Grim Fandango Final v2 .pdf


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I don’t have any trouble admitting that they scared the hell out of me: the
reaper who handled my case, the trainers, everybody involved in the whole
situation. I was shit-my-pants terrified.
Once the reaper finished with me I was taken to the DOD training facility and
locked down. They put me in this tiny, windowless room (maybe even
doorless too, after it had been shut) and left me for I don’t know how long. It
seemed liked years, but it was probably less than an hour. Then a trainer
came in and outlined just what my fate was to be in the most brutal terms
possible – for the state of mind I was in, anyway. Maybe he was just being
factual, I don’t know. He told me stories about souls that remained in the
Land of the Dead for centuries, even millennia… and about those who never
left. I was already feeling restless, ready to move on; the thought of staying
was torture all by itself, never mind the horror stories. By the time the
practical part of the training began, I was most definitely ready to be a good
boy.
So I started training to be a reaper. They issued me a collapsible scythe, a
hooded black robe and abject humiliation. A reaper was supposed to be
imposing. Sometimes a soul had to be overawed, almost spiritually bullied,
before they will follow you out of the Land of the Living; but with these
stumpy legs of mine I don’t make much of an impression. So the DOD gave
me these things to wear that added almost a foot to my height. It took about
half an hour of falling flat on my coccyx before I could even cross the room. I
wouldn’t have minded so much except that it was part of my official training
and I did those thirty minutes of pratfalls in front of more than a dozen other
trainees. But I put up with it, making out like they were laughing with me
rather than at me. Having decided it was finally time to play by the rules, I
found I could accept being humiliated. After the training was finished they
assigned me an office in the Bureau of Acquisitions and a driver.
“Why do I need a driver?” I had asked the trainer.
“If the company let YOU guys drive,” he said, “you’d all be AWOL in ten
minutes.”
“Got me there.” One of the other trainees cracked.
My driver turned out to be a large demon with fuzzy blue skin that was about
five sizes too big for him. He looked like nothing so much as a six-foot-tall
Shar-Pei. For some reason his name was Endive. And boy, did the whole
‘demon’ thing take some getting used to.
“There are two basic kinds of demons,” our trainer told us, “those who help
souls and those who want to rip you apart.”
“And how do you tell the difference?” One guy asked. “Before the
chiropractic begins, I mean.”
The trainer merely huffed and said, “You won’t have to worry about THAT for
a long time. All of the demons here in El Marrow city are the friendly sort. But
if any of you step even one inch beyond the city limits you will, I guarantee,
shortly become a nest for an acid-spewing bat. And that’s if you’re lucky.”

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