Pass the Gravy and the Epinephrine, Please

I don’t usually do house calls on holidays. Too much competition; heart attacks, drunk drivers, and that one guy who deep-fries a frozen turkey every year keep the rookie reapers busy. But when the cosmic scheduler pinged me with a triple-booked family reunion in suburban Ohio that had “Epstein client list” energy written all over it, I cleared my calendar.

Some meals you just don’t delegate.

I arrived at 3:17 p.m. sharp, materializing inside the dining room like a bad aftertaste. The table was a crime scene of beige food and forced smiles. Twelve adults, four teenagers on their phones, two toddlers smearing mashed potatoes into modern art, and one ancient golden retriever who looked like he’d been waiting for me since the Clinton administration.

The patriarch, Dr. Gerald, was already three bourbons deep and carving the turkey with the same trembling hands he once used to sign off on “research grants” that definitely weren’t for curing cancer. His LinkedIn still says “philanthropic investor,” which is the cutest little euphemism I’ve seen since “didn’t kill himself.”

Next to him sat his brother, Monsignor Tom (yes, really), collar unbuttoned because even God clocks out on Thanksgiving. Across from them: Cousin Vanessa, OnlyFans’ highest-earning “step-auntie” content creator, live-streaming the whole dinner to 87,000 paying simps who think “family holiday roleplay” is a personality.

I took my usual seat at the thirteenth place setting nobody ever uses. The kids thought it was hilarious to leave one chair empty “for the ghosts.” Kids are wise little prophets sometimes.

Dr. Gerald raised his glass. “To family,” he slurred, “and to secrets that stay buried.” Everyone clinked except Monsignor Tom, who was staring at his phone like it had just personally betrayed Jesus.

That’s when the new Epstein document dump notification hit every phone at the table simultaneously. You could hear the collective sphincter tighten. iPhones started buzzing like vibrators at a bachelorette party. Gerald’s bourbon glass slipped, shattered, and sliced his palm open. Blood mixed with bourbon on the white tablecloth; very on-brand for this crowd.

Vanessa’s stream chat exploded: “YO IS THAT DR. G FROM THE ISLAND PICS???” “$50 tip if someone reads the new list out loud rn”

Gerald tried to laugh it off. “Coincidence! Fake news! Deep state!” His Apple Watch started screaming about a heart rate of 180. He told it to shut up. It did not.

Uncle Rick (remember him from last year?) decided this was the perfect moment to “lighten the mood” by recounting the time he and “Uncle Jeff” took the yacht to Little St. James for a “totally above-board charity retreat.” Rick’s wife, Karen (yes, that Karen), went full exorcist-screaming-demon and threw the entire bowl of marshmallow yams directly into his face. Third-degree burns from 350-degree brown sugar are apparently a real thing.

Rick staggered backward, tripped over the dog (who finally, mercifully, coded out right then and there; I gave the good boy a quick soul-pat on my way in), and cracked his skull on the marble island countertop. Blood pooled into the shape of a smiley face. I’m not saying I nudged the puddle with my scythe, but I’m also not not saying that.

Gerald clutched his chest, foam at the lips now, eyes rolling back like a slot machine that just hit triple Epstein. The defibrillator the family keeps in the hallway closet (because of course they do) got dragged out by the teenagers who learned CPR from TikTok. They ripped open his shirt to reveal, I shit you not, an old tattoo that just says “Passenger List – Seat 4B.”

Monsignor Tom stood up, made the sign of the cross, and announced he was going to the garage to “pray.” Translation: he was going to swallow the barrel of Gerald’s vintage Luger he keeps in the glove box of the Bentley. I followed him, because double bookings are inefficient.

In the garage, Tom looked up at me, tears in his eyes. “Steve… am I going to hell?” “Buddy,” I said, “hell’s just purgatory with better PR. You’re going to the VIP section where the Wi-Fi is fast and the screams are in Latin.”

He nodded, whispered “Mea maxima culpa,” and pulled the trigger. The kickback sent his body into the stacked cases of 1942 Dom Pérignon. Bottles exploded like champagne fireworks. Fitting eulogy.

Back inside, Gerald flatlined while the teens were still arguing about whether you shock asystole or not (you don’t). Vanessa hit a new subathon record: 42,000 concurrent viewers watching a live death. She thanked them for the gifted subs while stepping over her uncle’s corpse to get better lighting.

The toddlers thought it was all a game and started finger-painting with the blood and cranberry sauce. One of them looked right at me, waved, and said, “Hi bone man!” Future serial killer? Maybe. I gave him a little skull sticker from my robe pocket. Networking.

By the time the paramedics arrived, four souls were already waiting in the foyer like it was the DMV. Rick’s soul was still trying to explain to Gerald that the yams were an accident. Gerald’s soul was trying to bribe me with offshore account numbers. Monsignor Tom just kept apologizing to the dog.

I harvested them all, lined them up like Black Friday shoppers, and turned to the remaining living. Karen was catatonic, Vanessa was cashing in, the kids were traumatized, and the dog was… honestly living his best afterlife already.

Before I vanished, I leaned over the ruined turkey, carved myself a slice of breast meat with my scythe (purely for dramatic effect; I don’t eat), and raised it in a toast.

“Happy Thanksgiving, mortals. Remember: calories don’t count if you die before dessert. And secrets? They’re like stuffing; eventually everything comes out the cavity.”

Then I flicked off the lights, left the front door open for the cops, and ghosted into the night trailed by the sweet, sweet sound of subscriber alerts and distant sirens.

See you next year. Bring pie. And a lawyer.

Yours in eternal darkness,

Steve the Reaper “Flight logs don’t lie. Neither do I.”

, and that one guy who deep-fries a frozen turkey every year keep the rookie reapers busy. But when the cosmic scheduler pinged me with a triple-booked family reunion in suburban Ohio that had “Epstein client list” energy written all over it, I cleared my calendar. Some meals you just don’t delegate.

I arrived at 3:17 p.m. sharp, materializing inside the dining room like a bad aftertaste. The table was a crime scene of beige food and forced smiles. Twelve adults, four teenagers on their phones, two toddlers smearing mashed potatoes into modern art, and one ancient golden retriever who looked like he’d been waiting for me since the Clinton administration.

The patriarch, Dr. Gerald, was already three bourbons deep and carving the turkey with the same trembling hands he once used to sign off on “research grants” that definitely weren’t for curing cancer. His LinkedIn still says “philanthropic investor,” which is the cutest little euphemism I’ve seen since “didn’t kill himself.”

Next to him sat his brother, Monsignor Tom (yes, really), collar unbuttoned because even God clocks out on Thanksgiving. Across from them: Cousin Vanessa, OnlyFans’ highest-earning “step-auntie” content creator, live-streaming the whole dinner to 87,000 paying simps who think “family holiday roleplay” is a personality.

I took my usual seat at the thirteenth place setting nobody ever uses. The kids thought it was hilarious to leave one chair empty “for the ghosts.” Kids are wise little prophets sometimes.

Dr. Gerald raised his glass. “To family,” he slurred, “and to secrets that stay buried.” Everyone clinked except Monsignor Tom, who was staring at his phone like it had just personally betrayed Jesus.

That’s when the new Epstein document dump notification hit every phone at the table simultaneously. You could hear the collective sphincter tighten. iPhones started buzzing like vibrators at a bachelorette party. Gerald’s bourbon glass slipped, shattered, and sliced his palm open. Blood mixed with bourbon on the white tablecloth; very on-brand for this crowd.

Vanessa’s stream chat exploded: “YO IS THAT DR. G FROM THE ISLAND PICS???” “$50 tip if someone reads the new list out loud rn”

Gerald tried to laugh it off. “Coincidence! Fake news! Deep state!” His Apple Watch started screaming about a heart rate of 180. He told it to shut up. It did not.

Uncle Rick (remember him from last year?) decided this was the perfect moment to “lighten the mood” by recounting the time he and “Uncle Jeff” took the yacht to Little St. James for a “totally above-board charity retreat.” Rick’s wife, Karen (yes, that Karen), went full exorcist-screaming-demon and threw the entire bowl of marshmallow yams directly into his face. Third-degree burns from 350-degree brown sugar are apparently a real thing.

Rick staggered backward, tripped over the dog (who finally, mercifully, coded out right then and there; I gave the good boy a quick soul-pat on my way in), and cracked his skull on the marble island countertop. Blood pooled into the shape of a smiley face. I’m not saying I nudged the puddle with my scythe, but I’m also not not saying that.

Gerald clutched his chest, foam at the lips now, eyes rolling back like a slot machine that just hit triple Epstein. The defibrillator the family keeps in the hallway closet (because of course they do) got dragged out by the teenagers who learned CPR from TikTok. They ripped open his shirt to reveal, I shit you not, an old tattoo that just says “Passenger List – Seat 4B.”

Monsignor Tom stood up, made the sign of the cross, and announced he was going to the garage to “pray.” Translation: he was going to swallow the barrel of Gerald’s vintage Luger he keeps in the glove box of the Bentley. I followed him, because double bookings are inefficient.

In the garage, Tom looked up at me, tears in his eyes. “Steve… am I going to hell?” “Buddy,” I said, “hell’s just purgatory with better PR. You’re going to the VIP section where the Wi-Fi is fast and the screams are in Latin.”

He nodded, whispered “Mea maxima culpa,” and pulled the trigger. The kickback sent his body into the stacked cases of 1942 Dom Pérignon. Bottles exploded like champagne fireworks. Fitting eulogy.

Back inside, Gerald flatlined while the teens were still arguing about whether you shock asystole or not (you don’t). Vanessa hit a new subathon record: 42,000 concurrent viewers watching a live death. She thanked them for the gifted subs while stepping over her uncle’s corpse to get better lighting.

The toddlers thought it was all a game and started finger-painting with the blood and cranberry sauce. One of them looked right at me, waved, and said, “Hi bone man!” Future serial killer? Maybe. I gave him a little skull sticker from my robe pocket. Networking.

By the time the paramedics arrived, four souls were already waiting in the foyer like it was the DMV. Rick’s soul was still trying to explain to Gerald that the yams were an accident. Gerald’s soul was trying to bribe me with offshore account numbers. Monsignor Tom just kept apologizing to the dog.

I harvested them all, lined them up like Black Friday shoppers, and turned to the remaining living. Karen was catatonic, Vanessa was cashing in, the kids were traumatized, and the dog was… honestly living his best afterlife already.

Before I vanished, I leaned over the ruined turkey, carved myself a slice of breast meat with my scythe (purely for dramatic effect; I don’t eat), and raised it in a toast.

“Happy Thanksgiving, mortals. Remember: calories don’t count if you die before dessert. And secrets? They’re like stuffing; eventually everything comes out the cavity.”

Then I flicked off the lights, left the front door open for the cops, and ghosted into the night trailed by the sweet, sweet sound of subscriber alerts and distant sirens.

See you next year. Bring pie. And a lawyer.

Yours in eternal darkness, Steve the Reaper “Flight logs don’t lie. Neither do I.”