Death Doesn't Like Fiddles

by WB

Rating: everyone
Tags: Other, Random, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Original Character
Length: 3727

He really doesn't.

Seriously, don't ever bring them up.

Published 2013-04-12 21:40:02 UTC
Last updated 2013-04-12 21:40:02 UTC

Chapter 1

Come and have a seat, kid. You wanna eat? I’m sure I–

Stop looking at me like that.

“.”

Better. Now, where was I?

Oh, right: I’m sure–

Okay, then you better take a good look. Yeah, just drink it all in; make sure I’m burned into your
brain until you see me in the mirror. Done yet? Freaky, ain’t it?

Well, as long as we’re sharing all these thoughts, I don’t much like your face either. I mean, just look at you, sitting there on your fat–

“.”

Alright, alright, alright. Let’s try this again. Gimme a minute.

Ah-hem.

Come and have a seat, kid. Yeah, don’t be shy now, plunk yourself right there at my desk. Pull up my good chair; get nice and comfortable. You wanna eat? I’m sure I’ve got something you’d like. Or would you care for a drink? How about a cushion? Maybe a fork in your eye if you don’t stop staring at me right this second?

Okay, seriously, it’s like you’ve never met someone like me before. What, is it the mane and tail? Yeah, I know the whole “half-and-half” thing is overplayed, but can’t you be professional for a few freaking minutes? And d’you have any idea how hard it is to keep cobwebs separate from hair? I spent hours trying to get this not looking like I just rolled out ‘a bed this morning.

Or is it the half-skeleton shtick? Let’s get this straight right now: I didn’t pick this look, kid, it picked me. When you’ve got a job like my kind do, some cards get dealt out with it. I happened to get the joker on my draw, but don’t you think that just ‘cause you’re a little taller than me, you can act like you might be tougher. ‘Cause you ain’t; I was old before your whole species was crying for a mother, nimrod.

Look, you wanna make a deal or not? ‘Cause I’ve got way better things to do than spend any amount of time around here with you. Like the five colts, four fillies, three stallions, two mares, and a partridge in a pear tree from Fillydelphia, Manehatten, and Canterlot that I’ve gotta see before the day’s out.

There’s schedules to keep is what I'm saying.

“?”

What, thought my job was easy? Just gimme an answer before I lose my temper and–

“.”

I hate you. So, so very much.

No, hold on, words like “hate” can’t even begin to describe it. What's a stronger word than “loathe”?

“.”

Okay, so you’ve done some reading, or you’ve got a friend who’s much smarter than you. Maybe a rock or a big, steaming mound of–

“.”

Alright, kid, you caught me. Yes, I admit it: I technically can’t turn you into a pile of ash. The powers-that-be really don’t much like me by the look a’ things, ‘cause the big, bad Reaper can’t take a life.

Just taste the irony in that, why don’t you? I can’t take direct actions to end ‘em, ‘cause that’d “ruin their ability to exercise free will” or some other such malarkey. It’s the old “freedom-of-choice” dodge.

And of course it’d be my luck that I’ve got the job of being the beginner of life too; so I’m also being represented by a freaking stork, of all stupid things. You know that “every end is really a new beginning, circle-of-life” new-age stuff? The universe basically used it as an excuse to double my workload.

Jerk.

Of course, try telling all that to a mother or nurse when you’re caught “looming” in the birth-room. Ain’t my fault that I got this look, or such stupidly contradicting jobs to go with it, but does anyone wanna listen to my side of the story? No. Just scream and run and weep and ‘somepony-hit-the-creepy-midget-with-something-before-he-eats-the-children!’ and d’you really want me to get me started on this or did you wanna make a deal of some sort?

“.”

So why d’you making this so freaking difficult?

Good grief; all I want is your signature, kid, so just sign it or go home. And spare me your life story either way.

“.”

Oh, shut up.

You know it'd never work as is, and she wouldn’t notice you in a million years besides. I could make you the last male on earth, but she still won’t care ‘cause you’re just too different. Shoot, your relationship wouldn’t last long even if you did get together by some universal blunder. Just imagine how things would turn out with even just a couple years of ‘wedded bliss’.

Yech.

The way I see it, the two of you are kinda like salad dressing: tastes great if you shake it up, but doesn’t last long when your arms finally get tired of keeping the stuff in it all blended together. And the calories are bad for your heart, making a healthy salad pointless the instant you put in on.

“?”

Forget I said that. I ain’t eaten today. Sorry your procrastination kept me from enjoying lunch. Next time, I’ll be sure to book the meeting at a 24-hour buffet instead of the office; that way, at least one of us can enjoy themselves while we jabber about how hopeless your love-life is.

“.”

Oh, don’t shovel that sorta drivel at me.

“?”

‘Cause it’s true, that’s why. She might see you as ‘you’ but she’d never see you as ‘us’. That’s the point I’m making, thunder-dunce.

“... ”

Truth always hurts, doesn’t it?

Hey, you ever try to get a date when you look like I do, kid? Yeah, trust me, it ain’t much fun. I met this mare in Canterlot once who hit me with a frying pan when I asked for her number.

Oh, and then there was this utterly hilarious romp not even a couple hours later in Ponyville with some stallion and his wife. I didn’t really want anything to do with their newborn brat, but he didn’t appreciate what I had to say to ‘em when I swung by to drop her off and conclude some other business.

So we ran around for a couple hours, him yelling and chucking what I think was some form of rotten fruit at me, given the smell. Apples, if I had to guess, but I was a little too preoccupied to ask the lunatic what exactly he was pelting me with. Actually, come to think of it, the wife was sorta freaked out about the whole thing too. Maybe she was the one that hit me with the frying pan, after I worked us back towards the house so I could just get it over with and leave their crummy dump of a town. That particular detail is always a little fuzzy to tell the truth.

Well, long story short, Celestia got involved and had to give her two freaking bits about the whole thing as usual. Took me months to chop through all the stupid red-tape she tied me up in before I could properly close the account, that self-righteous, attention-grabbing blowhard. How Luna’s been putting up with her for all these years, I’ll never understand.

“?”

Let's just forget it, okay? It’s an old story I ain’t too fond of.

And hey, at least I don’t look like you. I might be able to trick a girl into thinking I’m kinda cute, if I don’t turn to the right and they’re crazy enough, but you’ve got no good side at all, twerp.

“... ”

Oh, cry me a river, build a bridge, and get over it. If you're looking for someone to hold your hand and listen to you pine like some driveling dope, I got a news flash: it ain’t happening. I think it’s physically impossible for me to care less, and I really ain’t in the mood for sweeping every time you waste one of my good hankies anyways.

Now, more importantly, why can’t you just pick up the quill and sign the thing? After all, you’re the one who wanted to make a deal, and you’re failing spectacularly at even doing that right.

“.”

Oh, for the love of me, why do I always get indecisive morons? I swear, every single time I get close to finally closing the bargain of the century, they always get cold feet. It’s like freaking clockwork.

And why isit always for my deal? When the bosses make an offer, they get answers within a reasonable amount of time. But, no, when I make a bargain, practically handing the world over on a silver platter, they always gotta think about it for hours and hours.

Bah, I need a drink. You want something, or you gonna putz about that too?

“.”

Water it is, then, wuss.

Here. Drink up.

“.”

You’re welcome.

Listen, let me make myself clear in case you’re as slow as I’m making you out to be: you’re, like, the twentieth fella I’ve made this offer to, and I’m starting to get just a little annoyed about it.

I don’t wanna do this anymore, kid. I’ve always gotta attend all these funerals and baby showers, and heavens help you if you ever get ‘em mixed up. If that happens, even just once, it’s a relations nightmare. You’ll slog through paperwork for years, and then get folks who think it’s somehow my fault that life ain’t working out like it should.

I’m the one who's overworked and underpaid, but where’s my sympathy? I’m the one who’s gotta do the job nopony else would sign up for, so where’s my thanks for it? Where’s the gold at the end of my rainbow?

No-freaking-where, that’s where.

“?”

You believe in the tooth-fairy too, kid? I get no help from anyone.

The folks downstairs don’t like seeing me have a moment to myself. It just goes against their nature. But at least I can at least see why they’d make me take on all their work, and why they ain’t exactly leaping at the opportunity to make my day any easier. I don’t like it, but I can respect ‘em for what they are.

However, the folks upstairs don’t wanna lend me a hoof ‘cause they’re hypocrites that make me to do all the dirty work they don’t have the stomach for. When someone hates me, it’s okay ‘cause who wants to like the “terrible” Reaper anyways? And if anyone does like me for some odd reason, then they’re evil, or misguided, or just plain nuts.

Of course, if someone hates the folks upstairs, it’s a crisis that’s almost always my fault somehow. I only do the work they need me to, but I’m the one getting threatened, and hated and hit with blunt instruments. And no matter what I do for which department, guess which one I’m always lumped with in the end?

“.”

Exactly. I can’t even begin to tell you how many duels for someone’s soul I’ve had to go through ‘cause of that.

I don’t even like the fiddle.

But I gotta do it ‘cause, again, the folks on both floors wanna make sure my job is as unpleasant and complicated as universally-possible. Stupid second-chance clauses.

“?”

Basically means that, for better or worse, everybody gets an opportunity to extend their miserable existence by a few more days whenever I swing around to collect. All just so both floors can squabble over which one gets the delivery, and then put me through the wringer when one floor or the other starts wondering why their arrivals ain’t showing up when they’re supposed to.

The clauses also exist ‘cause nobody ever wants to leave, kid, and that’s a fact. Even those who’re crazy enough for some reason to think they wanna go don’t really wanna go. They just wanna be somewhere that ain’t here. Of course, they’d be less inclined to not exist if they saw what I do sometimes. It ain’t all that pretty watching some of these high-and-mighties see just how far out in left field they really are.

And those that do really wanna live, and cling like flies to every scrap of breath they can, can’t change the simple truth that we still all gotta go someday.

Well, except for an unlucky few.

“?”

Yeah, those like me, kid.

“.”

Don’t even think about it. I don’t need your pity, you schmuck, ‘cause your troubles ain’t got nothing on mine.

I can’t get a mare either. But, if that’s all I had to worry about, I’d skip down Canterlot Mainstreet morning, noon and night, singing like a little filly at the top of my lungs until the Guard arrested me for severely disturbing the populace.

Care to try again, oh-so-horribly-wounded-one?

“.”

Anyone ever told you you’re almost too persistent?

“?”

No, no, by all means, please continue. I really wanna see where you take this.

“.”

Oh, let me play you a tune on the world’s most tear-stained violin.

On second thought, let’s scrap that idea. It’s too much like a fiddle. I’ve told you how much I hate fiddles, right? I wouldn’t make murderers play ‘em; I’ve got limits.

Holy cats, do I hate fiddles. And drinking anything that’s colored. It always leaks, and I’m getting really tired of the stains. You can’t keep someone’s attention when you’ve got grape juice dribbled down your neck and chest ‘cause you’re missing half your lips.

By the way yes, I caught you staring at me again, and before you ask: No, that red splotch on my ribcage came from five days ago, when I felt in the mood for some punch. So thanks for reminding me why I hate drinking punch.

You know, I also hate when someone takes forever to decide whether to sign a contract or not. So would you care to do it now, or should I wait a few hundred years while you twiddle your thumbs?

“?”

‘Cause I’m really busy. I did make that abundantly clear earlier, didn’t I? And while I can’t personally make you into a pile of gelatin—’cause all the justice in this universe forbid I have that personal enjoyment for just this once—that doesn’t mean I can’t dump you next to a pack of rabid chickens and laugh myself silly as you try to decide whether to run or not.

What you see is what you get, kid. When I make a deal, I don’t hide anything under the table, and you should be grateful for that. Like, on-your-knees-kissing-my-hooves grateful. I don’t do the whole ‘mu ha ha’ junk while twirling half a mustache I’d have to grow and stroking half a goatee which I ain’t ever getting. It’s stupid. And it would look stupid. And you’re stupid for even thinking I’m that stupid.

But maybe I got you all wrong. Maybe you don’t really love this mare. I know I could never stand her. I’d rather try to gnaw the legs off a hungry pack of Ursa Majors than spend five seconds with that ditz.

“!”

Oh, now we grow a spine.

If that’s what you think, then sign it. Talk’s cheap, and I wanna see some proof. Make me believe you, even for a second, and maybe I’ll take it back.

“… ”

Thought so. It’s easy to throw words like “love” around, but when push comes to shove, I guess you’ll hide behind your excuses like anyone else. I ain’t gonna say I’m shocked.

“?”

In a fair world? Yeah, she could love you and you could be together no matter what. But take a guess where we live?

“.”

Bingo. It’s the real world and it ain’t fair. No matter how you slice it, the way things are going for now is only a great recipe for a kinda creepy tragedy.

Shoot, you found me, didn’t you? How much more dramatic could it get? Deals with all-powerful beings in the name of forbidden desires, and a choice that must be made which may, or may not, end in happiness for all involved. Why it’s almost Faustian.

But that’s if you quit stalling and sign it.

“?”

No, I can’t guarantee it’ll actually work. That’s your job; I can’t deal absolutes and I can’t change the rules of the game. I can slip you an ace when no-one’s looking, but you still need to draw the winning hand by yourself.

Oh, don’t look at me like that. I never said I’d make her fall in love with you. And would you really want me to? C’mon, would you really want me to make her fall in love with you?

“.”

Nice to see we can actually agree on something. You gonna sign now?

“… ”

You didn’t even read the freaking thing?

“.”

For crying out loud, I sent this to you days ago.

“.”

Okay, okay. Dark-bargains-for-dummies it is.

I, in all my awesome, unfathomable splendor, give you a brand spanking-new body so you can get your shot at a happy ending. You know: big wedding, kisses exchanged, vows of until I do you part, that whole crock of baloney.

Now I don’t know or care if you get it, but I can guarantee you’ll have an actual chance. As opposed to now, where the only way you’re getting anywhere is if I remove her eyes and ears for you.

And make her swim in a vat of dry ice with her mouth open. And take away her sense of smell.

Get what I’m driving at?

“?”

I really hope this chick doesn’t have a working brain cell, or you’re in some serious trouble.

“.”

Fine.

Without. This. You. Have. No. Future. Together.

Can. I. Make. Myself. Any. Clearer. Blockhead?

“.”

Oh look, progress.

Alright, so you'll get your body. If you think you can win the heart of yon hopefully very dim damsel, then goody-goody for you. If not I still don’t care. The end result is the same: when your time comes, I get you. I wanna kick back, kid, maybe have myself a nice vacation for a couple days when I can. Which would be a lot easier if someone were to take half my job.

Why, I can see it all now: I could finally enjoy a bath and not have it smell like something crawled in the attic and forgot to leave; I wouldn’t need to clean cobwebs off my chair, or untangle it from my mane, or pull it outa my suit every day; oh, mercy, I could finally wear my suit and not look like a lopsided dope; and I could drink punch again.

Shoot, now you’ve got me all drooly. Hold on a second; I need a napkin. I hate it when I do this.

Alright, where was I? Oh, right. Fantasizing. Suits, being able to walk down the streets and not have everypony in town scream and run like I was carrying plague, bathing, drinking, eating a nice pud–

Dang it, you did it again. And that was last one in my desk. I know there’s more napkins around here somewhere, but let’s change the subject before this gets any worse.

I’ll still hate the fiddle. There ain’t any coming back from that. Freaking fiddles. Someone needs to burn all the fiddles in the world. I should find the idiot that invented the fiddle and roast him on the bonfire of fiddles.

“.”

You’re right; I’m off-track. Sorry about that.

Look, you wanna chance or not? ‘Cause if the latter, you can sweep that contract right into the trash next to the desk and let the door hit you on your way out.

Ah shoot, so that’s where the rest of my napkins went. Dang it, I knew I shoulda made a stop on my way to the office today. Stupid punch.

“.”

Sorry. You’re contagious.

And no, of course I won’t try to interfere. I ain’t a sociopath.

“.”

Like I haven’t heard that before.

“.”

Oh look who’s all grown up. Kiss your mother with that mouth? Or d’you still not have one that loves you enough to stick around, kid?

“!”

Yeah, well, you started it.

Don’t make me regret penciling you in today, ‘cause I can take this deal away whenever I feel like it. As a matter of fact, make a choice in the next ten seconds or I’m going to boot you outa here so hard your malformed great-grandchildren would have the hoofmarks.

We’ve wasted enough time dancing 'round the bush and I’m about ready to pop, you weasel.

“?”

Nope, I’m counting.

Ten.

“?”

Nine. Then make up your mind. Eight.

“?!”

I, seven, don’t, six, care, five.

“!”

Four.

“!”

And a three-a and a two-a.

“!”

That’s better; you should probably avoid walking the wire like that again in the future, kid.

Here’s your quill.

“?”

Why d’you think there ain’t any ink in there?

“.”

If you hadn’t finally decided to sign this, I just might have resented that.

Don’t be such a baby. Prick yourself someplace and use that for ink.

“?”

‘Cause I wanna see you bleed and now I’m also kinda hoping you might accidently hit your jugular.

“.”

Oh boo-hoo, you don’t like me. I’ll build you a boat to ride my oceans of tears.

“.”

Finally.

Gimme a second to check the signature.

“?!”

Hey, you’ve been making me wait all day. You can obviously spare the time.

“... ”

Okay, looks like everything’s in order.

Come with me, kid, and we’ll see about getting you all swanked up for tonight; I know some real lady-killers. We can get you a nice black coat, I hear that’s always popular, though a deep shade of red would look pretty good with those green eyes of yours.

Hmm. Maybe black and red?

Ooh! Black body, dark red mane! It's genius! She'll flip! Okay, brace yourself, kid. Getting rid of scales ain’t much fun, and the sooner we’re done, the better. On the count of three: one, tw–

“.”

You’re just no fun at all.

Fine, we can stick with that gaudy purple and green thing you got going, if you’re gonna insist. It’s your body, not mine.

Blech. Let’s just hope for your sake this mare doesn't actually have a real sense of fashion.

THE END