FicWad

A/N: I give words to you all, both empty and loaded. I give you profound truths, and I give you shameless lies-- Then again, with fiction, you're paying at least in time if not in money for someone to lie to you. I give you what might have once been the truth, and I give you the doubt of a solid Truth to hold onto. Or maybe I give you nothing. Take of all of this what you will, and leave what you wish.
---

It was quiet, but not too quiet-- Or, at least, that's what Jack tried to tell himself. In reality, it was perhaps a touch too quiet for his liking... Even in the middle of the night in an abandoned house there's normally some quiet rustle of a something-or-other in the corner. Maybe a rat or a New York sized cockroach-- Point is, there's always something making a quiet noise. Nothing's ever dead quiet except the grave, right? That's what Jack thought.

The problem with Jack's line of thinking was that he neglected to consider the possibility that said house would become his grave.

*

There was music, and there was pain. A blinding pain-- astronaut setting the controls for the heart of the sun and screaming his lungs out, blood everywhere. Or maybe it was all in his head, Jack realized, as he found himself pointlessly screaming at nothing. Literally-- There were no walls, there was no floor and no ceiling. There was no sensation whatsoever.

Embarrassed and suddenly confused, he shut his mouth.

"Oh, no, you can keep going if you like."

Jack almost shit his pants when he heard the voice; he'd heard it before in his head. It was Death, or more accurately his personal concept of it. It was at that moment that he realized that maybe, just maybe, he'd screwed up somewhere along the line.

"Good show and entirely correct, but not in the way that you think. Come along-- Or don't, if you absolutely must, but that would be incredibly boring."

Considering his options and finding them sadly lacking, Jack began to follow Death.

It was only after he looked down at his watch to see how much time had passed that he realized that he was walking on nothing from nowhere to nowhere.

"Ah... Sir?"

"Took you long enough to figure it out, though you can say you're the quickest person to ever figure it out if you wish."

"...Just... what the hell do you mean by that?"

Death waved a skeletal hand, but didn't turn to face Jack or stop walking. "Whatever you want me to."

*

"...So, hold up. Just wait a bit. Two seconds. You mean to tell me that--"

"No. I don't. You've got it wrong."

Jack sighed, and let his head drop to the table. Death had led him to a building in the middle of nowhere. It turned out to be a bar-- Nice place, too. Practical, yet stylish, or so Jack's assessment went. Granted, he didn't spend too terribly long assessing the actual building: There was alcohol available, after all.

Lifting his head to take a sip of his beer, Jack stared at Death for a few seconds, then suddenly started laughing. "This is a joke, isn't it?"

"Well, that's one way to look at it." Death glared at Jack's beer. It was a light beer-- American. Water in a can. Jack had gotten it-- or, more accurately, got Death to get it-- because he'd forgotten just how foul American beer actually was. "You can also look at it a lot of other ways."

"Thanks. Real fuckin' helpful."

Death shrugged. "That's the problem with people like you. You throw about the most powerful tool in existence like it's nothing, and then proceed to waste said power complaining about your failure to achieve anything."

Jack blinked twice, then shook his head. "...What?"

Death sighed. "Language," he said, "is the most powerful tool there ever was. And of all of the languages there ever were, by blind chance English is one of the most powerful there ever was."

"...English?"

"Quit drinking. And yes, English. After all, what other language lets you lie so easily and with so little effort?"

Jack had nothing to say to that. He did, however, finish his beer.

*

Rubbing his face, Jack leaned back in his seat, not saying anything for a second, and speaking quietly when he did. "Alright, for the sake of the fact that you bought me a drink and aren't an asshole, I'll ask the obvious question. What now?"

Death shrugged. "Buy another drink?"

He couldn't help it. It was absurd, and in that kind of way that couldn't help but be charmingly offensive. Jack laughed. "I wish, man, but no. Isn't there something more to eternity than just... drinking? Not that I'd mind if there wasn't."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah, really." Jack suddenly felt like an owl, and he couldn't say why.

*

"You know, I might have something that you could take care of for me, if you're interested."

Jack looked at his beer as he spoke. "So I'd be working for Death. What would you want? Me to reap some souls or some such business?"

"No, nothing quite so cliché. I doubt you'd accept if that was the offer I had in mind. No, you'd be talking a singer back into his job for one last album. Old man Romeo Golden, the greatest singer in rock and roll."

"...What? ...Now this is a joke, right?" Jack looked almost hopeful as he said that, then grimaced a little at the reply.

"No, it's not a joke." Death said, "Didn't you know that art lives and dies as well? Sure, art can outlive its creator-- Or, more accurately, after the creator dies, the creator more or less becomes said art-- but even it can fade to dust."

"Depressing."

"Way of the world. Anyway, the alternatives are just as bad. Worse, in fact."

Jack started to reply, then thought better of it. He could think of better things to be doing than sitting in a bar and drinking with Death. For instance, he could be sitting in a bar and drinking without Death.

"Well?" Death's voice interrupted his musings.

"...Buy me another beer-- Guinness, this time-- and I'm in."