Ex P1: The Proposal

Click.  Click.  Click.

The metallic balls of the Newton's cradle beat together idly.  Each click sent the opposite end swinging upwards and back down to continue the cycle, until finally the balls slowed and came to a halt.  An unseen hand gently pulled up one end and the object started its motion anew.

Sometimes mortals created the most useless devices.

Satan drummed his fingers anxiously on the polished mahogany desk top.  The systematic clicking was doing little to quell his dwindling patience.  He didn't have time for this.  There was going to be an earthquake in California within the hour.  A death toll of sixty-seven people wasn't something he wanted to miss.

Then again, that number could very well change with the plague of laziness his staff had suffered as of late.

"Arrogant rats," the ruler hissed behind clenched teeth.  "How I crave the days when subservience was written into the job description."

Right on cue, the office door creaked open.  Irony, as usual.

Satan exhaled, rolling his eyes.  "Speak of the Devil," he shot.  "Is timeliness too much to ask, Death?  Your skeletal brother was a much finer slave.  You should learn from his obedience."

Dirt-caked work boots thumped against the sleek wood floor as the God sauntered to the armchair positioned neatly before the desk.  The leather squeaked as he sat.  "Death always comes too early or too late," he chuckled, a smug grin spreading across his face.

"The latter seems to be the problem with you," Satan hissed icily, shoving a thin folder to the opposite side of the desk.  "Have you even cast so much as a sideways glance at your numbers this past year?"

Death tipped his head in a slight nod.  "You betcha."

Click.  Click.  Click.

Losing his patience, the Underworld God threw a hand in the air.  The folder copied his movements, snapping open roughly and flying into Death's lap.  "Don't give me that snarky arrogance, you useless flea!  To be blunt, you're slacking off.  The Greater Gods and I estimated that your collection would double, if not triple by the end of the month, what with all the nonbelievers these days.  Now, it's down a full sixty-five percent!  Please, enlighten me with one of your single-line witticisms that will explain your behavior and fix this mess."

A wave of a digit and the folder flipped back into its original place on the desk.  Satan glared into the shadow beneath his underling's hat.  "And take off that bloody cap when you enter my office.  You can manage to scrounge up some manners for your overseer, if no one else."

Death let out a short whistle and settled back into the armchair.  "That's a tall order there, chief.  I'll make you a deal --"

"Satan does not make deals with Death, whom I may remind you is trapped in a very deep hole right now and is only digging himself deeper," the ruler seethed.

The Death God held up both palms in defense.  "Ah, ah.  Let me finish."

Click.  Click.  Click.

With an exasperated sigh, Satan caught his face in his hands.  "Continue."

"It's the quota or the hat, take your pick."

"Fine, keep the damned thing.  Continue," he growled.

A low laugh seeped from Death's lips as they parted again into a toothy smirk.  He flicked the brim of his cap and leaned towards the desk, closing a tough hand over the Newton's cradle.

The God of Death hooked one of the small metal balls between his fingers and released it.  The spheres collided, and the device began once more.

"I have an idea."

Click.  Click.  Click.