It was another average morning in Endsville. Grim lay sprawled across the living room couch, his skull propped against one bony hand as he half-watched The Oprah Winfrey Show and absentmindedly tossed popcorn into his empty eye socket. The kernels simply vanished into the void of his skull with a soft plink each time.

Without warning, Brandy materialized at his side like a small, blonde demon summoned from the depths of hell itself. Her arms were crossed, her perpetual scowl firmly in place. "Grim. You forgot to do the dishes last night."

Grim's skull turned slowly toward her, his expression one of profound exhaustion. "Last night I had to reap eleven elderly an' one werewolf who decided dat likin' di craters of di Test Sites was a good idea. So I kinda got tired an' went to sleep."

Brandy's icy-blue eyes didn't so much as flicker. "I don't see how any of that is my problem, bonehead."

Grim let out a long, rattling sigh—the kind that would have been his dying breath if he weren't already dead. "Look, let me finish dis episode an' I will get to it..."

Brandy flipped the couch with Grim still on it.

The skeleton crashed to the floor in a clatter of bones and scattered popcorn, his robe tangling around him like a funeral shroud. He scrambled to his feet, jaw hanging open in outrage. "WHA—I AM DI GRIM REAPER! MASTA OF DI FORCES OF LIFE AN' DEATH!!"

Brandy examined her nails with cold indifference. "And?"

He was practically vibrating with indignation. "AND I COMMAND DE VERY FORCES OF DE UNIVERSE!!"

"The dishes, Grim." she warned.

"BUT—" he tried to retort.

But Brandy merely glared at him and issued one final command. "Now."

Grim's jaw clenched, and his eye sockets narrowed. For a moment, it seemed he might actually push back—might summon his scythe, might remind this tiny tyrant exactly who she was dealing with. Then his shoulders slumped in grumpy resignation. "...Yes, Brandy."

As Grim trudged toward the kitchen, Milly's bedroom door burst open with enough force to crack the hinges. The orange-haired menace came tumbling out, her backward baseball cap askew and her green eyes wild with excitement. "HEY, GRIM! CAN YOU REAP MY HOMEWORK?!"

Grim stopped mid-step, turning to stare at her with the hollow gaze of a being who had witnessed the birth and death of countless stars and was still somehow unprepared for this specific brand of stupidity. "Dat doesn't even make sense, mon!"

The Dean's office smelled of old coffee and desperation. Dean Ken Tucky adjusted his tie for the fifth time in as many minutes, his gaze darting between the four figures seated across from his desk. Three students and... something else. "Miss Brandette, your household registration lis—"

"It's Brandy." The blonde's icy-blue eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. Her tiny hands gripped the armrests of her chair with enough force to make the leather creak ominously.

The Dean swallowed nervously, struggling to maintain his composure. "R-Right, of course. My apologies..." He cleared his throat, shuffling the papers before him as if they might somehow rearrange themselves into something less absurd. "As I was saying, your household registration lists a certain... Death. And his occupation is also listed as... Death?"

"Yes." Brandy's expression remained utterly flat.

"As in...?" the Dean asked, bewildered.

"People dying. Try to keep up." she replied sharply, as though explaining something painfully obvious to a particularly slow rock.

The tall skeleton in the black robe—who had been slouching in his chair with the defeated posture of someone who had long since given up on dignity—suddenly threw his bony hands into the air. "I HAVE A DEGREE IN NECROMANCY, MON!"

Dean Ken Tucky blinked in confusion. "A... degree?"

"Summa cum laude..." Grim muttered, crossing his arms over his ribcage with a hollow clatter. "Not dat anyone around here appreciates it."

The orange-haired girl beside him—Milly, according to the paperwork—nodded vigorously, her backward baseball cap bobbing. "AND I HAVE A DEGREE IN MACARONI!"

Brandy didn't even bother turning her head. "You have a restraining order from the cafeteria."

Milly's face split into a toothy grin, radiating genuine pride. "SAME THING!"

The Dean opened his mouth, but no words came out. Somewhere in the distance, a clock ticked. Grim let out a long, weary sigh that seemed to rattle through his entire skeletal frame.

"I'm going to need to make some phone calls..." Dean Ken Tucky finally managed before getting up and leaving his own office.

Brandy leaned back in her chair, already lamenting the precious seconds wasted on this idiocy. "Take your time. We have nowhere else to be."

Grim groaned. Milly started humming the Macarena. And somewhere in the depths of the Dean's filing cabinet, a piece of paperwork spontaneously combusted from sheer bureaucratic confusion.

Fifteen minutes later, Dean Ken Tucky returned to his office, looking considerably paler than before. He carried a fresh stack of documents and wore the thousand-yard stare of a man whose faith in the educational system had been irreparably damaged.

"Well..." He sank into his chair, loosening his tie with a trembling hand. "I've contacted the Department of Education, the Social Security Administration, and the Department of Health..."

"Oh? An'?" Grim perked up, leaning forward with a sudden glimmer of hope in his empty eye sockets.

"They've confirmed that Mr. Death is, in fact, legally employed." The dean delivered this revelation with the exhausted resignation of a man who had just lost an argument with reality itself.

"HA! SEE?!" Grim exclaimed triumphantly, pointing a bony finger at the dean as though his entire professional reputation had finally been vindicated.

"However, none of them could confirm his date of birth." Ken Tucky continued, his brow furrowing as he examined the increasingly absurd collection of government documents.

"BECAUSE I AM ETERNAL, MON!" Grim protested, throwing his arms wide in exasperation.

"And apparently..." The dean adjusted his glasses, squinting at the paperwork with growing disbelief. "...He's also officially listed as deceased."

"Well, duh." Grim shrugged, apparently failing to understand why anyone would find this information surprising.

"Since when?" The dean asked weakly, looking up from the document with an expression of profound spiritual exhaustion.

"Since forever!" Grim replied, waving a dismissive hand as though the answer should have been painfully obvious.

Brandy tapped her foot impatiently, her tolerance for bureaucratic incompetence rapidly approaching absolute zero.

"Are we done?" she demanded, fixing the dean with an icy glare that suggested his continued existence depended entirely on the answer.

"NOT QUITE!" The dean suddenly snapped, only to immediately remember whom he was addressing. His shoulders stiffened, and his voice dropped several octaves. "I-I mean... Miss Brandy, there's still the matter of your household's emergency contact."

"Grim." Brandy answered instantly, without the slightest hesitation or concern.

"Your emergency contact is... Death?" The dean repeated slowly, lowering the document to stare at her over the rims of his glasses.

"Yes." Brandy stared back, her expression suggesting she was beginning to seriously reconsider the merits of higher education.

"And what happens if one of you dies?" The dean asked, spreading his hands in a helpless gesture as he struggled to comprehend the logistical nightmare sitting before him.

"Then he'd better fix it." Brandy glanced at Grim, delivering the statement with the casual authority of someone reminding a servant to take out the garbage.

"OH, FOR DI LOVE OF—" Grim buried his skull in his hands, his jaw rattling with barely contained frustration.

Before he could finish his complaint, Milly suddenly shot her hand into the air, nearly smacking Grim across the skull in the process. "HEY, DEAN! IF GRIM'S DEAD, DOES THAT MEAN HE DOESN'T HAVE TO PAY TAXES?!" she blurted out, her green eyes sparkling with the excitement of someone who had just experienced an extremely rare moment of intellectual activity.

The dean froze, his mouth hanging slightly open as the question slowly registered. Grim froze too, one bony finger still raised in the middle of his interrupted complaint.

Brandy, meanwhile, slowly turned toward Milly, her icy-blue eyes narrowing—not with anger this time, but with something considerably more dangerous: Interest.

For the first time that morning, the tiny blonde dictator looked genuinely intrigued. "Milly... That might be the smartest thing you've ever said." Brandy leaned forward in her chair, a calculating glint appearing in her eyes as the possibilities began arranging themselves into a particularly sinister plan.

"THANKS! WHAT ARE TAXES?!" Milly beamed proudly, her enormous, toothy grin revealing that whatever miraculous spark of intelligence had briefly illuminated her brain had already burned itself out.

The morning sun streamed through the windows of the shared house in Endsville, illuminating a scene of absolute chaos. In the living room, Milly was hosting a birthday party for Mr. Snuggles, her elderly hamster, complete with a tiny party hat and a cupcake with a single candle. The guest of honor looked less like a living creature and more like a furry raisin that had been left in the sun.

Grim loomed over the festivities, his empty eye sockets radiating pure exasperation. "Dat hamster should have died t'irteen years ago!"

Milly held up the wrinkled rodent with pride. "But he's healthy! Look at him!"

"HE HAS OUTLIVED FOUR GENERATIONS OF HAMSTERS!" Grim's skull practically rattled with fury.

From the kitchen, where she was meticulously organizing the spice rack by alphabetical order and then by color, Brandy's voice cut through the air like a cold blade. "Sounds like a skill issue."

Grim whipped around, his robe billowing dramatically. "A SKILL ISSUE?! I AM DEATH!"

"And yet." Brandy replied, not even looking up from her task. Her tone was flat, bored, and utterly devastating.

Grim's jaw dropped. He stood there, a cosmic embodiment of mortality, rendered speechless by a four-foot-eleven blonde in a pink dress. Finally, he let out a strangled scream of frustration and buried his skull in a couch pillow, his muffled cries of indignation punctuated by Milly's cheerful off-key singing of 'Happy Birthday'.

Grim finally lifted his skull from the couch pillow, his empty eye sockets narrowing with renewed indignation. He jabbed a bony finger toward the ancient hamster, who was peacefully nibbling on a piece of his birthday cupcake, blissfully unaware that his continued existence had become a personal insult to the very concept of mortality.

"You don't understand!" Grim protested, his Jamaican accent growing thicker with frustration. "Dat hamster is a violation of de natural order!"

From the kitchen, Brandy continued arranging the spice jars with almost obsessive precision. She briefly examined a container of cinnamon, decided it was out of place, and moved it two inches to the left before responding. "So are you."

Grim recoiled as though she'd slapped him across the skull. His jaw dropped, and he threw both hands into the air in disbelief. "Dat's different!"

Brandy paused, her fingers resting on a jar of paprika. She didn't even bother looking over her shoulder. "How?"

"Because I'm de Grim Reaper!" Grim declared, drawing himself up to his full six-foot-six height. He spread his arms dramatically, his oversized black robe billowing around his skeletal frame as though he were addressing an audience of terrified mortals rather than a particularly unimpressed college student.

Brandy finally glanced at him, her icy-blue eyes flicking briefly toward Mr. Snuggles before returning to the spice rack. "Then reap him."

Grim's theatrical posture collapsed almost immediately. His shoulders sagged, and he gestured helplessly toward the hamster. "I can't! Dat stupid limbo contract won't let me!"

Brandy considered this revelation for approximately half a second before returning her attention to the spices. "Skill issue."

Grim's jaw trembled with barely contained outrage. He clenched his fists, stomped one bony foot against the carpet, and pointed accusingly toward the kitchen. "STOP SAYIN' DAT!"

Before Brandy could deliver another devastating remark, Milly came bounding across the living room, apparently having paid absolutely no attention to the argument taking place around her. She held Mr. Snuggles in both hands, cradling the elderly rodent like some priceless archaeological discovery. The tiny party hat perched on his wrinkled head had slipped sideways, but the hamster seemed too preoccupied with chewing to care. "HEY, GRIM!" Milly shouted, practically vibrating with excitement. "WANNA KNOW WHAT I GOT HIM FOR HIS BIRTHDAY?!"

Grim slowly turned toward her. Experience had taught him that whenever Milly sounded this enthusiastic, something profoundly stupid was about to happen. His eye sockets narrowed suspiciously as he examined the suspiciously cheerful tomboy. "...Wot?" he asked reluctantly.

Milly's toothy grin widened until it seemed physically impossible for her face to accommodate any more happiness. "A LIFE INSURANCE POLICY!"

For several seconds, the house fell into an unnatural silence. Grim stood completely motionless, his jaw hanging open. Even Brandy stopped what she was doing, her hand frozen halfway toward a container of oregano. The only sound came from Mr. Snuggles, who continued quietly munching on his cupcake.

At last, Grim raised one trembling finger toward the hamster, as though desperately hoping he'd misunderstood. "...You got a life insurance policy..." he began slowly, struggling to process the words he'd just heard. "...For an immortal hamster?"

"YEAH!" Milly exclaimed proudly, bouncing on her heels. "The lady said he was a really good investment!"

Grim stared at her in utter disbelief. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and looked toward Brandy as though seeking confirmation that this conversation was actually happening. Unfortunately, the blonde was no longer interested in organizing spices.

Brandy had turned around completely. Her perpetual scowl remained firmly in place, but something had changed behind her icy-blue eyes. A calculating glint had appeared, the unmistakable expression of a tiny dictator who had just discovered a potentially profitable opportunity. "Milly." Her voice was unnervingly calm. "Where did you get that policy?"

Milly looked delighted to have finally captured Brandy's attention. She lifted Mr. Snuggles slightly higher, as though presenting evidence of her brilliant financial decision. "FROM A MAN OUTSIDE THE SUPERMARKET!"

Brandy's eyebrows lowered. She slowly folded her arms across her chest, abandoning the spice rack entirely. "What man?"

"Oh, he was really nice!" Milly explained enthusiastically, shifting the hamster into the crook of one arm so she could gesture with her free hand. "He had a fancy suit, a big briefcase, and one of those signs with the funny words!"

Grim rubbed his temples with two bony fingers, already sensing where this was going. Brandy, however, took a deliberate step closer. "What did the sign say, Milly?"

Milly scrunched up her nose, making a tremendous effort to recall the complicated sequence of letters. Her expression brightened when the answer finally surfaced. "OH, YEAH! 'NO QUESTIONS ASKED'!"

Grim let out a long, miserable groan and dragged one skeletal hand down his skull. His shoulders slumped beneath his robe as he turned away from the two girls, apparently hoping that refusing to acknowledge the conversation might somehow make it disappear. "Oh, sweet merciful oblivion..." he muttered, staring toward the ceiling as though appealing to some higher cosmic authority. "Why can't I ever have one normal mornin' in dis house?"

Brandy ignored him completely. Her attention remained fixed on Milly, whose innocent grin suggested she had absolutely no idea why her best friend suddenly looked so interested.

For a moment, Brandy said nothing. She tapped one finger against her chin, mentally considering the possibilities of someone who just tried to scam her pawn. Her expression remained perfectly neutral, which was somehow worse than if she had screamed. Finally, she lowered her hand and spoke with the quiet authority of someone issuing an executive order. "...Milly, I want you to introduce me to that man."

The morning sun above Endsville College cast long shadows across the quad as students milled about, blissfully unaware of the chaos unfolding near the student government bulletin board. Brandy stood atop a small step stool—compensating for her vertically challenged stature—while barking orders at her reluctant minions.

"Vote for me," she announced to a passing freshman, shoving a flyer into his chest with the warmth of a DMV employee, "and I promise you a future of absolute obedience."

The freshman scurried away without reading a single word. Brandy's scowl deepened.

Nearby, Grim wrestled with a banner that refused to cooperate, his bony fingers fumbling with the corners as he muttered something unflattering in Jamaican patois. The banner read BRANDY: BECAUSE COMPROMISE IS FOR THE WEAK in aggressive red lettering. It hung crookedly, much to his eternal shame.

Milly, meanwhile, had discovered the ballot box. "I voted for a potato!" she declared triumphantly, holding up a starchy tuber with googly eyes drawn on it in marker. Where she had acquired either object remained a mystery.

Grim's skull swiveled around so fast his cervical vertebrae clicked. "You can't vote for a potato, Milly!"

"He has good ideas!" Milly protested, cradling the potato like a beloved pet. "He wants to make fries free for everyone!"

"That's not—you can't just—" Grim sputtered, his eye sockets somehow conveying profound exhaustion despite containing no eyes. "Elections don't work like that!"

Brandy descended from her step stool with the grace of a tiny, furious dictator. Her icy-blue eyes fixed on the potato with murderous intent. "Grim."

He turned his head slowly. "Yes, Brandy?"

"Kill the potato." She commanded with complete and calm lethality.

Grim's skull cracked into a grin that would terrify small children and most adults. "...With pleasure."

He raised his scythe—Jodie, he called it—with theatrical flourish. Milly gasped, clutching the potato to her chest. "NO! MR. STARCHY HAS A FAMILY!"

"He's a vegetable, Milly!" Grim swung the scythe in a wide arc.

Milly dove behind the bulletin board, potato held aloft like a holy relic. "HE'S A ROOT VEGETABLE! HE HAS DREAMS!"

Brandy watched the chaos unfold with the satisfaction of someone whose problems were being solved through violence. She straightened her pink dress, adjusted her headband, and allowed herself the smallest of frowns.

"Now," she said, turning back to the handful of traumatized students who had witnessed the spectacle, "who else wants to exercise their democratic right to vote against me?"

No one moved, and Brandy's frown didn't vanished. "Good."

Somewhere across the quad, Milly shrieked as Grim chased her in circles, scythe gleaming in the morning light, while the potato—Mr. Starchy—soared through the air and landed directly in the campus fountain.

It was, all things considered, a fairly average Tuesday.