Memories of Slorda

Ralph was a peculiar man. The giant, blond Scandinavian had spent most of his childhood - and early adulthood - in his mother's cottage, experimenting with foul-smelling mixtures. When he was nearing his greasy-haired, thirty-fifth birthday, the inevitable occurred; Slorda Larsen had turned him down. He had met Slorda years ago, when they were both thirteen. He'd been rehearsing for twenty-two years, and finally had brought himself to ask her out.

But Slorda would have none of it. She had giggled, then pulled a face. And then she had walked away without answering, just shaking her head. He thought he saw her later on, mouthing something to her friend that looked like either "Slimeball" or "I'm bald." Ralph had hung his head in shame. Slorda was not bald.

It was then that Ralph had turned to his childhood heroes. He had pulled out a wooden box full of painted wooden slabs, the Medieval precursor of trading cards. He had plunged his hand into the box, emerging with a random slab. And there, staring up at him, was Fllyd the Alchemist. And Ralph had known exactly what to do.

He had stood on the doorstep of the Larsen home in the pouring rain, pouring out his heart and vowing to find a way to eternal life in exchange for Slorda's love. The upper window curtain had parted, and one of Slorda's shoes had fallen onto the porch in front of him. He had taken it as a sign of devotion.

Unfortunately, when he did, indeed, find the secret to everlasting life, seven years had gone by, and Slorda had moved to a neighboring village, working for a lutfisk import ship. He had searched her out, and she had informed him quite tersely that the shoe was, in fact, thrown, and that no amount of immortality would ever tempt the beautiful, middle-aged Slorda to desert her career aspirations.

Seven hundred years had passed, and Ralph had moved on. He had enjoyed what aspects of life were available to the immortal, although he had never asked a girl out again. Somewhere toward the end of the eighteenth century, he had moved to France and discovered the joys of fishless food. He had studied under every great chef he could find, devouring the knowledge and its results voraciously. Thanks to a swift metabolism, the giant remained thin as ever, but still had to change his hair color and appearance frequently to keep from being recognized too widely. Even after seven centuries, Ralph wasn't really interested in offering immortality to anyone else.

And then Death had come. He'd been expecting it, really, but he hadn't expected him to be so persistent. Or violent. Eventually, it had been decided that Ralph would help Death with his job, on condition his body receive no harm in the meantime. He wasn't worried about that; Ted the Reaper was a man of his word, as far as Ralph could tell.

And so, Ralph the Scythe (as he had fashioned himself) now stalked away from the soccer stadium, swinging Death's scythe idly by his side and whistling. Several hundred at one structural collapse, and he hadn't even hit lunch break yet. It was going to be a good day.