Well, I’m here to tell you, no. NO. Your job is not killing you. You might be frustrated, or feel underappreciated, or hate everything because you’re tormented with an overwhelming desire to screw your boss, but your job is not killing you—at least it isn’t killing you the way my job is killing me.
When I say “this job is killing me”, I’m dead serious. As in dead dead. Ka-put. No pulse. Meat in the road, people. I have the worst, suckiest job ever. I win this pissing contest.
Hi, I’m Jesse Sullivan and I’m a death replacement agent. I work as a death surrogate, literally dying so that others don’t have to. It leaves me with sore muscles, scars and a bit of memory loss. But that’s not even the worst part. Here are five reasons why my job sucks worst of all:
It sucks to die.
I feel like I don’t even have to explain this. I mean almost everyone on the planet has a fear of death. You people are willing to pay $50K just to not die. And why wouldn’t you? As someone who has died over a hundred times, I can tell you it never gets easier. It’s scary as finding a clown under your covers and about as pleasant as a gynecological tour of your lady mansion.
And the problem with dying all the time is I have this edge-of-my-seat feeling that it could happen AT ANY MOMENT. Even on my nights off, when you would think I’d be nice and comfy in my own bed, sometimes I wake up in a cold sweat, heart racing. It’s really hard to relax in my line of work.
The benefits suck.
Most death replacement agents can do 80-100 death replacements before they’re brains become mashed bananas. Dying is hard on the brain. There’s a small window before we “reboot” where the brain loses oxygen which leads to scarring which leads to wearing a bib and possibly an adult diaper all your life. No 401K. No awesome health insurance. No paid vacations or time off. Just stiff muscles and a crotchety handler breathing down your neck.
It sucks to spend so much time in hospitals.
If you’re a death replacement agent, you’re going to get intimately acquainted with your doctor—no buts about it. Well, butts but not the kind anyone wants to talk about. And it’s going to be an uncomfortably intimate relationship. Dr. York has had to restuff my chest cavity, reattach limbs and fingers and pump me full of more blood than a dehydrated vampire raving at Mardi Gras. Having any man know you that well—inside and out—sucks.
It sucks to look like roadkill.
Death is not glamorous. Once that bus smears you across I-40 or the shotgun sprays your vertebrae out the other side, you start to look—rough. Sure, you heal up eventually. But for those first couple of days after a death replacement, you look exactly like what you are: someone who died. Your blood stopped. Maybe your limbs were torn off. Your favorite jeans are definitely destroyed. And worst case scenario, you lost some hair.
It isn’t pretty. And you won’t be either.
Your spongy, vulnerable body sucks.
You know the suckiest part of my job?
Oh, don’t give me that look. This isn’t personal. I’m sure you have a shining personality or whatever, but you’re so fragile. Do you even realize how easy you are to kill?
A moving vehicle can do it. Too much drinking can do it. Not enough drinking can do it. God forbid I leave you alone with some water and floor for five seconds. Hell, you can trip over your own feet and fall several stories to your death—I’ve seen it happen. There are so many millions of ways that you could possibly die that following you around trying to protect your fleshy ass—is the most stressful part of the job.
So how about we do each other a favor. You stay home and not die. And I’ll stay home and catch up on all the TV shows I’ve been missing while unconscious.
How’s that sound? Win-win for everybody. But stay out of the kitchen and the bathroom, okay? It’s not safe in there. Seriously. And don’t eat anything. And don’t try to pee in the dark just because it’s 2 a.m. Turn on the light for crying out loud. Wait, what are you…
Fuck it. I’ll see you at midnight.
by Kory M. Shrum
November 29, 2016
"I always knew I was going to die. I just didn’t know it was going to be today."
Maisie won’t live to see her seventeenth birthday. Her mother and sister are locked in a war over the world, and Maisie is stuck between them. She must decide if she will join her sister’s cause, or defend her mother. In the face of her mother’s demands, Maisie doubts herself and what she truly wants. But her only alternative is to be murdered by the person she loves most.
Jesse wants to find her father’s body and finish him before he can resurrect. If she succeeds she will save millions, if not billions, of lives. But first, Jesse must defeat the woman protecting him.
Will Maisie stand with her? Or fight by her mother’s side?
One decision will make all the difference in the world.
I like to make things up and then write them down. When I'm finished, I clean it up, put a cover on it, and call it a day. When I'm not writing fiction or poetry, I teach writing to college students. I try to compensate for my incredible physical laziness by having a very active mind and imagination. I've dabbled in everything from fortune-telling to martial arts and I study drawing and French. I'm pretty bad at both. Currently, I live in Michigan with my wife, Kim, and our fat rescue pug, Josephine.
Signed copy of winner's choice from the Jesse Sullivan Seriesa Rafflecopter giveaway
(chose from book 1-6)
(chose from book 1-6)