I glanced at Cameraperson as the green light came on. “I’m Alison Alistair, Channel 13 News’ go-to reporter for chaos. We’re live at the Shock family compound.” I gestured at the chaos behind me. “Heroes and villains alike have gathered to celebrate Scottie’s eleventh birthday—the first full family reunion in forty years.”

  “Everyone’s pretending to behave—all for cake and ice cream. Insurance rates are brutal, and hospitals are still recovering from the skyscraper incident eight years ago.”

  I wandered, making small talk with some familiar heroes and villains. After a few minutes, I spotted Scottie—the birthday boy himself—and flipped my mic back on.

  “Scottie Shock,” I said. “How’s the party? Do you remember me? Alison Alistair, Channel 13 News?”

  “Hi, lady. My stupid grandma got me a BolaMart gift card instead of a Gas gift card. I told her—I want a Gas gift card! BolaMart doesn’t even sell computer games!”

  “What about your other grandma?”

  “She’s at Mahjong on Saturdays.”

  “Okay, the viewers are dying to know—did you get anything you actually wanted for your birthday?”

  “Nope. My Dad got me a figure of himself. Papa—my other Dad—got me a figure of Dad! I have fourteen now.”

  “That’s too bad, Scottie. We all hope the rest of your birthday has been—”

  CRASH

  “Did your dad just throw Captain California out the window?!”

  “They do that all the time. Papa used to live with Uncle Cali before marrying Dad. Uncle Cali always gets me the good stuff. He says I remind him of how Dad used to be—before the skyscraper incident. He brought me these magazines, and they’re—”

  “YOU ROTTEN PILE OF CRAP! I TOLD YOU TO STAY AWAY FROM THRONE!”

  Behind us, Scottie’s Dad punched a hole through Uncle Cali’s chest. Scottie barely blinked, sidestepping Ahura—who’d just been decked by The Moustache—like it was nothing.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Hey, lady! Are you even listening?”

  “Hmm… oh, yeah. So Scottie, what do you make of the chaos around us? Your Aunt Goldie seems to have killed your older brother Egg, and cousin Strack is nailed to the wall.”

  “I don’t care about that. See this? This is a BolaMart gift card and this is a Gas gift card. And Aunt Devilkins crocheted me a sweater and pinched my cheeks. Neither of those are gifts! I gave the sweater to Bratwurst, my dog. Have you met Bratwurst? Here, boy! C’mon, Brat.”

  A dog the size of a Mini Cooper trotted over wearing an orange-and-cream monstrosity. He plopped down in front of Scottie, then leapt up and pushed him down—just as a fluorescent green bolt zipped through the space where he’d been standing.

  “Maybe we should go somewhere safer to finish this interview?”

  Teenage Typhoid’s torso flew overhead as Scottie answered, “Everywhere in my house is safe, lady. That’s what Dad and Papa always say when a monster gets electrocuted trying to climb into my window.”

  Teenage Typhoid's legs exploded next to me in a display even Jackson Pollock would’ve called “bold, but deeply concerning.”

  I hope I can expense the dry cleaning—my pant legs look like I stepped in a river of spaghetti.

  “How about another room then? It’s getting a bit loud here.”

  “YOU ROTTEN PILE OF FLIRG MAGGOTS! DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG IT TAKES TO PUT TEENAGE TYPHOID BACK TOGETHER?!”

  Bad Ass Buddha thrust both palms out, and hurricane winds smashed Goth Gimli out the window. I lost sight of him when he hit the horizon.

  I sighed. “A kid shouldn’t live like this.”

  “Let’s go to my room, lady. It’s pretty awesome. My TV takes up two whole walls. I have a super powerful computer—more powerful than Papa’s. Brat lives there with me. He’s my best friend. Well, my only friend. It gets lonely here. That’s why Brat and me play games.”

  Scottie paused, frowning. “Maybe Grandma is going blind. Or maybe… she just doesn’t listen.”

  I followed Scottie as he stomped through the obscenely enormous house, sidestepping what was once their housekeeper, an eagle that made some really bad life choices, and empty liquor bottles. At last, we reached a door plastered with anime and video game stickers.

  Scottie walked in, Brat trotting beside him.

  Inside, I saw every child’s dream: a TV larger than my house, a computer NASA would be jealous of, an actual race car bed that looked like it could still drive, and various toys, games, and clutter.

  “Hey, what’s that?” Scottie darted toward the bed—just as Great Uncle Spike Spear crashed through the wall and splattered against the TV.

  “Holy fu—fudge,” I stammered.

  Scottie squealed and tossed the BolaMart gift card to Bratwurst.

  “I got a Gas gift card! My other grandma came through—dropped this on my bed on her way to Mahjong. I knew I could count on her.”

  Somewhere downstairs, someone screamed, “THE ZEBRALOES ARE LOOSE AGAIN!”

  I turned to Cameraperson.

  “That’s our cue to go.”

  Reaper stories—quiet, darkly funny looks at Death dealing with very human problems (burnout, bureaucracy, scarves, and existential dread). They’re a different flavor, but they live in the same space where the absurd and the sincere shake hands.