Alison Alistair Goes to The Silver Disks

  “I’m Alison Alistair from Channel 13,” I said into the mic, then whispered to Cameraperson, “We need to get snacks before something inevitably happens.”

  “We’re live at the Silver Disk Awards—television’s answer to ‘What if we gave trophies to people not good enough for the Golden Globes?’ Tonight’s hottest question: who will win Best Corpse in a True Crime series.”

  I spotted the snack bar.

  “Let’s check out the food table—probably the only thing here with talent.”

  I stepped past a few people injecting Botox, over Stan Garmon—drunk and unconscious—and found Sue Dairymore smoking next to the brownies.

  I stocked up on sugar and weed gummies for later.

  “Say hi to the audience, Sue. Channel 13 is watching.”

  “Alison, darling—it’s so good to see you,” she crooned, tossing pills into her mouth.

  I waited for her to drain her cocktail, then asked, “Feeling confident about Best Sex Scene in a Waffle House Commercial?”

  Cameraperson smirked and tilted their head—their version of dying of laughter.

  “It’s between you and Trippy the Dog. Personally, I’m rooting for Trippy—he’s a good boy.”

  Sue snarled. “That mutt’s doomed. They nominated him to spite me. His sitcom will last one season max.”

  “Trippy just started season four. What about Most Likely to Go to Rehab?”

  Sue flicked her cigarette at the buffet table, lighting another. I watched the cherry spin in the air, and land—perfectly—in a bottle of Everclear.

  “Well, Alison, I’ve been trying to win,” Sue said, upending a pill bottle into her mouth and chasing with vodka. “Kyle James OD’d last month—hard competition.”

  The Everclear ignited. Flames raced across the table. I ate a cookie.

  “You just set the buffet on fire.”

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  “Not my problem. I’m not staff.”

  “Never change.”

  The fire spread fast—licking the floor, crawling up walls, and swallowing curtains. Z-listers panicked, hurling drinks like reverse Molotovs. Bill Barrel dumped a gallon of vodka on it. Smart.

  Through the chaos, a familiar silhouette emerged.

  I flipped the mic off and told Cameraperson to cut before whispering:

  “Fuck, is that Wi—”

  “Hello, Alison. We haven’t seen each other since—”

  “What do you want, Will? I’m working.”

  “I want to talk. About us.”

  “I’m good,” I said, walking away.

  “Ali, just one fu—”

  “Will, you were a two-episode arc in season one. It’s season seven.”

  Stu Migverna swung two Z-listers like drumsticks, hammering the flames loud enough to summon a demon.

  “C’mon, Ali. You miss me.”

  “Like I miss a rat in my—”

  Will crumpled as one of Stu’s drumsticks slammed into his balls.

  The fire hopped table to table, and Stu tied Z-listers together, forming a human plow.

  I looked at Cameraperson, they tilted their head toward the exit. If CP says go, we move. No questions.

  We pushed through the fleeing crowd. Johnny Ballon—my least favorite person—blocked our way.

  His eyes crawled over me like millipedes.

  “Alison Alistair,” he oozed, a silver toothpick twitching in the corner of his mouth. “Saw Will too. How ’bout me, you, and him grab a room—make you a human fingercu—”

  “Johnny, shut up.”

  “Why’re you like this, baby? You want me.”

  “I want you to get the fu—”

  Stu barreled in, slamming Johnny into the door.

  The silver toothpick shot out, spearing my ear. I dropped my plate.

  “Fuck! My gummies!” I clutched my ear.

  “Johnny! If I get an infection, you’re gonna wish Stu killed you!”

  I stepped—accidentally—on Johnny’s crotch as we left.

  “Fucking Z-listers,” I muttered, walking to the van. “Lost my snacks, weed gummies, didn’t get a sandwich, got stabbed by a perv, and saw my ex. Next year, T. Thomas Thomason covers the Disks.”

  Cameraperson shrugged.

  I started the van. Will’s car was parked just a hair too close.

  CRUNCH

  “Folded like an accordion.” I smirked.

  Cameraperson grinned.

  Reaper stories—quiet, darkly funny looks at Death dealing with very human problems (burnout, bureaucracy, scarves, and existential dread). They’re a different flavor, but they live in the same space where the absurd and the sincere shake hands.