So, it’s 01:30 and I’ve just stopped playing Dirty Bomb and Borderlands 2 with friends. And I just remembered that I hadn’t yet written today’s piece. Ooops. Bad Daniel.
This piece follows straight on from Day 12.
Things get complicated after 1967. I was tasked with taking care of a particularly nasty incursion and the little fucker got the drop on me. Quite literally. And shot me a couple of times in the back of the head. That put me out of commission for, I gather, a couple of days. When I woke up, I was thoroughly tied up with no where to go. Eventually Mr Nasty came back around to check on me. And then he spent the next couple of decades finding various ways to kill me. I lost count shortly after it entered the triple digits.
Not ideal. Though it’s had its advantages. Their royal arsehats, the Conclave of Grims, decided that I needed some time off. I get to spend the next couple of centuries doing what I like rather than traipsing across the globe easing the passage of souls and putting the smack down to those incursions that are mucking up whatever it is the powers that be have in mind for your average soul. I even got to meet the conclave’s boss. A Grim Reaper. In the flesh. Well, in the bone, I suppose. Creepy fellow. Pleasant enough though. He suggested I take up gardening, but I was thinking about taking up bee keeping or maybe found a cult or stage a coup.
Actually, I think I’ll take up teaching. I can learn how best to teach people. Then I can track down Mr Nasty and teach him all about revenge. Not that I’m bitter.