“Alrighty, Frank. We’ve been here before,” Jerry said, lighting up his Marlboro, taking a drag and kicking up his recliner’s foot. “You already know you can’t do nothing to me.”

“My name isn’t Frank, you fucking idiot,” Death said.

“What am I s’posed to call ya? You ain’t ever told me your name.”

“Death. My name is Death,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers.

“That’s not a real name. That’s just your occupation. That’s like me calling myself ‘Construction Worker,” Jerry retorted, punctuating the last words in air quotes.

Jerry had been like this for as long as Death had known him, which was near two decades now.

In fact, the first time Death and Jerry had come into contact, Jerry was supposed to die.

That day, the then 29-year-old had fallen from the second floor of a job site he was working on. He’d gotten up, said he was fine, and went home.

He was not fine, and Death came for him that night.

Jerry woke up at 2:38 a.m. with the worst headache he’d ever had and saw, in the corner of his room, what was seemingly a business man.

Death was a tall, sharply dressed man in a black Louis Vuitton suit. He was focused on his watch, presumably a Rolex, and clicking his tongue anxiously.

When Jerry tried to focus on one part of his face, the rest of him blurred and shifted.

“What’re you doin’ in my room?” Jerry slurred, his vision blurry.

“Ah. Let me introduce myself. I’m Death,” the man said. “I’ve come to take you. It’s your time.”

He had the slightest hint of an English accent.

Jerry bolted upright, head suddenly clear.

“No. I’m not going to let you.”

“What?”

“You seem like a lawyer to me. So, no. I don’t give you my consent. That means you’re not allowed to take me, right?”

Death was too stunned to speak.

“I- No one has ever done that before. It’s always just… begging. Sometimes even resignation.”

It baffled Death.

The worst part was that Jerry was correct. And Death quintuple-checked the rule book, too.

Since then, Death had regularly appeared to Jerry. Once when he had bad pneumonia, then it was another fall, very early congestive heart failure, etc.

And it was always the same.

Jerry would say no, and then he’d recover.

Death was growing tired of this game.

“I’m only here to tell you, Jerry,” Death started, “that I will win.”

“Sure you will, Frank. Sure you will.”

—

“A-are y-y-you happy n-now?”

“Extremely. That 18-wheeler sure did a number on you.”

“So, Jerry,” Death said, perching on the end of the ICU bed with his legs crossed. “Do you still want to live? Quadriplegic, unable to walk, move, go to the bathroom on your own?”

Jerry’s response was just a ragged breath.

“No need to speak now, Sweetheart. I know what your answer will be.”

Death extended a cold, thin hand.

“So, shall we?”