The Collector by Victoria Scott
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. 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.
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’ 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, and 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 spins her around, presents 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, 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.
I look at the guy in a way only I can. A warm yellow light crawls over his skin and flickers. It almost looks like his body is on fire. This light is his soul, and I can see the small 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. Rock enough seals to make Al Capone look like a saint. But I can’t. So I just keep punching the clock and doing what I do best.
The seals are different colors, and already this guy looks like Rainbow Bright. Now he’ll have one more to add to his collection. I flick a finger and a sizzling red seal—no bigger than a stamp—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 hands into guns and fire them off in his direction. “Pow!”
Another one bites the dust.
