The Envelope

I'm in a slump, off my game, throwing up bricks, swinging and missing.

I'm having an off year.

My boss isn't pleased, and he's not the type of guy you want to piss off either. He's the ultimate a-hole who doesn't buy excuses, even the champion ones I'm slingin'. But hey, it's a job. And generally speaking, I'm damn good at it.

I am The Collector.

It's not as bad as it sounds. I'm kinda like Santa Claus. We're both jolly guys with a passion for frosted cookies, the color red ... and sorting souls. My job is simple: weed through humanity and label those round rears with a big red good or bad stamp. Old Saint Nick gets the good guys, and I get the fun ones.

Two years ago, I was just your average seventeen-year-old guy. That's a lie. I've never been average. I look like a movie star and move like an athlete. That didn't change when I kicked the bucket. It's okay to be jealous, to covet me. It's a delicious sin—tastes like chicken. But don't envy my success as a collector. I earned it. Like Michael Jordan, I shot until I never missed. If there's a bad soul anywhere on planet Earth, I can smell him out and turn him in. Bag and tag.

Boss Man runs the Underworld, and I'm his number one guy up top. I'm so good, in fact, that I train the other five collectors on how to be more awesome. It doesn't take a genius to understand the game: collect souls that are sealed.

Seals are our friends. I say it slowly, because patronizing people is fun.

It's an easy gig. So easy, I've been bored lately. Maybe that's why my numbers have slipped. But don't fret. I got this. I've never met a hurdle I didn't like.

In fact, stumbling toward me is a herd of business suit–clad men way too old to be this wasted. What are they even doing on New Orleans's Bourbon Street? Being creepers, that's what. A guy with Dumbo-sized ears breaks away from the pack and heads toward a girl half his age. His arms swing in great big circles until yellow liquid splashes from his plastic yardstick drink.

Way to bring your A game.

The girl turns toward her friend in an obvious attempt to avoid eye contact with Drunk Ogre Man. But no matter. He whirls her around, shows her his colorful beads, and attempts to pull up her shirt. That's the deal, right? Beads for boobs? Not this time. Homegirl slaps him and storms off, her heels click-clacking down the paved road.

Ogre stares after her, and his friends howl with laughter. His red-rimmed eyes go big for a second, and then he starts laughing, too. He got off pretty easy, all things considered. But we're not done yet. Or better yet, I'm not done yet.

I gaze at the guy in a way only I can. A warm yellow light crawls over his skin and flickers. It almost appears as if his body is on fire. This light is his soul, and I can see the thumbnail-sized rectangles called seals that partially obscure it. Seals come from being bad, or as I like to say, exciting. If I could come back from the dead, the things I would do. I'd go out with a bang. But I can't. And unfortunately, collecting leaves little time for recreational activities, if you know what I mean. So I just keep punching the clock and doing what I do best.

Amidst the dude's mini black seals, there are other seals. Our seals. Collectors' seals are bigger than the ones you get automatically when you sin and therefore do a lot more damage. In order for Boss Man to know who's done what, our seals are different colors, and already this guy looks like Rainbow Brite. Now he'll have one more to add to the others. I flick a finger, and a sizzling red seal—the length of a human palm—attaches to his light. He didn't feel a thing, but he certainly deserved it. His soul light dims just a little more than before. Once his light is completely covered, it's over. Finis! We'll collect his soul and bring it downstairs. I form my hand into a gun. "Pow!"

Another one bites the dust.

Today I'm playing my part on Team Hell like a heavyweight. The game works like a gas gauge. On one side is hell, on the other is heaven. That little orange bar tips back and forth between the two, depending on who has the most souls. Collectors are Boss Man's insurance policy that Big Guy (A.K.A., lord of the heavens) doesn't win, but he should chillax. No one ever gets the upper hand. If they did, it'd mean the gates of heaven—or hell—would spill open onto earth.

Or some fairy-tale crap like that.

After Boob Man is gone, I stand in the doorway of the Cat's Meow bar, watching people do the same things that led me to where I am now. This city is one of our standard posts. Since there are billions of people and only six collectors, we have to concentrate on specific areas, or we'll never get anywhere. Most people go to Judgment Day, which may or may not mean eternity in hell, so Boss Man likes to bring them in before that happens if he can. And New Orleans, well, it's one of the easiest places to make quota.

Seals fly from my fingertips with ease. I don't have to think too hard about it, and for that, I'm thankful. I like this part of my job, the nameless faces. Collecting souls is nothing personal. I'm an equal-opportunity sealer. I'm not sure I could do it any other way.

But I guess I'm going to have to learn. I shove my hand into my pocket and rub the sleeping white envelope. I can almost feel it pressing against my thigh, as if it's alive. As if it has tongue and teeth.

I spin around and see Max running toward me in a gray Armani shirt. "Dante. Oh, Dante. Seal me! Seal me so hard!" He grabs my hips and pumps his toward mine. "Oh, Dante! You're so hot when you seal souls."

I shove my idiot-of-a-best-friend off me and laugh. Max dances around in a circle with one leg pulled up, and people move away as if he's mentally unstable. He and I are the only collectors that like to remain visible to the living. The other four roll incognito. Max finishes his dance and brushes his shoulders off.

"What the hell was that?" I ask.

"My new move," he says matter-of-factly.

My fellow collector is six years older than me but acts like he's thirteen. We met a couple of years ago after he kicked the bucket and came onboard. He talks so fast, I have trouble understanding him sometimes. I like to think he was the World's Best Car Salesman before he croaked.

Max spreads his arms out and gestures to his suit. "Hey, what do you think of my new threads?" The only thing Max likes better than money is the stuff money can buy.

"Not too bad."

"Not too bad?" He covers his heart in mock offense. "Shit. This work of art is on the cover of GQ. Know what else? George Clooney wore this very suit to a party last weekend."

"No, he didn't."

Max runs a hand over his clean-shaven jaw. "No. No, I guess he didn't. Think anyone else would buy that? I might try it on the honeys tonight. Oh, check this crap out." He reaches down and tugs his pant leg up. The gold cuff wrapped around his ankle is decorated with Smurf stickers. "One of the other collectors did this after I crashed last night. Can you believe that mess? I can't get the damn things off."

I roll my foot around, feeling my own cuff pinching my ankle. The heavy restraint enables collectors to walk the earth. It allows us to eat, breathe, and carry on a normal existence among the living. It also allows...