Death came for O'Neill

Death came for O'Neill
He appeared very much as he did
in Ingmar Bergman's The Seventh Seal
O'Neill was sitting in the bathtub
“Who the fuck are you?” He snarled
“I am Death,” was Death's reply
“How do I know you're not just some dirtbag burgler
with bad taste in clothes?”
“Who are you to talk about bad taste in clothes?”
“Eat shit and die, Fuckface,” said O'Neill
“If you're really death and not some figment of my imagination,
which has been kind of fertile lately, prove it,”
taunted O'Neill trying to provoke Death.
“And don't just strangle me like some serial killer.
I studied them all, and they're bo-ring.”
“Done,” said Death,
and suddenly O'Neill sensed his body was gone,
and suddenly he was floating in a dark, empty space.
“At last,” thought O'Neill. “He bit.
I'm rid of that wothless sack of shit
I've lived in all those years.
It brought me nothing but grief.”
Then O'Neill sensed Death was still nearby.
“Why'd you come in such a trite form?” he asked.
“I come to comfort people, to ease the transition.
I thought you'd appreciate the cinematic reference.
What did you want Oprah Winfrey?
A lot of people seem to prefer that.”
“Ah, Death is a semi-witty intellectual.
As for comfort, you're three months too late, asshole...
Have you read the Gnostic Gospels?”
“I wrote the Gnostic Gospels,
but I haven't got time to discuss them with you.
A lot of people need to be dead right now.”
“Interesting. What happens now?”
“You stay here for a couple of hours.
Then you get turkey bastered into the womb
of a goddess worshiping lesbian feminist in Cleveland.
Her and her partner have waited nine years for a child.”
“Oh, shit, I'm going to Hell,” thought O'Neill.
“Actually, no” replied Death,
“You're going to enjoy making them miserable.
They're being punished for being abusive landlords.
God could think of no one
who would torment an abusive landlord
like you.
Oh, and you're going to be cute little girl who loves to flirt,
with all the male chauvinist pigs.”
Then Death was gone, and O'Neill was alone.
He reflected on all his arguments against Wiccans
the way a warrior would sharpen his sword.
“Stuck with a fucking pussy,” he thought.
“Poetic justice, I suppose...
No one's gonna Charlie this bitch...”
He waited.

--- The Rose