Steve's First Shift: From Rubble to Reaper, the Cosmic Joke Edition

The first day after the last day

Back for more self-inflicted torment at the Dead Inside Co blog, where we autopsy the afterlife with the precision of a drunk surgeon wielding a chainsaw. If you've been following our lore dumps, forget that outdated toaster myth from Steve's demise—turns out, our boy got flattened like a cartoon character in a building collapse, the cherry on top of his paramedic burnout sundae. He shuffled off this mortal coil in his EMS job shirt, 5.11 EMS pants, and black tactical boots, reeking of adrenaline and architectural failure. Today, we're not just cracking open his first day as a Reaper Intern; we're vivisecting it, pulling out the guts, and laughing at the mess. Mentored by a Reaper Training Officer (RTO) who could out-grump the Grim Reaper himself on a bad day, this tale's got dark humor so pitch-black it's probably on a watchlist. Strap in, you gluttons for punishment—this one's got extra layers of despair.

Steve “wakes up” in the afterlife—or whatever you call that limbo between your last breath and eternal paperwork—still encrusted in rubble dust like he’s fresh from a demolition derby. His tactical boots echo on the cold, linoleum floor of what looks like the world's most depressing call center: flickering lights that give you migraines in the afterlife, the faint hum of souls bitching about their exit strategies, and a waiting room packed with the recently deceased swiping through phantom social media feeds on phones that never charge. Steve's EMS shirt is torn, his pants are ripped at the knees from one too many trauma calls, and he's got that thousand-yard stare that says, "I thought death would at least come with a coffee break." “This makes dispatch look like a spa day,” he grumbles, brushing off chunks of concrete that could double as souvenirs from his personal apocalypse.

That's when Grimshaw shambles in, the RTO who's been harvesting souls since cavemen were inventing new ways to die horribly. Picture a skeleton wrapped in a threadbare cloak that's more holes than fabric, wielding a scythe that's seen more action than a medieval battlefield—and lost. His eyes are sunken pits of eternal boredom, and his voice? It's like gargling broken glass while chain-smoking unfiltered regrets. “Fresh meat, eh?” Grimshaw rasps, sizing Steve up like he's appraising roadkill. “You’re an intern now, hotshot. That means you’re the bottom of the barrel—hauling souls, choking on red tape, and steering clear of the vending machine. Last guy who tried it got possessed by a demon of expired snacks. True story.”

Before Steve can even process that he's swapped sirens for scythes, Grimshaw launches into Reaping 101 with the enthusiasm of a funeral director at a birthday party. He slams a clipboard onto Steve's chest—heavier than a fully loaded defibrillator—stacked with forms that could bury a small country. “Rule one: No heroics. You ain't saving 'em anymore; you're shipping 'em. Rule two: Triple-check the death roster. We had an intern once who snagged a dude in a deep coma—thought it was nap time. Now we're fending off ethereal attorneys suing for wrongful reaping.” To drive the point home, they portal-jump to Earth, materializing in a dingy hospice ward where the air hangs heavy with morphine drips and muffled sobs. The beeps of monitors sound like a countdown to oblivion, and the fluorescent lights cast shadows that dance like mocking specters.

Their first mark: Agnes, a feisty 92-year-old whose ticker is ticking its last tocks, surrounded by faded family photos and a half-eaten pudding cup. Steve's briefed to lurk invisibly, wait for the inevitable flatline, and then escort her soul to the processing queue—no fuss, no muss. But old habits die harder than Steve did; his paramedic muscle memory kicks in like a mule on steroids. He starts miming chest compressions in the ether, pumping away at nothing. Suddenly, Agnes jackknifes upright, eyes wild, hollering for her lucky slot machine tokens and demanding to know why the nurses hid her dentures. The monitors go berserk, doctors rush in, and Grimshaw facepalms so hard it echoes. “Outstanding work, genius,” he snarls, yanking Steve back through the portal. “You just turned a routine checkout into a miracle revival. That's not just a write-up; that's a demotion to filing cabinet duty. Enjoy alphabetizing eternal regrets.”

Undeterred—or maybe just too jaded to care—Grimshaw hauls Steve's sorry spectral ass to the “Catastrophe Simulator,” a cavernous chamber at HQ that's basically a virtual reality hell on steroids. Holographic disasters unfold in glorious, gut-wrenching detail: buildings crumpling like accordions, tsunamis swallowing cities whole, and pandemics turning crowds into coughing zombies. “Time to swing the scythe without swinging your savior complex,” Grimshaw barks, thrusting a training version into Steve's hands—a pathetic pool noodle topped with a jingle bell that tinkles mockingly with every pathetic swipe. Steve takes a swing at a simulated soul dummy, misses spectacularly, and instead “reaps” a nearby plastic cactus. The thing erupts in a shower of neon green slime, coating them both. Grimshaw doubles over in wheezing laughter, tears (or ectoplasm?) streaming down his bony cheeks. “Boy, you're a natural-born calamity! Reminds me of the intern who botched the Black Death—kept reviving rats thinking they were pets. Ended up extending the plague by a century. Good times.”

But wait, there's more torture in store, because what's the afterlife without bureaucracy to make you wish for a second death? Back in the bowels of HQ, Steve's buried under avalanches of forms: soul intake manifests, cause-of-death certifications, and appeals from the damned trying to weasel out of their fates. Typos doom souls to limbo loops, where they relive their worst moments on repeat—like that one shift where Steve lost a patient to a paperwork delay. The coffee machine? It's a sentient beast that brews sludge tasting of forgotten dreams and occasionally belches out screams from lost souls trapped in its filters. Over a steaming mug of what might be liquefied despair, Grimshaw loosens up enough to spin yarns from his eternal career. “Ah, the good ol' days,” he reminisces, “reaped a pirate captain once, mid-plunder. Guy tried bribing me with buried treasure—turns out it was fool's gold. Now he's stuck in purgatory's economy class, folding napkins for eternity.” Another gem: the time he collected a rockstar OD'ing on stage, only for the fanbase to start a cult demanding his resurrection. “Had to call in reinforcements—nothing says 'party's over' like a squad of reapers crashing the encore.”

As the endless shift grinds toward its merciful close, Steve's EMS gear is singed from simulator mishaps, his boots are scuffed like they've trudged through every circle of hell, and his spirit's pondering if burnout has a frequent flyer program in the great beyond. Grimshaw, in a rare moment of almost-mentorship, thumps him on the back with enough force to rattle bones. “You didn't completely cock it up, rubble-boy. For a guy who got squished saving lives, that's progress. Tomorrow's zombie apocalypse training—pro tip: Don't hug the biters; they bite back harder than your ex-wife's alimony demands.”

There you have it, you delightful deviants: Steve's inaugural plunge into the reaper racket, complete with fumbles, phantoms, and enough dark twists to knot your intestines. We'll keep the lore flowing as our burnout paramedic claws his way through the afterlife's endless red tape and soul-sucking shenanigans. If this hit your void just right, slither over to the shop for “Dead Inside” hoodies that hug your emptiness, mugs that mock your mornings, and stickers to slap on your existential dread. Spill your guts in the comments—what's the most soul-crushing first day you've endured? Can it eclipse Steve's rubble-riddled rookie run?

Stay eternally wretched,

• The Dead Inside Co Team