Grim Fandango Final v2 .pdf

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As I read the records of my client’s lives, I started to understand why the
agent who handled my case wouldn’t tell me what was in my file. A soul’s life
is very complex, not to mention delicate. The files reapers get contain not just
a client’s actions, but also their thoughts and motivations; whether they are
remembered, repressed, or conveniently edited and justified after the fact.
All of these things interact in interesting ways for affecting a person’s destiny,
and it’s not always healthy – for the reaper as well as for the client – to go
into the details.
A mass murderer is obviously not going to be issued a first-class ticket
through the Land of the Dead, but a seemingly good person could be just as
bad off. One of my early clients was a philanthropist. He was incredibly
wealthy and put most of his money into good causes that helped thousands
of people. But he also bullied and humiliated virtually everyone who
personally came into contact with him. He loved making his employees crawl,
and as for his wife… that woman deserved a ticket on the Number Nine
express train if only for what she had put up with. The best that man qualified
for was a girly little three-speed bicycle.
The Number Nine train was what every soul entering into the Land of the
Dead prayed for. I remember my first Double-N sale. I was beyond envious.
When I made to hand the ticket to my admittedly well-deserving client, the
little golden slip started to twitch. I was so startled that I let the ticket go…
but instead of falling, the ticket leapt straight into his hand! I wouldn’t take
bets on who was more surprised. I saw a lot of Double-Ns after that and got
used to their antics, but I never really got over the envy. Every day I’d come
into the building, see that big picture of the Number Nine train hanging in the
lobby, and say quietly to myself: “One of these days, I’m going to ride that
right on out of here!” A second thought however would always say: “Yeah,
I became a good sales agent after a slow start; after I got over the fear and
bitterness, that is. I may have ruined my life, but dead, I started doing okay.
My job got to be rewarding. I made friends in the office, settled into a nice
apartment, found a cozy little brew-pub where I spent a lot of my off time,
and I began to think death was good.
That’s when I started to have serious problems.
On the surface things were just fine. My job and everything else was
fantastic, but I was in the Land of the Dead and having the time of my life. At
first that was just ironic, but the contradictions started to really get to me. I
began to obsess about little things, like cigarettes. Where did the tobacco
come from when no plants grew in the Land of the Dead? And what of the
patties in those greasy, half-pound, bacon-and-cheese hamburgers I had
almost every day for lunch? Dios mio, did I love those things, especially now
that I had no arteries to clog. And why did I go to bed every night when I
had already entered the big sleep? The Land of the Dead was so normal on
the surface, but so indescribably deeply perverse underneath.