The posthumously published and heretofore undiscovered diary of Death.

May 18, 4,000,000 BC:
     Dear Diary,
On my way back from the Thursday night mixer at the Fates' place, I hit the strangest thing with my car! My wife thought it must have been a dog or perhaps one of those welfare dinosaurs that just keep hanging around. Well, as it turns out, it was this hairless simian thing! I got out and watched it writhing and clutching its ruined cranium and thought "how cold it must be!" and told my wife to toss the thing in the car so we can find an emergency room at a veterinary clinic. Well, wouldn't you know, it didn't last a three mile drive and bloodied up my trunk and my good Callaways. Of course I had to take its soul, and I was in a foul mood anyway, so I sent it straight to hell. Let him bloody the low grade Top-Flites they use at that awful place. Plus, he was wearing only a fig leaf.
     -Death


June 5, 350 BC:
     Dear Diary,
God, I haven't written in forever! I'm so lazy. You would think I'd have gotten efficient and would just gather up the essence of the dying just lickety split, but screw it. I'd rather play Absolut Frisbee with Odin and his bad boys. Can you believe I ruined a nice evening the other day at the Kitten Klub just to collect from some Germanic hobo in a road-rut somewhere? Mom was right; I should have listened to my guidance counselor.

Oh, and it turns out that those hairless apes are just breeding like mad. When they aren't fornicating with little boys in the bath, the Romans alone are just popping them out like pellets! I swear, FedEx is warning me that if I pack my shipments of Eternal Spirits any more full they're going to stop taking them. I've taken to stuffing them behind bushes and just leaving them in little stashes under the couch. My wife hates that. "Dammit, death, you and your souls just clogged my vacuum again!" Bitch bitch bitch.
     -Eternal One


Jan 15, 1200 AD:
     Dear Diary,
Well, I hate the Chinese! I can't WAIT until they discover coat hangers in that awful country. Do you have any idea what 12,000 little Asian deaths does to one's insoles? But do I get help from EITHER God or Satan? Nooo. Mr. Bossy and Mr. Gloomy just keep making them and killing them off again. Am I missing something here? What's the point? Sure, job security for me, but it's getting so I don't even care where they go anyway. Heck, just the other day I lost on a par-3 course to Pan and got so mad I just sent every soul for the next three days straight to Reincarnation, Cockroach Department. I'm going to have a nice brew, watch some Sportscenter, and look over the Classified section. Sure glad I wasted 120,000 dollars on that sociology degree.
     -The Cloaked One


December 12, 1914:
     Dear Diary,
I can't believe I thought I'd write in this thing every day. Eternity just kills your work ethic. Take out the garbage? I'll do it tomorrow, honey. Collect all those Bubonic Plague souls? Yeah yeah, in a minute. Sheesh, and it never fails: I start getting it on with the ol' lady and there's an Inquisition somewhere. I remember the day when this whole Bringer of Death thing was just a hobby. I mean heck, it started out as a dare from Gabriel and Michael. Come to think of it, I don't think they ever DID pay me the twenty bucks. I hate the immortal.

Anyway, the humans are completely out of control. If it isn't war, it's little boys in coal mines, or industrial accidents, or--no, don't get me started on the automobile. Must they all die? My jaundice was acting up the other day and somebody killed the Kaiser. Fuck this place.

Mental Note: See God first thing tomorrow about that job application. I'm just not buying "Baby, nobody could do the jazz like you do. I mean, come on, you're Death for My sake!"
     -Dark Rider


June 3, 2000:
     Dear Diary,
Well as it turns out, I found a replacement! This dweeby guy was just about to be assassinated by some people hired by the Justice Department, when he brought out this battery of lawyers and made a deal with me. Sure he was some scrawny nobody who owned some sort of software monopoly, but heck, I wanted out so badly I'd give the job to Wyrd if I had to. He said something about buying up intellectual property. "You mean souls, Bill?" Yeah, he said. "Do you have any idea how much those damn things cost? Lucifer won't like the competition one bit." Apparently he knew, in a 45 page spreadsheet ledger, exactly how much the human spirit costs. Not only that, he said something about "eating the competition for breakfast". Well, it takes all sorts. But he got the job! I'm collecting my pension and you will find me from here on out soaking up rays in Tahiti! God, I need a tan.
     -The Entity Formerly Known as Death