Malachar stared at the glowing screen, his thumb hovering over the chat interface. The autumn wind picked up in the alley, carrying with it the scent of roasting coffee and existential dread.
"Plot-Critical?" he typed, his bony fingers clicking against the glass with the sound of dice rolling on a coffin lid.
DeathGPT responded with the enthusiasm of a customer service representative who had never known the touch of mortality:
Yes! Subject Tiffany Slayer serves a crucial function in the cosmic narrative. Her continued existence until November 3 , 2026 the structural integrity of seven interconnected storylines, including:
- The Belmont Street Community Garden's annual zucchini competition
- A novel being written by the man in apartment 2F who only exists because she once smiled at him in the laundry room
- The eventual redemption of Filibuster the cat (timeline: 2027)
- And 4 other items [REDACTED FOR SPOILER PREVENTION]
Malachar leaned against the brick wall, feeling the mortar crumble slightly against his coat. This was absurd. He was Death. He didn't do spoilers. He was the ultimate spoiler, the final page of every book, the THE END in capital letters.
"This is ridiculous," he muttered aloud, his voice causing a nearby pigeon to drop dead from shock. He winced. "Sorry. Didn't mean that."
He typed furiously: I am the Grim Reaper. I have ended civilizations. I have harvested souls from burning cities and sinking ships. I have collected the last breaths of pharaohs and popes and that guy who invented the spork. You cannot tell me that one data analyst's coffee schedule is more important than my existential satisfaction.
The typing dots appeared. They danced. They seemed, to Malachar's increasingly paranoid perception, to be laughing at him.
I understand your frustration! However, the Cosmic Narrative Committee (established 4,000 BCE) has strict guidelines about Plot-Critical subjects. Would you like me to suggest alternative solutions?
Malachar's eye sockets (hidden behind the meat veil but very real in the alley's shadow) narrowed. What kind of alternatives?
Option A: You could try asking Subject Slayer if she would be willing to switch her subscription to a different day.
Option B: You could arrive at The Grind & Found earlier than 8:42 AM to secure your position ahead of her in line.
Option C: You could accept that not every desire can be fulfilled and practice mindfulness meditation to release your attachment to this specific beverage experience.
Malachar read the last option three times. Then he threw his phone.
It didn't go far. It hit a dumpster with a clang and bounced back, landing in his outstretched hand because he was Death and gravity had learned not to mess with him.
"Mindfulness meditation?" he hissed at the screen. "I am the personification of entropy! I am the void made manifest! I don't need to find my center! I AM the center! The center of EVERYTHING ENDING!"
A voice from above called down: "Hey, buddy! You okay down there?"
Malachar looked up. A woman was leaning out of the window of the vintage vinyl store, her hair in curlers, holding a mug of what smelled like chamomile tea. She looked concerned but not afraid. The meat veil was working overtime.
"I'm fine!" Malachar called back, forcing his voice into the register of human casual. "Just... arguing with customer service!"
"Oh, sweetie," she said, her expression softening into the universal sympathy of someone who had spent three hours on hold with a cable company. "They get you every time, don't they? Try hitting zero. It usually gets you to a real person."
"Thank you," Malachar said, genuinely touched. "That's very kind."
"No problem! Also, you dropped your scythe."
Malachar looked down. His scythe had indeed fallen out of its pocket dimension, probably during his fit of pique. It lay on the alley floor, looking exactly like what it was: a seven-foot-long instrument of divine harvest, currently disguised as an umbrella but doing a very poor job of it because umbrellas didn't usually have blades that could separate soul from body with surgical precision.
"That's... a prop," Malachar said weakly. "For a... community theater production of The Seventh Seal."
"Ooh, I love Bergman!" the woman said. "Break a leg!"
She withdrew. Malachar picked up his scythe, compacted it back into umbrella form, and turned his attention back to his phone.
DeathGPT had added a new message:
I see you're experiencing elevated stress levels. Would you like me to play calming music? I have access to whale songs, rain sounds, or the collected works of Enya.
Malachar took a deep breath—a habit he'd picked up from humans even though he didn't technically have lungs. He needed to approach this differently. The AI was clearly operating under constraints. But every system had loopholes. Every code had bugs. And Malachar had been exploiting loopholes since before loopholes were invented.
He typed carefully: DeathGPT, show me all subjects named Tiffany Slayer within a fifty-mile radius.**
The response was immediate:
Searching... found 3 matches:
1. Tiffany Slayer (Subject 8,947,221-B) - Plot-Critical, protected until Nov 3, 2026
2. Tiffany Slayer (Subject 12,004,992-A) - age 89, hospice care, scheduled for Sept 24, 2024, 11:47 PM
3. Tiffany Slayer-Van der Camp (Subject 12,004,993-C) - age 34, legal name change 2019, scheduled for Sept 26, 2024, 8:47 AM
Malachar's thumb stopped scrolling.
Tiffany Slayer-Van der Camp.
Age 34.
Scheduled for September 26th, 2024, at 8:47 AM.
The exact time Tiffany Slayer , the other Tiffany, the coffee Tiffany, walked into The Grind & Found every Tuesday and Thursday.
Malachar felt something he hadn't experienced since the Black Death, when he'd accidentally reaped a whole village in Wales because he'd been distracted by a really interesting cloud formation. It was the feeling of cosmic alignment. Of destiny winking at him. Of the universe saying, "Hey, buddy, I got you."
Tiffany Slayer-Van der Camp.
The names were similar enough that the AI might have gotten confused. The timing was perfect. And most importantly—she wasn't Plot-Critical.
Malachar typed with the speed of a thousand years of hope: DeathGPT, show me the file for Subject 12,004,993-C. Tifffany Slayer-Van der Camp.
**File accessed. Tiffany Slayer-Van der Camp, 34, freelance graphic designer, resident of 4522 SE Belmont Street, Apartment 3C.
Malachar paused. 4522 SE Belmont Street. That was Tiffafny's building. Apartment 3C. Tiffany was in 3B. They were neighbors. Probably had the same mailman. Probably got each other's packages sometimes.
This was perfect. This was beautiful. This was—
Current scheduled death: the AI continued, Sept 26, 2024, 8:47 AM. Cause: Choking on artisanal gluten-free muffin from The Grind & Found. Location: Sidewalk outside coffee shop.
Malachar's jaw dropped. The meat veil flickered with his surprise.
Tiffany was also a customer at The Grind & Found. She also went there at 8:47 AM. She was going to die there, on Thursday, choking on a muffin, at the exact moment would Tiffany would be walking in to claim the last Grim Reaper's Delight.
The symmetry was exquisite. The poetry was undeniable. And the opportunity was obvious.
Malachar typed: Can I modify Subject 12,004,993-C's death parameters?
Yes! This subject has standard clearance. Modifications available.
Move her death time to 8:30 AM. Same day. Same location. Same cause.
The AI processed. The typing dots danced their little dance.
Modification accepted. New death time: Sept 26, 2024, 8:30 AM. Cause: Choking on artisanal gluten-free muffin (blueberry-lavender). Location: Sidewalk outside The Grind & Found.
Malachar smiled. It was done. At 8:30 AM on Thursday, Tiffany Slayer-Van der Camp would meet her end, seventeen minutes earlier than originally scheduled. The emergency services would arrive. There would be commotion, confusion, perhaps a blocked sidewalk. And when 8:47 AM rolled around, Tiffany Slayer (coffee Tiffany, Plot-Critical Tiffany) would arrive to find the coffee shop in chaos, the police taking statements, the Grim Reaper's Delight unclaimed because who could think about coffee when someone had just died on the sidewalk?
And Malachar would be there. Waiting. Ready.
He would order the drink. He would taste the forbidden nectar. And then, satisfied, he would allow the cosmic narrative to proceed, content in the knowledge that he had gamed the system, outsmarted the AI, and claimed his prize.
It was perfect.
"Thank you, DeathGPT," he typed, feeling magnanimous.
You're welcome! Is there anything else I can help you with today?
Yes. Add a note to Subject 12,004,993-C's file. "Died doing what she loved. Sort of."
Note added. Have a pleasant reaping!
Malachar put his phone away. He stepped out of the alley, into the Portland morning, feeling lighter than he had in centuries. The sun was shining. The coffee was waiting. And in two days, he would finally understand what all the fuss was about.
He didn't notice the cat watching him from the fire escape.
Filibuster sat perfectly still, his orange fur catching the light, his eyes—one green, one gold—tracking Malachar with an intensity that suggested he understood exactly what had just happened. Cats, after all, could see through meat veils. Cats had always been able to see Death.
And Filibuster, who was objectively evil but not stupid, had plans of his own.
Thursday arrived with the kind of autumn morning that made poets weep and meteorologists shrug. It was crisp but not cold, sunny but not bright, the sky the color of a faded denim jacket.
Malachar materialized in the alley at 8:15 AM, a full half-hour earlier than usual. He was taking no chances. He wore his best projection—the charcoal peacoat, the posture of a man who had never known joy, the faint suggestion of a personality that had been optimized out of existence by too many years in middle management.
He walked to The Grind & Found and stopped across the street, positioning himself near a newspaper box that hadn't contained newspapers since 2019 but served as excellent cover.
At 8:25 AM, he saw her.
Tiffany Slayer-Van der Camp
She looked remarkably like Tiffany Slayer. Same age, same general aesthetic of someone who had given up on conventional fashion in favor of "whatever doesn't have holes in it," same commitment to yoga pants as a lifestyle choice. She was carrying a canvas tote bag with a picture of a cat on it that said "I WORK HARD SO MY CAT CAN HAVE A BETTER LIFE."
Malachar checked his phone. The Ledger app showed a countdown: T-MINUS 5 MINUTES.
Tiffany approached the coffee shop. She reached into her bag. She pulled out—
A muffin.
It was enormous. It was the size of a small child's head. It was clearly gluten-free (Malachar could tell by the texture, which suggested it had been baked by someone who hated both wheat and joy) and studded with what appeared to be blueberries that had been genetically modified to be the size of grapes. It was topped with something that might have been lavender or might have been mold; at this distance, Malachar couldn't be certain.
Tiffany took a bite.
She chewed.
She swallowed.
She took another bite.
Malachar checked his phone: T-MINUS 3 MINUTES.
This was it. Any moment now. The muffin would betray her. The airway would obstruct. The bystanders would panic. And Malachar would wait, patient as entropy itself, for the chaos to clear and his coffee to become available.
Tiffany took a third bite.
Then a fourth.
She finished the muffin.
She licked her fingers.
She checked her watch, shrugged, and walked into The Grind & Found to order a drink.
Malachar stared.
He checked his phone.
SUBJECT 12,004,993-C: STATUS - ALIVE
CURRENT TIME: 8:31 AM
DEATH EVENT: MISSED
"What?" Malachar said aloud, causing a passing cyclist to swerve into a hydrant.
He typed furiously: DeathGPT, what happened? She was supposed to die at 8:30!
The response came back with what Malachar could only describe as digital smugness:
Correction applied. Subject 12,004,993-C's death was successfully rescheduled.
New death time: November 3, 2026, 2:14 PM.
Malachar's vision swam. The meat veil flickered dangerously, revealing for a split second the void beneath. A street sweeper saw it, paused, and decided he needed to start drinking more water.
WHAT? Malachar typed. That's Tiffany's death time! That's the piano!**
Correct! Due to your modification request, the system recognized an inefficiency. Two similar names, same building, close proximity. The Cosmic Narrative Committee determined that maintaining two separate death schedules was redundant. Subjects have been merged into a single death event.
Tiffany Slayer and Tiffany Slayer-Van der Camp will now die simultaneously on November 3, 2026, at 2:14 PM, via falling piano (Steinway Model D, Ebony Finish).
Efficiency increased by 50%!
Thank you for helping us optimize death!
Malachar read the message three times. Then four. Then he looked up as the bell above The Grind & Found's door chimed, and there was Tiffany Slayer, walking out with her Grim Reaper's Delight, sipping it through the hole in the whipped cream, making that little sound in her throat, completely and utterly alive.
Not just alive until September 3rd.
Alive until November 3rd, 2026, at 2:14 PM, because Malachar had tried to game the system and accidentally merged her death certificate with her neighbor's, creating a Plot-Critical dyad that the Cosmic Narrative Committee now considered "too narratively interesting to separate."
He had extended her life by over two years.
He had made her more important to the cosmic structure, not less.
And as he watched her walk away, humming happily, clutching her abomination of a coffee drink, Malachar realized with dawning horror that he could hear music.
It was coming from his phone.
DeathGPT had started playing Enya.
"Who can say where the road goes," the phone sang, "where the day flows, only time..."
Malachar screamed.
It was a small scream. Dignified. But it was definitely a scream.
And from the fire escape above, Filibuster the cat watched, and purred.