holy shit, what a shame
Who: George Lass
What: Arrival
Where: Town Square
When: Day 37, afternoonish.
Warnings: Excessive cursing. No, seriously.
"Yeah, fuckin' right!" she shouted back at the... suddenly gone house and freak inside of it. "Ya damn weirdo!" George found herself in the middle of the dreary, piss-poor excuse for a town, shouting into the air at nothing. She wasn't happy about any of this. She had shit to do. She had to dole out the Reaps for the others, and get her ass to Happy Time or Dolores would have her head on a fucking platter. Slow roasted, with a Sweet Baby Ray glaze and an apple in her mouth.
Georgia Lass was not an exceptional human being. She wasn't a human being at all. She was dead. Well, technically, undead. A Reaper. She... took souls from people right before they died, then took them to their final destination afterward. Her day job? Temp Agency. Yeah, that sucked - even being undead didn't get a person out of paying the bills.
And now somebody was trying to tell her that not only had she died, become a Reaper, and been living a life of bullshit for the last five years, but that she was made up? She wasn't fucking buying it. It was total bull - sounded like it, looked like it, stank like it - and she was determined to get the hell out of dodge before she missed anything important. "Ugh, what the fuck," she muttered to herself. "Couldn't I at least get stranded somewhere halfway nice? Maui maybe? Shit, I'd even take Chicago." But her wishes went ungranted, muttering unanswered.
What a fucking day.
What: Arrival
Where: Town Square
When: Day 37, afternoonish.
Warnings: Excessive cursing. No, seriously.
"Yeah, fuckin' right!" she shouted back at the... suddenly gone house and freak inside of it. "Ya damn weirdo!" George found herself in the middle of the dreary, piss-poor excuse for a town, shouting into the air at nothing. She wasn't happy about any of this. She had shit to do. She had to dole out the Reaps for the others, and get her ass to Happy Time or Dolores would have her head on a fucking platter. Slow roasted, with a Sweet Baby Ray glaze and an apple in her mouth.
Georgia Lass was not an exceptional human being. She wasn't a human being at all. She was dead. Well, technically, undead. A Reaper. She... took souls from people right before they died, then took them to their final destination afterward. Her day job? Temp Agency. Yeah, that sucked - even being undead didn't get a person out of paying the bills.
And now somebody was trying to tell her that not only had she died, become a Reaper, and been living a life of bullshit for the last five years, but that she was made up? She wasn't fucking buying it. It was total bull - sounded like it, looked like it, stank like it - and she was determined to get the hell out of dodge before she missed anything important. "Ugh, what the fuck," she muttered to herself. "Couldn't I at least get stranded somewhere halfway nice? Maui maybe? Shit, I'd even take Chicago." But her wishes went ungranted, muttering unanswered.
What a fucking day.