Changes in fashion and culture affect everyone. Business attire had grown ever more casual. Flight attendants didn’t have to be stick-thin and perpetually twenty-three anymore. It made sense, then, for the Grim Reaper to rethink his look.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said to his tailor (a lovely man named Moshe destined to die of heart-failure at the age of fifty-seven.) “Black never goes out of style, but if one more child looks at me and wants to know if I’m the character from Scream I may go mad.”
“Those cloaks always seemed heavy for summer wear,” Moshe agreed. “And hard to keep clean, with the trailing hems and all. You’re supposed to be Grim, not grimy. Let’s try something simpler. Minimalism is very trendy right now.”
The tailor cut and stitched, measured (more than twice), cut some more, and finally held up the finished uniform. “Try this on, G.R.”
The Reaper went into the dressing room and changed into the new creation. Observing himself in the mirror, he smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant expression; the mirror cracked in response.
“Well,” called Moshe the tailor. “Are you going to let me see?”
The Grim Reaper stalked out to the main room. He always stalked. It was his way. Stalking and looming were two of his signature moves. “You don’t think the bare midriff is a mistake?”
“No, not at all. Do you like it?”
“I do,” the Reaper said. “The tattered shirt feels so breezy, and the trousers fit perfectly and I can move in them. I don’t know what to do about my scythe though. It doesn’t really enhance the look.”
The tailor was silent for a moment, studying him. Then he moved toward the accessory wall of his shop. “I have just the thing,” he said. The Grim Reaper heard different objects being lifted, examined, and tossed aside. “Aha!”
Moshe returned to the fitting area and thrust something into the Reaper’s hand. “This is perfect.”
“A briefcase?” The Reaper pronounced the word slowly, breaking it into its component parts.
“A multidimensional briefcase. It’s got a pocket for your scythe and another, zippered section for storing souls.”
“It’s perfect.” The Reaper folded his scythe into the briefcase. “You have my eternal gratitude.”
“Eternal?” Moshe asked.
The Grim Reaper opened the briefcase once more. “I’m afraid so. Come with me, Moshe. Everything will be alright.”
Moshe never felt his body hit the floor, but the Reaper and the rest of those dwelling in the Afterlife had perfectly tailored clothing for the rest of Time.
Art Credit: Boris Groh – https://www.artstation.com/borisgroh