Technicalities are a bitch. Frank P. Munchausen was required to die at 10:48PM on October 21st, 2017. Unfortunately, I reaped his soul a minute early, at 10:47PM. I mean, the man was unconscious, going to die peacefully in his sleep. I had things to do, places to be, more souls to reap. No big deal to take him a minute early, right?

Wrong. Turns out people reaped early are entitled to compensation under Purgatory tort law. Now, this is a protection mainly to prevent people being reaped long before their time. Maybe get we’ll have to give them a sweet haunting gig, or a way to communicate with their loved ones, or if someone really fucked up, a resurrection or reincarnation, but we’re talking about years early here.

So now we’re being sued over one minute of life.  One fucking minute, which by my estimation, given that the average human lives 75 years and is valued at around nine million dollars, is worth 23 cents. And it wouldn’t even have been a minute Frank was for conscious either, so probably is worth even less.

Big D, and by that, I mean Death, and I are sitting on our side of the office behind Big D’s big stone desk. He’s got a flair for the old-world aesthetic, all fire and brimstone: hot lava walls and stone everything. I feel bad for whatever intern had to set up the furniture. Big D is rapping his fingers against the desk, clearly annoyed and losing his patience.

Of course, Frank is twenty minutes late to the arbitration we set up. Typical soul—will cry on and on about the time they lost because of an errant scythe and proceeds to waste everyone else’s time.

Frank’s lawyer is sitting conveniently near the exit, since we’ll be telling him to piss off soon. He holds his arms akimbo, tapping his feet anxiously.

“I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” he says with no trace of confidence.

Everyone is eyeing their watches.

“Well,” Big D starts to say. His voice is a smooth baritone with a choir of a million souls all screaming simultaneously behind it. “It seems as if your client—"

At that moment, Frank bursts through the door, stumbling about. The wet stench of booze permeates the air as his knees wobble, and he slumps into the chair next to his attorney.

“Resurrection, woo!” he slurs. 

Frank’s lawyer sits him up straight. “The last minute of a human’s life is without parallel in its worth: it’s the time to say goodbye to family, time to find peace with the end. Lord Death, your boy stole that from my client.” He points to me.

“Oh, that’s horseshit!” I roll my eyes. “Frank wasn’t even—”

Big D holds up a hand in front of me. The message is obvious: stop talking.

I know better than to disobey Big D.

Big D swings his hand over to Frank’s lawyer, gesturing for him to continue.

“We’re prepared to talk about damages. The human spirit cannot be measured in monetary sums, and while my client lost only a tiny fraction of his life, that fraction is priceless. As such, we demand that Mr. Munchausen here be given a human reincarnation, as the we’ve already passed the three-day time limit for a resurrection.”

I’m absolutely gob-smacked by the audacity of this fucking moron. A reincarnation, the second most resource-intensive mode of soul reincorporation barring a full resurrection, reserved for only the most extreme of circumstances, for a drunk who died a minute early. I feel queasy just thinking about it.

“Mr. Dullahan, what do you have to say to that?” Big D eyes me expectantly.

Do or die time.

“Well, as an associate reaper of two years, I feel that I am qualified to weigh in on the worth of a minute of human life.” I dig into my pockets and get out a pen, checkbook, and a piece of paper. 

“Here’s what we’re prepared to give you.”

Frank and his lawyer’s eyes light up.

I pretend to write on the checkbook, instead writing on the slip of paper. I hand the paper to Frank’s attorney.

Frank and his lawyer look over the slip. It reads, “NOTHING!”

“What’s the meaning of this?” Frank’s lawyer asks.

“It means we’ll see you in court, asshole.”

“Well done, Mr. Dullahan.” Big D chuckles. It sounds like a cat being tortured. “Now all of you get the fuck out of my office.”