Ashli /Vs/ Death

Ashli had blisters on both of her thumbs, the result of excessive texting. They were swollen and scuffed, full of puss and bound to burst.

“Life is the bitch,” she said to no one in particular.

She threw herself down on her bed, kicked off her Crocs and started thinking about guys. Would she ever have the guts to… you know, do that thing? With a boy's thing??

That’s when Death walked into her room. A heavy presence, a sour stench...

Ashli pulled her hand out and sat straight up on the bed.“Who are you?!?”

Death answered in cold quiet. “I am Death.”

She cocked her head in confusion. “You don’t look like Death... you look like David Letterman.”

Death smiled. “I have assumed a form with which you are familiar.”

“But I never watch the Letterman show!”

“Nevertheless, Ashli, your time is arrived… your days on Earth are come to an end. I am here to claim your soul and carry it around in my sack of broken glass for all eternity.”

Ashli’s cell chirped an incoming message. “Look Mr. Letterman, I don’t know why you're here but I’m only seventeen and I don’t like older guys.”

Death blinked twice and straightened his tie. “I am not David Letterman. I have only taken his shape to-”

“Can you loan me dollars for a pizza?”


“Yeah. You can have some- if you like pepperoni.”

Just then Ashli’s dog Fuckup came running into her room, a yellow labrador with toilet breath. Death poked his bony finger at the beast and melted him. The room stank with the smell of stink and burnt fur and Fuckup was now just a puddle staining the carpet. Ashli held back the tears.


Death turned to her, furious. “No, I MEANT to do that.”

Ashli wiped the wet from her eyes. “Who are you and what have you done with the real David Letterman?”

Death took a deep breath. “Letterman is resting comfortably in his New Canaan townhouse and I   AM   DEATH!

He smashed Ashli’s full-length closet mirror to punctuate his point.

Ashli watched the shards fall. “My Dad is gonna kill you.”

“No more delay- you will come with me at once.”

“Why do I have to die?” she asked, adjusting her bra.

“It is your time, Ashli Vido!”

She stood up. “But I haven’t done it yet!”

“Done what?”

“You know… that thing? With a boy’s thing? That thing.”

“Are you referring to sexual intercourse?” Death was downright puzzled.

“You can’t take somebody before they have sex!”

Death paused then, thinking. He looked inward, discovering mercy, restraint, hidden in a fold of his dark soul. It was a feeling he had never known: he felt sorry for the girl.

It passed.

Death roared in a thunderous tone, “Get into my bag of broken gl-”

Ashli leapt across the room and punched Death in the neck, slicing his skin with her February birthstone ring. She gouged his eyes out with her thumbs, popping her blisters, oozing puss and blood into Death’s hollow sockets, stinging him so sharp that he cried out in pain. He staggered, sightless, stubbing himself on her nightstand, cursing in tongues.

Ashli grabbed his necktie and yanked him to the door of her room. She kicked Death’s ass with the heel of her pedicured foot, and there was an audible crack as her painted toenails shattered his spine.

Death ran down the stairs, out the door, humiliated, and Ashli shouted after him: “And you tell Paul Shaffer to kiss my ass!!!”

She took a deep breath, threw herself down on her bed, and started thinking about guys.

Would she ever have the guts to… you know, do that thing? With a boy's thing??


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