Death and taxes.

One of the more regrettable outcomes of the dawning twenty first century has been the unfortunate impact on Death. Throughout the history of human existence Death has been shaped and moulded by the anthropomorphic image of the time. Death of pre-historic times, the flash of eyes and claws in darkness. The scythed middle ages, sweeping all before it in a maelstrom of disease and starvation. But the last three hundred years has seen the most disturbing change in Death's image, and it's the fault of Daniel Defoe. In claiming that nothing is certain but death and taxes, a change of form that's only truly becoming horrifically apparent at the end of this first decade.

There have always been many competitors rivalling Death's position, created through religious necessity and the varying causes which have developed in line with civilisations troubled ascent, most notably the population explosion of the twentieth century. But with Hayek, Friedmen and the first of the detestable Chicago Boys having been ministered to by the final custodian, the concept of the free market leached into the avatar of the destination that awaits us all. Death has gone corporate. Although I cannot truly lay the blame on those free market evangelists of the twentieth century, Adam Smith having sternly lectured Death on the inefficiencies of his market share long before the first closing bell.

But it is no coincidence that DEA was first floated on the Stock Exchange in early 2007, Hayek having taken fourteen years in his arguing with the ghastly spectre and still needing Friedman to finally seal the deal. Regardless of detail, this marked a change from the cottage industry of individual religious choice of your pre-maker meet and greeter. For soon enough Osiris, Anubis and their children were hard at work in processing the details of those passed on, while Cerberus, auctioned at the liquidation of Hades, was employed to keep order in the gargantuan queues of the dissatisfied souls awaiting their destination.

There was uproar in the between place, where such characters ply their trade. And for the most part it was not fear, but jealousy that motivated those who live there. After all it is very few of them that actually meet us at any point that we could impart useful advice to them.

“Fucken' shade, he's always been looking down on the likes of us,” muttered Manannan, whose share of the afterlife had not yet been acquired. He sat by his cauldron, with others, warming himself by the fire. “Fucken' shade”

The teeth sprites, normally darting and glitter, were equally morose. Their role as guardians of the teeth of the children of the world had been subsumed into DeathCorp after a strong legal case had been mounted on DeathCorp's behalf insisting that as former parts of the human body they were due the care and conduct of a more professional outfit. The case had been on a pliers edge until the corporation had implicated a more unsavoury edge to the activities of those bright creatures as they went about their business in the bedroom of children.

In the corner furthest from the warmth, sat Odin, frost hanging off his beard. Age wracks those beings outside of our world when in our world they are forgotten and the former giant of the berserkers was now supplied by the fleeting interest of Primary history and the rustling of academics in libraries.

“In...,” he mumbled, the others pausing in their own thoughts, “...my time, we would. Would. Would have....” and trailed off.

Mannanan opened another bottle and passed it to the banshee on his left. Another victim of the corporation, priced out of the market, hoarsely thanked him.

“You know, I provided a service. Cost me my voice of speaking, but it was a craft. Then...,” as the others nodded as those who'd heard this story already, “...then..,” and spat into the fire beneath the cauldron, “...texts. E-mail. Fucking, fucking facebook! What sort of service is it getting an e-mail that says EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOEEEEEEEEEEOEEEEEEEEEEEEE?. And then the noise complaints, I know that bony fucker was behind them. Environmental protection my spectral shite!”

“Aye lad, we know. Pass that bot....,” .. “WOULD HAVE ROARED ACROSS THE BETWEEN AND DESTROYED...,” Odin shouted, as sprites flitted into the sky and the bottle poured its contents onto the dirt floor, “...would have destroyed them entirely in a fury which would have passed over and put fear into the people of the other place as their sky is torn apart”

And he slumped, and was silent.