Chapter 2: Promotion in Purgatory

The boss looked very satisfied: “Work hard, I’ll promote and give you a raise later.” I groveled: “Please don’t give me money, I’m volunteering! Giving me money insults my love for this job!” Why else would I work? Idiot! (As if I’d ever turn down a paycheck.)

The irony was almost too much. I’d sell my soul for a paycheck, but here I was, pretending money meant nothing to me. The things you do to survive in Maple Heights. I mean, come on.

The boss rambled on, then pointed at me: “I’m satisfied with you in every way, except your face—can you wash it? And your clothes, what’s with them, didn’t the supply guys give you new clothes? Why do you stink and look filthy…” Me: “Heaven and earth can witness, I only care about work! Where do I have time for these superficial things.” Bastard, you don’t deserve to see my real face! What’s wrong with my clothes? Every time I get new ones, I roll in the mud. Plus, I haven’t showered in over ten days. Let’s see if my stink doesn’t kill you!

If body odor could kill, I’d have wiped out this whole operation by now. Personal hygiene: the last weapon of the desperate.

I followed the boss. Just now, he was all high and mighty; suddenly, his tone changed like he was constipated: “Mr. Kane, what brings you by today, you must be tired from your trip, I’ll have people get things ready for you.” Mr. Kane? That name sounded familiar. My ears perked up.

Mr. Kane wasn’t just a name around here—it was a warning. The kind of name whispered in alleys and spat out at the end of threats. Even the toughest guys got nervous when he was around.

I looked up sneakily. Coming toward us was a mature man in shiny leather shoes, a suit, and slicked-back hair. He looked much younger than my old boss. The big boss of Maple Heights was called Mr. Kane! Didn’t expect him to be so young! Quite the operator! I felt a chill run down my spine.

He looked like he belonged in a Wall Street boardroom, not a backwater criminal syndicate. The kind of guy who could sell you your own shoes and make you thank him for it. Seriously, what a piece of work.

When I looked at him, he looked at me too. My constipated boss pulled me: “Mr. Kane, this is my subordinate, knows how to talk.” I lost my balance, dropped to one knee, then both, and groveled: “Mr. Kane, I will work hard, work my hardest, work myself to death! Mr. Kane, you are electricity, you are light, you are the only legend, I only love you, my super god! Please, you must value me! Trust me! Use me! Let my rotting, stinking self shine here!” I’ll burn you to the ground, you jerk! (But for now, I’ll grovel.)

If Oscar gave awards for best fake adoration, I’d have swept the ceremony. But inside, I was cataloging every weakness in that smug smile. One day, you’ll get yours.

I’ll definitely destroy your lair! Tear up your pretty face! Revenge was the only thing keeping me sane.

I made a mental note: one day, that perfect hair would meet a bottle of Nair. Revenge fantasies kept me going. Just wait, Kane.

The people here aren’t too sane. The boss smiled, waiting for Mr. Kane’s praise. Mr. Kane looked down at me, then perversely extended his foot: “Since you’re so eager, clean my shoe.” What a creep. Still, I kept my poker face.

I didn’t flinch. I reached for his foot, all wide-eyed devotion, as if licking his shoe was my life’s ambition. If only he knew how many curses I was hurling at him in my head. Ha! Joke’s on him.

Still kneeling, I didn’t hesitate to touch his foot, acting like it was the greatest honor: “My mouth that eats trash is worthy of licking Mr. Kane’s shoes? Mr. Kane doesn’t mind my filth!”

My voice dripped with false reverence. I practically bowed low enough to kiss the floor. But the stink did its job—he pulled his foot back, nose wrinkling. Score one for strategic filth.

Because I was close, he caught a whiff of my stench and, not doubting my sincerity, immediately withdrew his expensive leg. Hilarious, even this creep is disgusted! I’ll stink you all to death!

Never underestimate the power of body odor as a defense mechanism. If only I could bottle it and sell it to other desperate escapees. I’d make a killing.

I returned to the little corner I’d been assigned after my recent promotion. My underling ran over: “Boss Riley! Boss Riley! That group’s been locked up…”

Even my underlings were starting to look at me like I was some kind of legend. The weird, smelly, untouchable boss who’d survived Maple Heights. Not the reputation I wanted, but hey, it worked.

I led my underlings to the shipping container where they were held. They sat on the ground in disarray: the silver-jacketed, young Michael cursed, “Damn, what the hell is this place, where’s my magic? Why can’t I use it?” The golden Lady Luck sighed: “Call for backup! Think of something!” The red Cupid asked the dark Professor Whitaker: “Professor, what do you think?”

They looked like a group of cosplayers who’d lost their way on the way to Comic-Con. Michael’s jacket sparkled in the dim light. Lady Luck’s gold accessories looked out of place in this dump, and Professor Whitaker’s calm was almost eerie.

I was least familiar with the scholarly Professor Whitaker, never understood why he came. Even captured, he stood there graceful and calm, just a bit melancholic: “I wonder how Riley is?”

There was something about his quiet confidence that made the whole room feel less hopeless. Even in captivity, he had the air of someone who was just waiting for his train to arrive. It was almost comforting.

My underling, hearing my name, looked over in surprise: “Boss Riley, they know you?” Of course they do, a bunch of jinxes. “Yeah, they’re family.” Instantly, my underling looked at me with awe: “Only you could get so many relatives to come work at once!” “…” “No wonder you climbed so fast!”

The way my underling’s jaw dropped, you’d think I’d just revealed I was Santa Claus. I let them believe whatever made their lives easier. Less explaining for me.

Heh, underestimated me. I sent my underling away, closed the door, and finally got the attention of that group of idiots. The oldest, Cupid, was the first to step forward, looking at me warily, asking, “Who are you?”

Their suspicion was almost endearing. I took a deep breath, ready to drop the act. Time for the big reveal.

I took a deep breath and wiped the stinky mud off my face: “You four, here in Maple Heights to fetch the holy grail like Indiana Jones and his crew?” Hearing this jab, Michael, who often sparred with me, stepped forward. Lady Luck, who pays my salary, trembled: “You are, you are…” Professor Whitaker at the end: “Riley?”

I couldn’t help but grin at their stunned faces. A little theatrical reveal never hurt anyone. Showmanship is everything.

I made a purification gesture, and my pyramid scheme uniform turned into ghostly black robes. My filthy face became clean and poor-looking. My exclusive Reaper attire and accessories appeared. They all gasped: “Hey, little Reaper!”

The transformation was a showstopper. Even in a grimy shipping container, I had style. If you’ve got it, flaunt it.

Coming back to his senses, Cupid pointed at me, heartbroken: “How could you end up in a place like this?” Sigh, long story. I’ll keep it short. I clutched my chest, full of resentment: “I was scammed here by an online romance!”

The shame was real. Of all the things to get me, it had to be a catfish. I could have died from embarrassment.

Rumors were rampant in heaven, a million theories, but no one guessed this: Reaper dating online? I gnashed my teeth: “That damn fool actually tried to lure me here to steal my organs!”

The silence in the room was colder than the grave. Even Michael looked rattled. Not a sound. Awkward.

In the chilling silence, the least conspicuous, least noticed Professor Whitaker spoke. What he said shocked all heaven! Professor Whitaker: “I never sent you such a message.”

My heart did a double-take. Was I losing my mind, or was he gaslighting me? This couldn’t be happening.

Damn, am I crazy or is Professor Whitaker crazy? The plot just kept thickening.

I stared at him, searching for a sign of a joke. There was none. The plot thickened. Was I the only sane one left?

Shocking event number one in a hundred years: Reaper dating online; number two, the foul-mouthed Reaper and the scholarly Professor Whitaker, two unrelated gods, dating online! Screw your grandma!

My reputation was toast either way. I could already see the memes forming in heaven’s group chat. This was going to haunt me for centuries.

Cupid: “No wonder you insisted on coming with us to find her.” Whitaker nodded calmly, and explained to me: “I’ve never sent you a message telling you to come to Maple Heights.”

I looked at the calm Professor, choking on old rage. What’s it like when your online boyfriend suddenly has a face? Anyway, I felt all wrong, but couldn’t say why. Was I just a fool?

The ground felt a little less solid beneath me. It’s one thing to be scammed by a stranger; another to realize your confidant was never the one behind the screen. Trust issues, level 9000.

I held back my curses, asked: “Was the gentle, understanding guy online you?” He nodded: “It was me.”

My cheeks burned. I’d spilled my guts to him for months, and now the truth was staring me in the face. Awkward didn’t even begin to cover it.

Half a year ago, the old Reaper retired, and I took over fully. The job was heavy and stressful, I couldn’t sleep at night, just wanted to take revenge on the world. One night, I lashed out online. Then got caught by the admin.

Late nights, too much caffeine, and a keyboard—bad combination. My venting session turned into a therapy session with a stranger who, apparently, wasn’t a stranger at all. Figures.