A Winter’s Walk

“I’m just going for a walk. I need some air. It shouldn’t be long,” Wortog told his wife, then stepped out into the crisp Winter air.

“Why do all these holidays always have to be about her family and friends? Come on, Wortog, let’s make merry. It will be fun—fun for you, maybe, but not fun for me,” thought the man as he briskly walked down the path.

Reaching the crossroads, Wortog cut across the open field and stopped at the Black Shuck for a pint.

“You seem a bit out of sorts tonight, Wortog. You and the Mrs. having a row?” asked the barkeep.

“It’s just all this holiday cheer. Got me feeling cramped with the mother and sisters here and brother coming tomorrow,” said the man.

“I know what you mean. I had to sleep in the barn two years ago because the place was so full,” answered the barman.

Wortog finished his drink, paid, and bid the keep goodnight. He headed back down the path, deciding to take the long way home, which would give him time to clear his head.

As he entered the small wood between the village and his home, Wortog was startled to hear his name called out.

“Thomas Daniel Wartog, I have come for you,” said the voice.

Warthog froze in his tracks. Not seeing anyone, he called out, “Hello, is there anyone there?”

The air lay still, and no sound could be heard. Thinking he must have been the wind, he turned back toward his home, and that’s when he saw it.

“Sweet Jesus, what are you? ” the stunned Wartog asked the dark figure floating before him.

“I go by many names, but I enjoy The Grimm Reaper,” answered the figure.

“No, no, it ain’t my time yet. I still need to cook the turkey for tomorrow’s dinner. If I don’t, the wife will have the Devil himself after my hide,” said Wortog.

“Old Scratch, you say, well perhaps I could pick you up on my way back from Ipswich if that’s OK with you,”

“Oh, thank you. You have no idea what this means to me not having to face the Mrs’s wrath. Why she’s worse than the apocalypse,” the man remarked.

“I see. Well, I have put you down for tomorrow afternoon, say fourish?” asked the Reaper.

“It works for me; thanks again,” said Wortog as he climbed the small hill leading to his home.

Wortog arose before sunrise, killed and cleaned the bird, placed it in the roaster, and watched over it for several hours as if his life depended on it.

Precisely at two, his wife stormed into the kitchen and, in a thunderous voice, said, “Thomas Daniel Wartog, if that bird isn’t ready, the devil will have your hide.”

Wortog smiled and opened the oven door to reveal a perfectly roasted turkey. “Shall I serve it now, my sweet,” asked her husband. The bird was set on the serving tray and surrounded by potatoes and carrots.

Wortog carefully transported it to the table, where the ravenous hoards immediately set upon it. Wortog slipped back into the kitchen, poured himself a whiskey, and relaxed.

“I see you’re prompt. Let me finish this drink, and we’ll be off,” Wortog said to the Grimm Reaper.

“I hope the Devil will not be searching for you,” said the dark figure.

“Everything is fine. I can’t thank you enough for stopping by today. I mean that,” said Wortog, who walked with Death pleasantly chatting.

Thomas Daniel Wartog was found dead, sitting in the corner of the kitchen, holding an empty whiskey glass with a smile on his face. It seems there are some things worse than Death, after all.