Happiness Pump
Oct. 21st, 2025 01:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
unicornfartz“I had hoped after our last meeting, we wouldn’t be having another one,” she says with a tone of annoyance. “And so soon at that.”
I sigh and lean back in my chair, offering her a small shrug because I have nothing to say. The last place I want to be is here when I should be out there doing my job. But ever since we got new management, doing my job has become all but impossible.
A cigarette dangling between nails lacquered blood red, she leans forward. “Why is it you are having such a difficult time adjusting to our change in policy?”
“I’m doing my job, Karen. I don’t know what it is you want me to say.”
She takes a drag from her cigarette and looks like a smokestack as she exhales. Her amber-colored eyes cut through the fog, pinning me to my seat, the corners of her blood red lips curling upward in a grin that looks feral.
“You are part of the Societal Happiness Integration Team,” she says. “And yet, you are proving yourself to be anything but a team player.”
I cover my mouth with a long, bony hand, trying to hide my amusement. If there’s one thing about bureaucracies you can count on, it’s the ridiculous acronyms. Clearly, somebody didn’t think this one through. Karen’s face tightens. If bitter middle-management striving to be something more had a face, it was hers.
“We are charged with raising society’s happiness. That is a job I take very seriously,” she growls. “And I find it personally offensive that you continue to refuse to comply with our new mandates and procedures.”
“Look, this is ridiculous,” I say as I get to my feet and stretch my arms out, turning in a slow circle, allowing her to take me in from giant, oversized shoes, to rainbow-colored wig. “I’m wearing a fucking red bulb nose, Karen. And it has to be glued on at that!”
“And?”
“I’m a Reaper—”
She raises a finger. “No, you are a Celestial Escort."
If I had eyeballs, I’d be rolling them. “Fine. I escort souls of the dying to the other side. I’ve been doing this job a hell of a lot longer than you’ve been dead—”
“And?”
“And you have me dressed like a fucking clown, Karen!”
“Yes, well, Management has come to see that we have a very bad reputation. People don’t like us,” she says. “Management further believes that if we present a friendlier face, the fear of us will subside, thus increasing general overall societal happiness.”
“The people I Reap—”
“Escort.”
“For fuck’s sake. They’re dead, Karen—”
She tsks me in a disapproving way. “We no longer refer to them as dead, as per the manual, which you obviously haven’t read. They are referred to as living-adjacent. Or, if you prefer, transitioning souls.”
If I had a bridge on my nose, I’d pinch it in frustration. But since all I have are the nasal cavities in my bony face, I run a hand over it. I long for the days when I wore black robes and carried a scythe. People knew what I was there for when I showed up. It was simple. Easy. Now? Now they think I’m there to entertain their goddamn children.
“Why is this so difficult for you to grasp?” she asks.
“Somebody I was there to Reap—”
“Escort.”
I throw my hands into the air. “Whatever. But just yesterday, a woman asked me to make her a fucking balloon animal. A chihuahua,” I growl. “This job used to be one of honor. It was always handled with grace and the proper gravitas. Now? Now, we’re a joke.”
“I assure you, the goal of global happiness is a noble one. Our GHI rating is, quite frankly, in the toilet, and—”
“What in the hell is a GHI rating?”
“Global Happiness Index,” she replies smoothly. “Analytics are very important to management and drive our most critical decisions.”
“For fuck’s sake.”
“Our GHI rating is a responsibility we at the Societal Happiness Integration Team take very seriously,” she tells me. “Management has conducted many, many focus groups and have learned that people find it easier to transition, if they feel a sense of happiness as they cross over. And what could be bring that sense of happiness better than one who inspires joy and laughter?”
“I’m a fucking clown.”
“And people love clowns,” she responds. “At least, according to our focus groups.”
“Pennywise. Twisty. Art. John Wayne fucking Gacy. There is a whole subset of clowns who inspire more terror than I ever could in my traditional uniform,” I growl.
“Be that as it may, Management feels clowns inspire joy. More joy equals better reviews—”
If I had eyebrows, I’d be raising them right now. “Reviews?”
“Yes,” she says and picks up a piece of paper. “Our Yelp reviews are lagging. You, my friend, are sitting at an abysmal two stars.”
“Who in the hell is reviewing Grim Reapers?”
“Celestial Escorts,” she reminds me. “And just recently, you received a review from a fellow named Bob who said you were rude and made fun of his leprosy.”
A dry chuckle passes my teeth. “Well, his nose fell off while he was arguing with me. Tell me you wouldn’t have laughed.”
She stares at me deadpan, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow rising so high, it nearly disappears into her hairline. “Do you see me laughing.”
“I guess you had to be there.”
“The point is, your personal score is abysmal. And as such, it is dragging the GHI score of our entire department down,” she says primly. “Furthermore, we have had repeated conversations about this, and you seem incapable of changing. In fact, you don’t even seem to want to try to change.”
“I’m a Grim Reaper, we are eternal. We don’t change.”
“You are a Celestial Escort, or rather, you were.”
“What?”
“Since you seem incapable of working as part of our team and in fact, seem to scoff at the very idea of our goals here at the Societal Happiness Integration Team, we have come to the decision to demote you.”
“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
“Again, do I look like I’m laughing?”
“Do you ever?”
“You are being reassigned to a different department,” she says curtly. “And perhaps, one day, if you work hard and embrace the changes we are attempting to make, we will reinstate you as a Celestial Escort. For now, though, you will be taking your talents—elsewhere.”
I pull the red bulb off my nasal cavities and toss it at her. “Great. Where am I going?”
* * * * *
“You there,” the minor demon growls. “Go clean room 666. And be quick about it, I’ve got another appointment in half an hour.”
I sigh. “They’re all room 666, dummy. You need to be more specific.”
His yellow eyes narrow as he frowns. He points with a long, taloned finger at a door to his right, then walks away, muttering darkly to himself. I can’t hear everything he said, but I’m pretty sure he called me an asshole. Pushing my cart, I stop at the door he’d pointed to, push it open, and sigh as I stare inside.
“Bloody hell,” I mutter.
Walking into the room, I pick up a leg and then a hand, dumping them into the trash can on my cart, grimacing as blood and other bodily fluids I can’t readily identify splash onto my light blue coveralls. I stare at the array of multicolored dots all over me.
“Dammit. That’s going to be a bitch to get out.”
It takes me nearly the full half hour to get the room clean, sanitized, and ready for the next hapless soul who is set to be flogged, flayed, and otherwise tortured in here. Sweat pours down my brow and my uniform sticks to my bones uncomfortably. It’s hot as hell in here.
Pushing my cart out of the room, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and see the stenciled lettering on my back that identifies my new department.
Corporeal Remnants Acquisition Patrol
Shaking my head, I laugh to myself as I push my cart down the corridor. “These fucking acronyms.”
I sigh and lean back in my chair, offering her a small shrug because I have nothing to say. The last place I want to be is here when I should be out there doing my job. But ever since we got new management, doing my job has become all but impossible.
A cigarette dangling between nails lacquered blood red, she leans forward. “Why is it you are having such a difficult time adjusting to our change in policy?”
“I’m doing my job, Karen. I don’t know what it is you want me to say.”
She takes a drag from her cigarette and looks like a smokestack as she exhales. Her amber-colored eyes cut through the fog, pinning me to my seat, the corners of her blood red lips curling upward in a grin that looks feral.
“You are part of the Societal Happiness Integration Team,” she says. “And yet, you are proving yourself to be anything but a team player.”
I cover my mouth with a long, bony hand, trying to hide my amusement. If there’s one thing about bureaucracies you can count on, it’s the ridiculous acronyms. Clearly, somebody didn’t think this one through. Karen’s face tightens. If bitter middle-management striving to be something more had a face, it was hers.
“We are charged with raising society’s happiness. That is a job I take very seriously,” she growls. “And I find it personally offensive that you continue to refuse to comply with our new mandates and procedures.”
“Look, this is ridiculous,” I say as I get to my feet and stretch my arms out, turning in a slow circle, allowing her to take me in from giant, oversized shoes, to rainbow-colored wig. “I’m wearing a fucking red bulb nose, Karen. And it has to be glued on at that!”
“And?”
“I’m a Reaper—”
She raises a finger. “No, you are a Celestial Escort."
If I had eyeballs, I’d be rolling them. “Fine. I escort souls of the dying to the other side. I’ve been doing this job a hell of a lot longer than you’ve been dead—”
“And?”
“And you have me dressed like a fucking clown, Karen!”
“Yes, well, Management has come to see that we have a very bad reputation. People don’t like us,” she says. “Management further believes that if we present a friendlier face, the fear of us will subside, thus increasing general overall societal happiness.”
“The people I Reap—”
“Escort.”
“For fuck’s sake. They’re dead, Karen—”
She tsks me in a disapproving way. “We no longer refer to them as dead, as per the manual, which you obviously haven’t read. They are referred to as living-adjacent. Or, if you prefer, transitioning souls.”
If I had a bridge on my nose, I’d pinch it in frustration. But since all I have are the nasal cavities in my bony face, I run a hand over it. I long for the days when I wore black robes and carried a scythe. People knew what I was there for when I showed up. It was simple. Easy. Now? Now they think I’m there to entertain their goddamn children.
“Why is this so difficult for you to grasp?” she asks.
“Somebody I was there to Reap—”
“Escort.”
I throw my hands into the air. “Whatever. But just yesterday, a woman asked me to make her a fucking balloon animal. A chihuahua,” I growl. “This job used to be one of honor. It was always handled with grace and the proper gravitas. Now? Now, we’re a joke.”
“I assure you, the goal of global happiness is a noble one. Our GHI rating is, quite frankly, in the toilet, and—”
“What in the hell is a GHI rating?”
“Global Happiness Index,” she replies smoothly. “Analytics are very important to management and drive our most critical decisions.”
“For fuck’s sake.”
“Our GHI rating is a responsibility we at the Societal Happiness Integration Team take very seriously,” she tells me. “Management has conducted many, many focus groups and have learned that people find it easier to transition, if they feel a sense of happiness as they cross over. And what could be bring that sense of happiness better than one who inspires joy and laughter?”
“I’m a fucking clown.”
“And people love clowns,” she responds. “At least, according to our focus groups.”
“Pennywise. Twisty. Art. John Wayne fucking Gacy. There is a whole subset of clowns who inspire more terror than I ever could in my traditional uniform,” I growl.
“Be that as it may, Management feels clowns inspire joy. More joy equals better reviews—”
If I had eyebrows, I’d be raising them right now. “Reviews?”
“Yes,” she says and picks up a piece of paper. “Our Yelp reviews are lagging. You, my friend, are sitting at an abysmal two stars.”
“Who in the hell is reviewing Grim Reapers?”
“Celestial Escorts,” she reminds me. “And just recently, you received a review from a fellow named Bob who said you were rude and made fun of his leprosy.”
A dry chuckle passes my teeth. “Well, his nose fell off while he was arguing with me. Tell me you wouldn’t have laughed.”
She stares at me deadpan, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow rising so high, it nearly disappears into her hairline. “Do you see me laughing.”
“I guess you had to be there.”
“The point is, your personal score is abysmal. And as such, it is dragging the GHI score of our entire department down,” she says primly. “Furthermore, we have had repeated conversations about this, and you seem incapable of changing. In fact, you don’t even seem to want to try to change.”
“I’m a Grim Reaper, we are eternal. We don’t change.”
“You are a Celestial Escort, or rather, you were.”
“What?”
“Since you seem incapable of working as part of our team and in fact, seem to scoff at the very idea of our goals here at the Societal Happiness Integration Team, we have come to the decision to demote you.”
“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
“Again, do I look like I’m laughing?”
“Do you ever?”
“You are being reassigned to a different department,” she says curtly. “And perhaps, one day, if you work hard and embrace the changes we are attempting to make, we will reinstate you as a Celestial Escort. For now, though, you will be taking your talents—elsewhere.”
I pull the red bulb off my nasal cavities and toss it at her. “Great. Where am I going?”
“You there,” the minor demon growls. “Go clean room 666. And be quick about it, I’ve got another appointment in half an hour.”
I sigh. “They’re all room 666, dummy. You need to be more specific.”
His yellow eyes narrow as he frowns. He points with a long, taloned finger at a door to his right, then walks away, muttering darkly to himself. I can’t hear everything he said, but I’m pretty sure he called me an asshole. Pushing my cart, I stop at the door he’d pointed to, push it open, and sigh as I stare inside.
“Bloody hell,” I mutter.
Walking into the room, I pick up a leg and then a hand, dumping them into the trash can on my cart, grimacing as blood and other bodily fluids I can’t readily identify splash onto my light blue coveralls. I stare at the array of multicolored dots all over me.
“Dammit. That’s going to be a bitch to get out.”
It takes me nearly the full half hour to get the room clean, sanitized, and ready for the next hapless soul who is set to be flogged, flayed, and otherwise tortured in here. Sweat pours down my brow and my uniform sticks to my bones uncomfortably. It’s hot as hell in here.
Pushing my cart out of the room, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and see the stenciled lettering on my back that identifies my new department.
Corporeal Remnants Acquisition Patrol
Shaking my head, I laugh to myself as I push my cart down the corridor. “These fucking acronyms.”
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