Death’s Strife

Life and Death were so busy, that neither had time to contemplate reconciling their relationship. Both had financial issues since they considered every soul to be currency, and they constantly fought over how such currency was to be divided between them. Life’s parenting was horrendous, or at least Death thought so, as did his mother. Death himself, as of yet, had no children. Neither Life nor Death had a religion that they followed, but they knew that as mankind became more and more fervent in their faith over the centuries that Life would eventually become supreme, and Death obsolete. Tolstoy’s famous line, “Happy families are all alike, every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way,” would ring true for the family of the most primal. The only thing that was different is that it could be argued that this family was the unhappiest the world had ever known. Or was it? Life, Death, and their wife and mother respectively lived on the fringe of the universe. They only came to Earth when populating it or removing life forms from it, none of the family had ever stayed on Earth for longer than the time it took to perform their “jobs.” *** “No, I do not,” Jorge replied, shooting back rum and slamming the glass on the table as if to test its strength. “I was placed in the orphanage at the age of five, I am not sure why so late but that was when. My first time outside of orphanage after being placed in it was when I was ten, and that was to attend my mother’s funeral. Her death gave me my first life outside the orphanage,” Alfonso mused taking up a cigar, lighting it and inhaling. “And would it have been any different had you been the product of a consensual relationship? Would it have affected your standing in the army? No one would have asked your origins, as it is a conscript army,” Jorge said in jest. “Ah, but the army is a conscript one. The family is not. Desertion by fathers is rife regardless of if the relationship that brought the children into the world was consensual or not. Mark my words, were this not to be a conscript army and one of strictly volunteers, you would see the majority of soldiers to be illegitimate children,” Alfonso said. “And how do you know this?” Jorge asked. “Just look at our army,” Alfonso replied flabbergasted. “We not only have the highest ratio of officers to men, but also employ the oldest officers on average in Europe. That streak of blueblood, however fading, must be preserved. Do you actually think anyone of status, of means, would volunteer in the army, or even answer a draft, when they can pay their way out, or be exempt if one is an only son, or supporting one’s grandparents. . . .” “Or if they are an illegitimate child supporting their parents. That is a proviso, too,” Jorge bellowed. “Or illegitimate children supporting their parents. . . .” Alfonso’s voice trailed off. “But be it as it may, unless Spain releases its colonies, you will not find anyone willing to go to war for them. And that, at least as of now, is why the country relies on a conscript army. The bastards look for their fathers in the aging officer cadre, thinking they will be cared for. But this is becoming less and less the case, especially when the officers are becoming closer and closer to the age of the men, as the bluebloods die off. If this trend continues, the men will lose faith, and the army will perform worse than it already does.” Alfonso sighed. *** The bar remained half full. More drinks were ordered, this time stronger. Vitae ordered vodka, and the custodian scotch. By the time the two men had finished their second round of drinks, the taberna was empty, save the staff. The custodian and Vitae anxiously looked around each other not knowing what to do, until Vitae beckoned to the custodian with his hand. Slowly and gingerly, the custodian made his way from under the safety of the bull to Vitae’s table, and sat down across from him. “Death?” Vitae said sarcastically. “Yes, and you are?” Death asked haughtily “Never mind that.” Vitae handed his new companion a large sum of money, and straightened his tie. “I am all too glad we both drank so much. Now you will be uninhibited when you speak, which is the goal of an interview, is it not?” Vitae smirked, convinced that he was about to have Death on the ropes. “The goal is to get the interviewee to speak as candidly as one can, so that he tells all, so that the journalist has as much material as might be procured. How that information is gained is irrelevant as long as it is accurate. So, no I have no sympathy for you, or me for that matter, for being under the influence of alcohol.” Before Death could answer, Vitae continued. “It is not my time, right? I mean if it is now, or in the next half an hour, I do not want to waste your valuable time. For all I know you are now not well disposed toward me.” “No, no,” Death replied, feeling very much caught off-guard. “It is not your time yet. I do not think dear mother would take kindly if I took you now.” “Good,” Vitae replied with a gleam in his eye. “And I agree with you that your mother would not want me gone now, but she did warn me not to come to Spain. So, I can ask you anything?” “Yes, I agreed to this interview,” Death said in a deadpan voice. “No limits?” Vitae asked. “No limits.” Death replied.