You Are Concluded. (Sign Here Please): You Are Dead., #6

By Andrew Stanek

It's the final book in the infinitely long series! Nathan's final, decisive battle against the forces of the cosmic bureaucracy is here! Director Fulcher puts a plan in motion to obtain the legendary Form 1 and wreak his terrible statutory revenge against Nathan. Can Nathan, Travis, Brian, and one very angry badger stop the bureaucrats before they regulate everything Nathan holds dear? An atheist crusade, bureaucrats getting between us and our laundry, and Nathan's choice of college majors, all in this thrilling conclusion to the You Are Dead series, You Are Concluded. (Sign Here Please)!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew Stanek
• Release date: Dec 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9798215077504

Book preview

Prologue

It is a fundamental law of the universe that all good things must come to an end. Obviously, by corollary, this means one way to empower something to last forever is to make it bad, so it never need come to an end, but instead lingers like the stench of spoiled milk or baking garbage, never quite disappearing, but persisting to annoy its victims indefinitely. People, institutions, and civilizations down the ages have, realizing this, desperately demeaned, diminished, vilified, and generally worsened themselves to extend their own longevity, kicking puppies and burgling their grandparents and trading subprime mortgage derivatives such that they would unambiguously no longer qualify as a good thing. Artifacts of these attempts at spiritual putrefaction persist to this day. Take, for example, the ancient Egyptians, who allowed the quality of work and general standard of craftsmanship on the pyramids to deteriorate to such an extent that the dynasties of Egypt stood for 3,000 years. The Leaning Tower of Pisa was so shoddily and inattentively constructed that it continues to stand at its famous angle to this day; Aristotle was so careless with his philosophies, musings, and dialogues, that his loose-minded blitherings on a wide range of topics are still in publication. However, none of them have succeeded in totally purging all traces of goodness and value so utterly that they have become immortal. Only one institution is so pointless, so parasitic, so utterly without worth, sentiment, or redeeming quality whatsoever, so thoroughly without any trace of human virtue or goodness that it is never-ending and eternal.

I speak, of course, of bureaucracy - the despotism, the tyranny of paperwork that rules over man and badger alike.

Bureaucracy isn’t actually evil, at least, not in the classical mustache-twirling sense of strapping damsels in distress to railroad tracks - although bureaucrats certainly would strap a damsel in distress to a railroad track if they received the properly signed Form 265760: Order to Affix Damsel to Railroad or Other Non-Road Transportation Thoroughfare in the necessary triplicate. Rather, it’s more of an indistinct gray goop that, instead of being actively evil, is so devoid of redeeming value that it is immortal.

Yes, bureaucracy is forever and universal, stretching across the whole of space and time. In other words, bureaucracy is everywhere. Think about it: there is bureaucracy for money, for health, for entertainment, for sports, for building and destroying a house; even bureaucracy for being born or killing someone; there is bureaucracy for animals, bureaucracy for land, for housing, for cars, for education, for government, for law, for politics, for love, hate, and restraining orders, not necessarily in that order. There is even bureaucracy for bureaucracy. Like an all-consuming sludge, it has sloshed its way over everything, seeping into every corner of general existence.

This is, as ever, because reality is run by bureaucrats. Everything since the beginning of the universe, from the births of tiny babies to the deaths of distant stars, and everything in between, requires paperwork, forms, reports, committee meetings, consultations, procedure, and formalism executed by agents of the vast cosmic bureaucracy - or it does not happen.

Nathan Haynes, having defeated Director Fulcher, believed he was done dealing with the dull form-flinging agents of the cosmic bureaucracy. He and Travis Erwin Habsworth of 2388 Shillington Road, Albany, had even gone so far as to very wrongly speculate that they might have seen the last of Director Fulcher.

But, of course, they hadn’t. Bureaucracy, not being a good thing, cannot come to an end, and Director Fulcher, being a large, bear-like not-good-thing, cannot either. In fact, Fulcher had already devised a plan to restore himself to authority and existence and take his terrible revenge on Nathan and his many green chairs. This plan came to fruition one sunny morning in Dead Donkey, Nevada, while Nathan was doing his laundry.

Chapter 1

Nathan was busily soaking his laundry in his kitchen sink one fine morning in Dead Donkey while cheerily humming cereal jingles to himself when, suddenly, he heard a loud chiming noise. Nathan paused, trying to deduce where the chiming noise might have come from. Maybe it had been his laundry, attempting to distract him.

Nice try, Nathan said to the pair of socks he was currently attending to. I’m not falling for that again.

He dunked them into the soapy water and went back to washing and humming when the chiming noise sounded again. This time, Nathan was sure it hadn’t come from his socks - they were underwater and didn’t have that kind of persistence to begin with anyway. Could it be from his washing machine, apologizing for breaking itself? Nathan had been trying to bargain with it for the past few hours to repair itself, but it had been most unreasonable and insisted on remaining broken, which is why he’d had to resort to doing the laundry in the sink, like a common gibbon or an Amish atheist, of whom there were many in Dead Donkey. Nathan got so cross thinking about his washing machine that he subsequently forgot about the chiming noise and went back to humming the cereal jingle until, finally, the chime sounded a third time.

A realization echoed through Nathan’s cereal-soaked and badly battered brain. It hadn’t been his socks or washing machine or cereal at all. It was the door bell! Goodness, did that mean he had company?

Nathan frantically dropped his laundry basket and ran around the living room, making sure all his chairs were still green while humming his cereal jingle faster than ever, then raced over to the door and wrenched it open. In retrospect, the wrench was entirely unnecessary, but Nathan has never been a very together person.

Behind the door stood a fair-haired man of middling height in a brownish uniform, almost like a delivery man. He waved cheerily to Nathan, a large carving knife in his hand as he did.

Psychopath, the visitor identified himself. His tone was jaunty.

Nathan stared at him blankly.

What? Nathan said.

Psychopath, the visitor repeated pleasantly.

I thought psychics were banned in Dead Donkey, Nathan said suspiciously, squinting out at him.

No, no, sir, I said ‘psychopath,’ the visitor said.

Oh, Nathan said with a look of dawning comprehension. That’s alright then. Come in, come in...

He ushered the psychopath into his living room, whereupon he saw the psychopath had a hefty brown bag with him.

Thank you, the psychopath said, seating himself in one of Nathan’s less green chairs.

You’re most welcome, Nathan said, himself sinking onto his very greenest chair. Are you by any chance my new serial killer?

What? Oh, no, sir, never on a Tuesday.

It is Tuesday, Nathan said, blinking.

Is it? Dear me. I must have lost track of the date, but don’t get your hopes up, sir. I’m not here to kill you. I’m just here to sell you cookies.

The psychopath reached into his brown bag and pulled out a box of thin mint cookies, showing them to Nathan. They looked very tasty.

Would you like to buy a box? asked the psychopath. The proceeds go to support your local psychopath troupe and we imbed a razor blade in a random cookie in every box. He leaned in and began to whisper conspiratorially. Between you and me, sir, I happen to know this box has two razor blade-cookies in it, so this is the one you want.

That is pretty good, Nathan agreed haplessly. But I’m afraid I don’t usually support the psychopaths. I’m more of a serial killer person.

And I understand that, sir, the psychopath said. In fact, it’s very common for us psychopaths to hear from local residents that they prefer to support the serial killers to ourselves, and I completely understand why - serial killers like the Arizona Asphyxiator and the Edmonton Electrifier are getting all the press these days with their flashy, upsetting murders and letters taunting the police - but you have to remember that beneath them, supporting them, there is a hardworking community of psychopaths that regularly inflicts lower-level harm and general bodily pain on the residents of the city, and we too are worthy of your support. Just think about it! Without your local psychopath, who would there be to break into your house at night and cut all the heads out of your photographs? Or set fire to stuffed animals? Or even menace you with a knife on a street corner while shouting insanely to ourselves?

Well, there would still be the mayor, Nathan reasoned.

The mayor only does that as a hobby and you know it, the psychopath snapped, his temper rising. He started to finger his carving knife. The city needs its hard-working psychopaths to keep up the high standard of crime we’ve come to expect. Think of all we do for the city! We keep property prices down! Without us, you wouldn’t have been able to afford this house, would you? And it’s thanks to us that the sidewalks and dark alleyways are all vacant at night. It’s not the much-praised, benighted serial killers. It’s all us! Now, buy a box of cookies and support your local psychopaths.

He rattled the cookies and knife menacingly under Nathan’s nose.

All that stuff is true, Nathan said, scratching the side of his head with the wrench he was still holding. Okay, give me two boxes.

The psychopath instantly brightened as Nathan bought two boxes, and Nathan handed him a small amount of money he’d lifted from one of the dead salesman outside of Mr. Fletcher’s house.

Thank you for supporting your local psychopaths, the madman said. We rely on the support of upstanding members of the community to do our job.

No problem, Nathan said magnanimously.

The psychopath exited and Nathan stood, closing the door behind him. He’d just started to walk away whistling, feeling like he’d done a good thing today, when he heard the chiming noise again. After establishing for the second time that it hadn’t come from his socks, washing machine, or himself, Nathan stomped over to the door and opened it. It was a small girl in a uniform.

Hello, she said. I wonder if you’d like to buy some cookies to support your local Girl Scout-

No, Nathan said angrily. I don’t approve of the Girl Scouts exploiting cookies like this, he added, then slammed the door very rudely.

He turned to start walking back to his sink, where his laundry was impatiently waiting for him, when there was another chiming noise. Nathan turned and stomped back to the door, thinking it might have been the girl scout again, but found behind it a squat, portly, balding man in a suit.

Hello, sir, the portly man said, pushing a card into Nathan’s hands. I’m from Dead Donkey University’s Department of Lies. We’ve noticed that there’s a shocking lack of interest in dishonesty from local residents. Would you be interested in a free lecture on lying, deception, and general dishonesty, open to the general public? It starts at 1:44 PM tonight.

I can’t make it at 1:44 PM, Nathan said. I have to do my laundry and watch the news.

That’s fine, because I lied, said the portly man. It’s at 3:00.

3:00 doesn’t work for me either, Nathan said with a frown.

Good, because I lied again, the man said. It’s at 5:00.

Uh, I can’t make it at 5:00.

It doesn’t matter, because I lied; there is no lecture, the man said, then dropped his cards and ran away giggling.

Nathan watched him go, feeling confused, then shook his head and withdrew back inside the house. He’d only gotten a few steps when the chime sounded again. With a frown, Nathan turned back to the door and wrenched it open for what he promised himself would be the last time. If the door bell rang again, the deadbeat washing machine could get it. It was about time he started pulling his weight around here anyway.

Nathan opened the door.

This time, it wasn’t the man from the Department of Lies, or the girl scout, or even the psychopath. It wasn’t even a serial killer. The man who stood at Nathan’s door was a tall fellow with gleaming, dark eyes, orderly brown hair, and a sunken face lined with wrinkles. He wore a dark robe and emitted a faint odor that Nathan associated with zealotry. He looked vaguely familiar.

Hello, Nathan, the man said with an evil little smile. So we meet again.

Of course we do; this is my house, Nathan said. Who are you?

The evil little smile dropped off the man’s face, and he stumbled as he moved to step across the threshold into Nathan’s foyer.

How do you still not remember me? the robed man howled. I am Quaestor Dominique Delroy!

Nathan stared blankly at him.

The Deicidal Disenlightener! Delroy shouted. The Pope of Pessimism! Pascal’s Gambling Addict! The Anti-Bible Thumper!

Still, Nathan continued to stare blankly at him.

The Secular Cynicizer, Delroy screamed, stamping his feet and waving his arms in frustration. The Zarathustra Speaker! The Inconsistent Revelator! The One True Reverse Prophet!

Are you here to deliver a washing machine? Nathan guessed. Or haul away the old one? It’s right through there. It’s not working. It doesn’t even answer the door anymore.

I am not here to haul away the washing machine! Delroy screamed at him.

Oh, Nathan said. Then I think you have the wrong house.

No, I do not have the wrong house! Delroy said, his sunken face now red with rage. You should remember me, absence-of-God damn you! I’ve killed you, had you tortured, and lured you to a casino under false pretenses! I staged the kidnapping of your angry badger! I am the most powerful atheist in Dead Donkey! I personally converted the last of the warlike Viking pagans in Nevada to atheism and you should have heard of me!

Oh, Nathan said, scratching his head. Well, would you like to come in?

Delroy took a number of very deep breaths.

Yes, Delroy said. Yes, I would.

Nathan ushered Delroy into one of the less green of his several green chairs, then offered him some coffee and cookies from the box he’d bought from the psychopath, and after a few minutes of munching on non-razor bladed cookies, Delroy began to calm down considerably.

You’ve cleaned your carpet, I see, Delroy said chattily.

It was getting a bit bloody and unsightly.

Cleaning your carpet is, of course, a pointless and futile act that will ultimately fail because you’ll only get more blood on it, Delroy said.

Oh, yes, of course, Nathan agreed emphatically. I mean, definitely.

Last time we met, I seem to recall you had a box with an angry badger in it, said Delroy. What happened to your angry badger?

Mr. Fletcher’s looking after him today, Nathan said. I think he’s very happy with Mr. Fletcher. He just loves mauling salesmen.

The badger or Fletcher?

Both.

Ah, I see. Delroy put his coffee and cookies aside, then sighed heavily. Enough small talk. We should get down to business. Now that you know who I am -

-I still don’t really, Nathan said.

Delroy cradled his head in his hands, but snapped out of it much faster this time.

I thought this might happen, so I came prepared. Last time we met, you said you remembered Greg Changesponge because he had a statue of himself, so I brought you a statue to remember me by. Veritia, bring in the statue!

The Triumvirate of One, consisting of two men: High Counterinquisitor Nyx and Speaker Veritia - appeared at the door to haul in on a dolly a massive statue of Delroy, about nine feet tall and larger than life, made entirely of marble. Nathan, suitably impressed, tried to whistle at it, remembered he couldn’t whistle, and hummed a cereal jingle instead. Nyx and Veritia, with difficulty, plopped the statue down next to the greenest of Nathan’s several green chairs. Chiseled into the marble base in huge letters were the words QUAESTOR DOMINIQUE DELROY.

To remember me by, Delroy said magnanimously.

Thanks, Nathan said. It’s a really nice statue. Who’s it of?

Delroy banged his head on Nathan’s coffee table in frustration.

As Delroy vigorously concussed himself, Rob, the hanger on and possibly third member of the triumvirate, walked in the door in jeans and a t-shirt. He waved cheerily to Nathan.

Hi Nathan, he said.

Hi, Rob, Nathan replied brightly, waving back.

We should get some pizza after this, Rob said.

Good idea, Rob, Nathan agreed.

How do you remember Rob but not me? Delroy bellowed at Nathan. You’ve met Rob, like, twice.

Right, Nathan said, mystified. And who are you again?

Delroy banged his head against the table again.

I realize that all efforts are inherently doomed to failure in the greater scheme of things given the uncaring nature of the empty, pointless cosmos which is without Creator or meaning, but, Nathan, I honestly don’t know why I even bother with you. You’re half the reason I have apathy attacks.

Sighing, Delroy straightened himself up.

Let’s just skip who I am and get straight down to business, Nathan. Even if you don’t know who I am, you’re probably wondering why I’m here.

I am, Nathan said. I was expecting a serial killer, not you.

Yes, well, the thing about that is, usually, it’s me that sends the serial killer, Delroy explained with a sudden burst of patience.

It is? Nathan said in amazement.

Yes, Delroy said firmly. I sent three of your five serial killers to murder you - numbers one, two, and four, I believe. The thing is, usually what happens is I’m having some kind of theological difficulty - unbelievers, Dave, heretics, financial shortfalls, problems of that nature - that can generally be solved in some way by killing you, so I send a serial killer to murder you in the morning.

Of course, Nathan said amiably. I understand totally.

I knew you would. Now, usually the serial killer then kills you but you find a way to weasel-

Badger, Nathan corrected absently as he poured himself more coffee from a pitcher.

-weasel your way back to life, Delroy said. Then, usually, you and I meet at the end of the day and I explain the whole thing to you, which is completely pointless because you never remember me or the explanation to begin with, and the crux of it is that I’m sick to death of the whole cycle.

Right, Nathan said sympathetically. I can see how you would be.

So, I know I usually don’t show up and speak with you until the afternoon, but today, I decided to show up to have a word with you in the morning, because I need you to die again for me.

Why? Nathan said.

Reformers, Delroy said with a bitterness that only years as the most cynical atheist in Dead Donkey could possibly bring. You remember, on the past few occasions that we spoke, that heretical branches of atheism were popping up all over the city and that I was desperate for money - hard times financially speaking and all, people just don’t give to atheism like they used to -

-no generosity in people any more, Nathan said, putting down the wrench he had used to ward off the girl scout.

Quite right, Delroy said, helping himself to another cookie. Things just keep getting worse and worse, hardly any reason to believe there’s a future for the Church of Particularly Cynical Atheism at all - anyway, you remember I was resorting to extreme measures to raise money for the church so we could afford things, like giant marble statues of me to give to you.

Right, Nathan said.

I raised a lot of money that way, but suddenly the wave of heresy I was battling, like the Slightly Less Cynical Atheists and the Particularly Silly Atheists and the Particularly Difficult Atheists became a movement to reform the Particularly Cynical Atheist church.

No! Nathan said, because he was obviously supposed to regard this as a bad thing.

I know, right? Delroy said angrily. No trust in me as a leader. No faith in me. I swear, it’s like these atheists don’t believe in anything. Anyway, they began to accuse me of corruption and mismanagement of the church and are calling for reform of atheism - an Atheist Reformation. A bunch of the reformers have started their own church: the Church of Particularly Reformed Atheism, broken with the mother of cynical atheist churches, and caused an irreparable schism in atheism.

Why? Nathan asked curiously.

A lot of it was people complaining that I was selling atheist indulgences, Delroy said dismissively. You’ve never heard such whinging! It’s not like the indulgences I was selling had any power to actually redeem sins in the eyes of society or the law or prevented anyone’s lives from being an inexorable slide into shame, poverty, depression, trauma, and ultimately death. I needed that money and the people I was selling the indulgences too would have wasted it anyway.

Was that all? Nathan said.

There was also the matter of divorce, Delroy continued. You see, the canon law of Particularly Cynical Atheism regards marriage as insoluble and disallows divorce, because we believe that life is a miserable slog in which all human connection is fundamentally doomed.

Obviously, Nathan concurred.

So just as obviously, we don’t let you dissolve your marriage if your marriage is miserable. Why would we do that? Life is a parade of misfortune and having to stay married to someone you hate is part of that! But- Delroy rolled his eyes. These whiny, shrill Particularly Reformed Atheists say that to experience the full set of failures that life can bring, people should be able to re-marry so they can fail at marriage multiple times, dozens of times if they want. It’s completely absurd.

Totally, Nathan said, who was privately barely paying attention and thinking about breakfast cereal again. To sound like he was politely listening, though, which he wasn’t, he asked: So what else do these Reformed Atheists believe?

Various points of theological minutiae, Delroy said airily. "For example, I teach that non-salvation is attainable through following the dogma of the church, but the reformists believe non-salvation is attainable sola non fide - that lack of faith in God alone can bring about your non-salvation in the eyes of no one. They’ve also stopped teaching our dogma. For example, we atheists have a parable. It goes like this: ‘Once upon a time, there was a man. Then he died. The end.’"

That was so moving, Nathan said, wiping a tear from his eye. That could happen to anyone.

Exactly, Delroy jabbered. Anyway, the long and the short of it is that our atheist church is in the middle of a civil war and I have declared an atheists’ crusade against the nonbelievers, heretics, and reformers. In order to ensure victory, I have struck one of my bargains with Director Fulcher again, and my end of the bargain is that I have to kill you.

Director Fulcher? Nathan said, perking up. Oh, I haven’t seen him since I incinerated his file. How’s he doing?

Very badly, it seems, Delroy said grimly. I heard through the grapevine that he’s after something called Form 1.

This sounded vaguely familiar to Nathan. He screwed up his eyes trying to remember where he’d heard of Form 1 before, but it wouldn’t come to him. Maybe Ian had mentioned it to him. Soon, however, Nathan’s thoughts drifted back to laundry and cereal jingles and dental floss and angry badgers and the soap opera Donkey Days, as they usually did, and he forgot about it. He shook his head to clear it.

So the gist of it is that you need to kill me and you’re my new serial killer, Nathan said to Delroy.

No, Delroy said. Not exactly. You see, Nathan, I haven’t had a lot of success hiring serial killers or trying to kill you myself, so this time I thought I would experiment with a different method.

He reached into his atheist robes and drew out a gleaming gunmetal pistol, large-caliber, heavy, and very lethal-looking, and handed it over to Nathan. Nathan examined it. An inscription on the pistol declared it the Cynicizer.

I thought I would give you the opportunity to kill yourself, Delroy explained.

Although Nathan’s personal mantra was to keep a positive attitude at all times, he frowned slightly at this.

Why would I do that? Nathan asked. I don’t really want to kill myself right now. It would be an awful inconvenience. I have to finish doing my laundry, and killing myself could put me back a good half-hour, not to mention I only just finished getting my chairs back to green after all the blood.

Because this is your chance, Nathan, Delroy urged aggressively. If you think of killing yourself as self-murder instead of suicide, you could do what you’ve always wanted to do. You could become a serial killer!

Nathan gasped. He looked at the pistol like he’d never seen it before, which, in fairness to him, he basically hadn’t.

You’re right, Nathan said. I could murder myself! Nathan’s mind was suddenly ablaze with thoughts of glory. Could he really enter the highest rung of Dead Donkey society? Become a pillar of a community? Become... a serial killer?

Just think of it, Delroy said, grabbing Nathan by the shoulder and thrusting his hand out, making a sweeping, dramatic gesture. You keep coming back to life, one way or another, so this time, when you come back to life again, you could just murder yourself again and become the world’s first serial killer to serial kill himself! You would have invented a brand new type of serial killing - auto-serial killing, and you would of course be the first auto-serial killer. The Serial Killer’s Union would welcome you with open arms.

My God, you might be- Nathan then noticed Delroy looking at him severely and quickly corrected himself. My not-God, you might be right, Nathan said. Me! A serial killer! I could really do it! This would be my chance! My father always told me I didn’t have the intelligence or the moral fiber to be a serial killer-

But you could prove him wrong, Delroy said. You could become not just any old serial killer, strangling tourists on the curb, but a legendary serial killer, like the Great Lakes Lobotomizer or the Idaho Electrifier. You could take your place in the annals of Dead Donkey history, alongside the mayor and that smiley face painted on the side of a bus!

Wow! Nathan said. You might have something there, mister - what did you say your name was again? Wait, never mind. What do I have to do?

Just shoot yourself in the head, Delroy said. Then, when you come back to life, shoot yourself in the head again, and just keep doing that. It doesn’t have to all be shootings, of course, there are so many other ways you could murder yourself - stabbings, clubbings, drownings, suffocation, poisoning.

Nathan was nodding emphatically.

What a great idea! Nathan said. I think I’ll start right away.

He picked up the Cynicizer and placed the tip of its hefty barrel to his right temple.

And of course, Delroy continued smoothly. If we should happen to bump into each other later, I won’t hesitate to lend a hand by killing you myself.

Nathan burst into a friendly smile.

Really? Nathan said. You’d do that for me? Thanks! That means a lot to me.

No problem, Delroy said. I mean, you’d do the same for me if I asked.

I sure would, Nathan agreed emphatically. After all, I’m a serial killer now.

Then, he pulled the trigger on the Cynicizer, its smooth barrel still kissing his temple. There was a mechanical clicking noise but no gunshot.

Safety, Delroy reminded him gently.

Oh, right, Nathan said, flicked off the safety, repositioned the gun, and shot himself. A loud report echoed around his house and Nathan clattered to the floor of his living room, dying happy in the knowledge that he was one step closer to fulfilling one of his life’s ambitions.

The last thing he heard before he died was Delroy saying, well, that was easier than I expected.

Let’s go for pizza, Rob added.

Fine, fine, Delroy said.

Then, everything went black and Nathan was launched headfirst into the inky oblivion that enveloped the dead and the bureaucrats alike.

Chapter 2

The infinite, unending blackness was completely typical and utterly unremarkable in its infinity and unendingness - it was the same endless void of terrible nothing that always left Nathan feeling slightly bored and apprehensive of forthcoming events. Nathan, to pass the time more effectively, started to hum a cereal jingle and thought, not for the first time, that the infinite unending blackness might not be totally welcoming. He wondered if anyone had ever considered, for example, installing an infinite, unending pinkness or blueness instead of an infinite, unending blackness. Lime green might be quite soothing.

Nathan, who had never quite grasped that he was staring into the hideous maw of total nothing, was so pre-occupied with redecorating the wretched absence of all things in front of him that he barely noticed a chime not unlike his door