There was a moment in my life where I didn't like direction. I still don't – but for this particular instance, I didn't think this stranger did, either.

He was a deeply interesting looking individual. I met him under unnecessary means, but it was on a cold day when I needed to smoke. I clocked out of work this day. It was one of those unnecessary days, for no real reason. I didn't need a break. I typically don't. 

But I figured that for the day, it was alright.

My usual shift at work (typically) involved nothing crazy. Shuffling through papers for a dead company during a bad period of my life. I don't like them and I don't think I ever will.

When I do get to do actual work, that's when I feel my best. It usually starts off simple.

We handle with anomalies and studies of them, shit that doesn't necessarily matter in the grand prospect of my story. What does is when they schedule me for grunt work.

Occassionally, my higher-ups schedule me for ▇▇▇▇▇▇, but most of the time I ask to ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇. That's when my job is worth my time because it involves me handling what we like to call "Mercy Work". It doesn't take a genius to figure out what that entails. I see a guy, I find him, I kill him. Nothing complicated. It's the one job I enjoy the most because it's the one that requires me to think the less.

But on a day where I'm not supposed to think at all, ironically, it's all I'm doing.

So I meet the guy outside of a retail store that closed about a week ago. The area isn't too populated and the skies are usually grey. The whole place smelled like a thick, wet fog, but I didn't really mind it much. That's when the silhouette of horns catches the edge of my sight, and for a moment, I'm thrown off, because no deer I know of comes this close to a person.

Then I find out that it isn't a deer. Similar ilk, but not quite– that's a fucking caribou. And better yet, that's a caribou head, not a fucking caribou. A caribou head mounted on a person.

So I'm sitting here thinking, huh. I've really hit rock bottom.

Then he talks.

"Greetings, my masked friend." He coos, arms leaned towards his shovel. "How do you fare?""...I fare fine, thank you.""I would argue otherwise for such a dame to appear in such a desolate place. I feel like you might be here for something grandiose past yourself," The stranger remarks. "Do you know who I am?""... Not at all.""I'm the Gravekeeper.""I bet you are, buddy."The Gravekeeper laughs - airy, like there's a peculiar humor to my response that I wouldn't understand. "No need for that. Tell me, my masked compatriat, have you bled?""Huh?""I'd assume - since you are human, just like myself, that you bleed.""What the fuck are you on about? I'm here to smoke.""Please," The Gravekeeper held it's hand out. "Entertain me for a minute or two. I can assure you that we won't cross paths again.""A miracle.""That it is, for the both of us. Now, Toro, I don't want to ask more than once. Have you bled?"

I laugh into my hand awkwardly. Didn't expect a fan. "That I have, more than once. If that fuckin' means anything to you.""Did you like it?""Maybe.""Would you like to again?""Are you threatening me?""No, nonsense. I would never. I know the things you do, and believe me, to a degree– I value my safety. Just, in a more general way, would you like to feel it again?""No.""Why not?""Because it'd be fucking annoying.""Not because it hurts?""Do I look like a fucking idiot to you?"

A shift. "Of course not.""Then why do you - what, do you want me to give a shit?""No. I want to know why you don't.""Becuase I - why do you keep - I don't know who you are.""You don't need to.""Are you fuckin' special?"

"In more ways than one, if that's what you imply." 

"I mean you're - you're a nutcase.""You're one to talk." He retorts.

"What's that supposed to mean?" At this point, I'm pissed off. I didn't come out here to get fucking analyzed. "I should kill you.""Ohh, I wouldn't do that.""Why?""I'd take you with me.""What?"

"Toro Mosquera, I don't think you know who I am. Which is fine, because I don't believe anyone is supposed to. I don't frequently want them to." He says as he leans further against the handle of the shovel. It clanks against the sidewalk. I don't like the noise. He continues promptly,

"I know I can't kill you. No, not by any means. But it doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things – say, Toro, have you ever been chased?""Plenty.""Have you felt freed?""Shut the fuck up, man.""I would take it into consideration.""I should kill you."

I didn't bother to remember the rest.

I really don't like that guy.