Horror High 1 by Paul Stafford Page B

guillotine. Lunchtime execution!’
    â€˜Aww, sir. My mum’s getting sick of washing blood off my collar.’

 

The trouble started (as it often does in dozy, ozone-depleting stories like this) with a cheapo mail-order catalogue, an April Fool’s Day prank gone wrong, and an over-protective father who refused to allow his son a pocketknife, pocket money or even a pocket.
    It was Saturday morning in the Grim-Reaper household, and Mr Grim-Reaper was embroiled in an argument with his son, Nathan.
    It wasn’t that old man G-R wanted an argument. Au contraire, he just wished to relax over morning coffee and the weekend edition of the Tombstone Times – the quality newspaper for the well-read undead – but Nathan was on the bug again. Lately it seemed he was constantly on the bug about something.
    This time Nathan reckoned he needed pocket money.
    â€˜I feed you, clothe you and pay your school fees; what do you want pocket money for?’ Mr Grim-Reaper hissed irritably, in a voice reminiscent of the Ringwraiths from Lord of the Rings .
    Boy, was he sick of comparisons to that film. Everyone he met these days, first thing they’d say after he’d introduced himself, “ You sound just like those spooky Ringwraiths from the Rings Trilogy .” He couldn’t wait to get his death grip on that fatso Kiwi film director and feed him and his Oscar to an orc.
    â€˜What do you want pocket money for?’Mr G-R repeated, sounding now like a car radiator boiling over.
    â€˜I want to buy a pocketknife,’ replied Nathan, as reasonably as he could manage. Always attempt to reason with your recalcitrant parent, the Undead Teenagers’ Handbook advised; adults pride themselves on being reasonable, so try to act like an adult.
    â€˜What do you want with a pocketknife?’ Mr Grim-Reaper hissed. ‘You don’t even have a pocket.’
    â€˜Well, I would have a pocket if you let me wear jeans like all the other kids at school,’ reasoned Nathan.
    â€˜Seven hundred generations of Grim Reapers have worn menacing black robes,’ growled father G-R, ‘so why should you be any different?’
    He took a sip of his coffee. It was cold.
    â€˜Yeah,’ agreed Nathan, ‘and seven hundred generations have carried a scythe. I wouldn’t need a pocketknife if you let me carry a scythe. Why should I be the first not to have one?’
    â€˜I’ve told you a hundred times – you’re too young. You’ll get one when you’re older. Scythes are dangerous. You’ll cut yourself, or take somebody’s head off, next thing you’ve got a lawsuit on your hands. First you prove yourself responsible, then you get a trainer scythe.’
    A trainer scythe was made of rubber, and the equivalent of trainer wheels on a bicycle – baby stuff. Nathan frowned appropriately in response.
    â€˜Then in the meantime let me have a pocketknife,’ Nathan begged.
    â€˜But you don’t have a pocket.’
    And so on …
    Nathan was notoriously argumentative, his father was worse, and if you know anything about Grim Reapers and arguments you’ll know they’re like a dog with a bone: they just won’t let it go. And you know how the saying goes – lay down with dogs, get up with fleas, start chasing cats …
    All of which is totally irrelevant and beside the point.
    The point was this: Nathan was chafingunder his father’s over-protectiveness. His dad wouldn’t let him do anything . Wouldn’t let him take any risks. Wouldn’t let him act like a normal teenager.
    Same old story.
    Nathan tried telling his dad straight but the silly old geezer didn’t get it; he’d just turned 50,000 years old and his teenage years were way too far gone for memory. Nathan consulted his teenage advice book, which was also useless; it suggested proving you were responsible through responsible behaviour, and demonstrating