Death
I walked into the party at about nine-thirty. Sure the party started at eight, but everyone knows the cool kids don't show up on time. It was better to be fashionably late, then I could make my enterance.

The music was pumping out of the speakers as I made my way to my circle of friends. The guys all slapped hands, most of them almost spilling some of the alcoholic contents of their styrofoam cups on the floor. The floor beneath their feet and the roof above their head belonged to some unsuspecting single dad away on business. He can trust his son right? Wrong. His son was the one passed out on his couch. 

They were the "in" crowd, a pool of popularity. It didn't take me long to end up with a cup in my right hand and a girl in the other. It didn't make me feel better, I didn't need to feel any better. I was where I wanted to be. Good friends, good times, and good drinks. That's just how it's supposed to be, or so I thought. 

Ever so slowly, I disentangled my fingers from the empty bottle I was holding and didn’t even hear it hit the ground. With a rude shove, I pushed the girl sitting on my lap off. She didn’t seem to mind, since I didn’t know her that well. She just transferred to the next guy on the couch. I stood up, using my hand as a support for my quaking knees. Making my way outside through a thick mental fog, I searched my jean pockets for my car keys. My football jersey, which still sported mud stains from that afternoon’s game, offered me no protection against the rain that came down in sheets. 

"Where’d I put my keys?" I wondered aloud. I was answered by my hand, which found the Ford key stuffed in my back pocket with my wallet. "Oh, thanks," I said, giving my hand a congratulatory pat. "If you could just find my car for me, that’d be great, thanks." 

The court was full of cars, many of them with dents gracing the sides. Had I been sober, I would have noticed this and mentioned something about the unsafe driving habits of high school students, but I wasn’t sober. Stumbling around in the dark after what seemed like hours, I landed a hand on a beat-up, white Ford sedan. It looked vaguely like my own, so I tried the key. It fit. I fell into the driver seat, and hiccuped. 

"Oops. ‘Scuse me." I grinned at the empty passenger seat and then looked out the window. "Do you want a ride?" I asked. There was nobody there to accept, but somehow I felt the door to the car open and someone sit in the seat opposite me. 

For a bare instant I was sober, and I saw the flash of a scythe and a black hooded robe. But I hiccuped again and asked the invisible form if he was Death. 

He said no. 

I didn’t believe him. 

"So, Mr. Death," I started, "am I going to die?" 

He said no. 

I didn’t believe him. 

"Well," I paused to collect my thoughts. "I guess I’ll drive home drunk then cause I’m not going to die." 

There was a chuckle beside me. 

"What’s so funny?" I demanded. 

Nothing, he said. 

"There’s got to be something funny since you laughed." 

He said he didn’t laugh. 

I said he did. 

We argued. 

I lost. 

"Fine," I said, pouting. "I’m going to go get in an accident then. We’ll see how funny that is." 

As I turned the key, the engine sputtered several times before groaning to life. I started to pull forward, but remembered about the emergency brake, which I released. Then, with a sloppy spin, I had the car on the road pointing towards home. 

"It’s awfully hard to see." 

He agreed. 

"Am I going to drive off the road?" 

He said no. 

"Am I going to hit another car?" 

He said no. 

I gave up on him and tried to see through the water-covered windshield. 

He suggested turning on the windshield wipers. 

With a sideways glance, I sneered at him. I felt uncomfortable with the fact that Death was sitting in my car giving me driving instructions. I told him that. 

He said keep my eyes on the road. 

I did. 

The lights on the other side of the road were shiny; they were coming at me and zipping past my side window. My thoughts were fuzzy. I started remembering my football game earlier that day. I laughed. 

He asked me what’s so funny. 

Nothing, I said. 

"You’re not the best conversationalist, are you?" I asked him. 

He said no. 

"If I get in an accident, would you be killed?" 

He said no. 

"But if you’re in the car, how can you avoid it?" 

He said he was already dead. 

"Oh yeah, that’s right. I forgot about that." There was an awkward pause in which he started polishing his scythe and I realized it. "You know, that’s kinda making me nervous." 

He apologized. 

"So what’s that thing for anyway? Do you kill people with it?" 

He shrugged. He said he doesn’t kill people, he just takes people who are already dead. The scythe was for releasing the souls. 

"Wow, cool," I said, and grinned, though I had no idea. 

He pointed out that I just missed my turn. 

"Oh, yeah. Um, hold on," I suggested. "I’ve always wanted to try this." 

It was a movie stunt I’d seen. And I knew it would work too cause I’ve seen it. Beside me, I saw Death shaking his head. 

"What?" I asked belligerently. 

Nothing, he said. 

"You think I’m not going to make it?" 

He said no. 

In a huff I tried to prove him wrong. Attempting a 180, I slammed on the brakes and at the same time spun the wheel to the left. At the apex of the spin, I pushed the petal to the metal and straightened the wheel. The car careened out of control for several seconds before regaining its traction on the wet road. 

"Wow, cool!" I exclaimed, proud of myself that it worked. I turned to him with a smirk on my face. "See, I told you it would work!" 

He said nothing, just directed a long, bony finger at the rearview mirror. I followed the direction he was pointing and saw the bright headlights reflected for just a second before they hit us.