Blackberry like a weapon.

“No fancy dress, Dave? Did you not get my email?”
Dave looked over at a nervous zombie using the photocopier for personal business, then down to the calendar on his desk. 31st October. Halloween.
“I think I’ve made my feelings on enforced wackiness in the workplace clear,” he replied.
“Remember, last week, I asked you to compile the weekly ACR figures into a report?”
Dave had perfected the art of the non-committal shrug.
“You appear to have provided me with this.” Fiona held up a drawing of a pony. Dave winced. It was not his best work.
“Is that not what you wanted?”
Fiona’s smile intensified. Dave was sure the temperature in the room rose with the corners of her mouth.
“I’ve noticed that your KPIs are in the horizontal rather than the vertical,” Fiona said, “I think we both know what that means.”
Confident that her point was made, Fiona sat back on Dave’s desk and knocked over the action figures that he had spent most of the morning arranging. Something shifted inside of him, rising up from the pit of his stomach and spilling out of his mouth.
“Have you ever wondered if there might be more to life that this?” he asked.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean?”
“My life feels like a Bruce Springsteen song.”
“Well, who doesn’t like the Boss?” smiled Fiona.
Dave turned from his keyboard and looked Fiona squarely in the eye. “It’s not that I don’t like my job. It’s more that I have no opinion about it.”
Fiona considered this. One of her flock had questioned the faith. A corporate heretic. She licked her lips and leaned forward.
“Can I pass onto you what I have learned over the years?”
“Please,” sighed Dave.
“Take all this doubt, fear and anger, screw it up into a tight ball of rage and bury it deep down.”
“But…” Dave started.
“Deep, deep down.”
“I never thought I’d say this, but I think I’d like to get back to work,” Dave said. Fiona visibly relaxed. Her smile stretched even further. Dave thought he could hear tearing.
“My door is always open,” Fiona beamed, “Except for when it is closed. But when it’s closed, I’m usually shouting at someone so you wouldn’t want to come in anyway.”
“Thank you. That’s very… reassuring.”
Fiona’s Blackberry beeped. The call to prayer. Targets and milestones. Paradigms and synergies. Forever and ever. Amen.
“Good talk,” she said and marched off towards one of the meeting rooms.

Dave spent the next few minutes watching his fellow drones. They danced around the open plan office to the rhythm of tapping keyboards and ringing telephones. The administrative ballet was halted by a stack of paper dropping onto his desk.
“These need to be done by the end of the week,” said James. Or was his name John? Did it really matter? Dave needed a break. He picked up a spreadsheet print out from the top of the pile and walked away.

Melanie Watkins stood by the vending machine as it spat out its acrid brew. She was no moon. She was a space station. Even dressed in a cheap witch’s costume, the very air around her seemed to glow. Dave had never been in love before, but if love felt like a fat man on a space hopper made of pure misery bouncing on your heart until all that was left was soul crushing pain, he was pretty sure that this was the real thing.

“Nice hat,” Dave said as casually as his crippling self-doubt would allow. His heart was beating like John Bonham and Keith Moon battling it out in a devastating heavenly drum war.
“Thanks.” A tight smile. No teeth.
“How’s the coffee today?”
Melanie took a sip and grimaced. “It’s like there’s a party in my mouth and everyone is drinking creosote. Can I get you one?”
“Please.”
“What are you having?” she asked.
“I like my vending machine coffee like my women. Cold and of mysterious origin.”
Melanie pressed a button and the machine spluttered and whirred into life. She pointed to the piece of paper in Dave’s hand.
“Anything important?”
“I have no idea,” Dave replied, “But if I carry it, I can walk around the office for hours without anybody questioning me.”
“Impressive,” said Melanie. Dave grabbed the compliment with both hands, “Are you going to the Halloween party tonight?”
“UberSystems International endorsed employee focused entertainment set between pre-defined boundaries? Don’t you think it’s a bit lame?” Dave replied.
“No,” said Melanie, “But – then – I did organise it.”

Dave could feel his face redden. He hoped, briefly, that the ground would open up and swallow him when he remembered that he would just land in the Human Resources office on the floor below. That would just make things more awkward than they already were.
“Thanks for the drink,” he said with a smile as weak as the coffee. He span on his heels and headed back to his desk, forgetting to take the cup from the machine.

That afternoon, Dave watched an axe-wielding maniac attempt to unjam a printer. He had been temping at UberSystems International for two years. In his opinion, there were three types of people who did this kind of work. Those that were trying to find a job, those that had just lost a previous job and those that couldn’t think of anything better to do. Dave was concerned that he had become the latter. He was stuck on amber. What if he just stood up, walked out and never came back? Would anyone notice? Would anyone care? Would Melanie?

He played their last conversation over again in his mind. An infinite loop of humiliation. Squeezing his eyes shut did nothing to shut out the image and when he opened them again, he saw Melanie striding purposefully across the office. Another drone tried to engage her in conversation and she deflected him by holding a spreadsheet up in his face. Dave allowed himself a smile. Of course he would come in tomorrow. What else was he going to do?

3. Commuting is Hell >

1. He Is Death

5 Apr

Death watched the city sleep.

He gazed down at humanity’s glow from the top floor of the office block. A sleek and thrusting tower made from glass, chrome and undisguised wealth.

He was waiting. He was good at that.

He checked his pocket watch. A leaving gift from three old friends. Crafted for him by Patek Philippe & Company in 1933 with a movement as complicated and precise as the dance of the stars that he had counted for millennia.

Sometimes, as he gazed up to the night sky, he wondered if the universe was some kind of in-joke that had got out of hand and was working up to an awkward punchline. He had explained his theory when he and Einstein had briefly met. Nice guy. Good hair. That was back in 1955 and Death had seen nothing since to change his mind.

He did not know how long he had existed. He thought he remembered the dinosaurs. An asteroid killed them, hadn’t it? Was he there? Or had he merely read it in a book? All he was sure of was that is the sort of thing that happens when you live in a world without Bruce Willis.

Then humanity arrived. They loved. They fought. They died.

He had seen the worst that they could do, but he had also witnessed them at their finest and he loved them for it. Their compassion. Their bravery. Their wisdom. The Billy Joel album ‘An Innocent Man’. Cake.

Especially the cake.

He took out his mobile phone and dialled the only number in his contacts.

“Did I wake you, Anne?” Death asked.
The groan at the other end of the phone answered his question.
“Who would win in a fight between Bruce Willis and Billy Joel? I mean, Billy Joel used to be a professional boxer. I think he’d be a bit tasty.”
“No. I don’t know who would win, but the fact that we’re even discussing this at half past two in the morning means I’m pretty sure I know who the losers are here. What do you want?”
“Today is the day. Are we sure he is the one?”
“You should know that Death isn’t allowed to doubt.”
“Are we sure?”
“Yes,” sighed Anne.
“There are portentous skies. I haven’t seen them like this since Beezelbub was defeated.”
“I’m sorry. Who?” asked Anne stifling a giggle.
“Satan. Lucifer. Beezelbub.”
“You mean Beelzebub?” corrected Anne.
“Yes. Beezelbub.”
“Repeat after me,” said Anne, “Bee.”
“Bee.”
“Ell.”
“Ell.”
“Zee.”
“Zee.”
“Bub.”
“Bub.”
“Beelzebub.”
“That’s what I said. Beez-el-bub.”
“You’re an idiot,” said Anne, “Shouldn’t you be working?”
“I will be. Stockbroker. Heart attack. Another one who’ll tell me how much he regretted spending so much time here. They never bloody learn.”
“How are you going to play it?”
Death considered his options. “Old school, I think.”
He heard a thump from the office next door. “I have to go. You should get some sleep.”
“Do you think?”
“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.”
“Oh, is it now?” asked Anne sarcastically.
“Touché.”

Death switched the phone off and glided through the wall and into the office next door. He liked to make an entrance. A well dressed yet confused middle-aged man looked down at his own limp body.

The dark figure stood in front of him whispered three little words.

“I. Am. Death.”

2. The Tao of Middle-Management >

Death’s Back, Baby!

22 Mar

Cartoon grim reaperDid you miss me?

My representative on Earth recently made the decision to stop writing about me on Tweeter or Twister or whatever it’s bloody called. He had his reasons. Mostly cake related.

But my story isn’t finished. Is an immortal being’s story ever finished? Only Bruce Forsyth and I can truly know the answer.

So this is my new home. Starting on Friday 5th April, the story of ‘The Death Guide to Life’ will be published here.

A new chapter will be posted every Friday morning. They’ll be just long enough to read with a nice cup of tea and – if the fancy takes you – a bit of cake. Go on. It’s Friday.

I am assured that it will be funny, spooky, sad and is guaranteed to feature one or more jokes about dinosaurs*.

May I suggest you subscribe for free so you can stay up to date with each chapter as they are released onto the interwebz? You can do it via email or Facebook and all the details are on the right hand side of the website.

Death is dead. Long live Death.

*The number of dinosaur jokes cannot be guaranteed.

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