An old man in a brownish plaid suit stood outside a small building on a cobblestone road, dimly lit by a flickering street lamp.

  He was holding a book in his left hand while using his right hand, fumbling with keys.

  "Dag nabbit! Stupid light, stupid keys."

  He seemed to be in a hurry but with some luck, and after another brief struggle, he successfully locked the door.

  After his victory over the lock, the old man made sure to glance at the sign above the door.

  Light of Love Literature.

  He smiled at the symbol of his whole existence; his small bookstore.

  He noticed that the sign was old and worn.

  Maybe it's about time to repaint that sign.

  He then looked down at his old, grizzled self in his worn out suit, which was starting to get pretty tight around his belly.

  I could only wish that it was so easy to repaint myself, as it were.

  Existential thoughts aside, he started his short journey towards home.

  The old man looked down at the book in his hand and his smile grew deeper. It was the final book of a series he'd followed for the last thirty or so years: The Tales of Fernando.

  He couldn't wait to read it!

  The excitement started getting to him as he picked up speed, as much as a seventy year old out-of-shape man could.

  Finally done with work. I can't believe it's the end of the Fernando series. It's like saying goodbye to an old friend. Oh, Fernando, don't let me down my boy-o.

  He pulled the book close to his chest and continued down the road.

  He soon found himself sweating.

  Oh dear. I guess I am getting old, looks like I overdid it.

  He slowed down but unfortunately for him, he continued to sweat as it started drizzling down his face.

  Is it raining or what? Isn't this too much?

  He realized he was holding the book to his chest much too tight. He let his arm down to his side but, the tightness remained.

  In fact, it started getting worse.

  Then, his chest started to feel painful.

  I really did overdo it. Dag nabbit!

  He stopped walking just as a sharp pain shot up his left arm. It was so painful that he dropped the book.

  What.. Oh dear, Fernando, where are you going?

  The pain and tightness had him feeling confused. As he bent down to save Fernando the indignity of lying on the street, he found himself lying next to the book.

  He had fallen as well.

  Worse yet, it was getting harder and harder to breathe.

  He despaired as he realized what was happening.

  It's the Big One! Not now! I need to know how it ends!

  He reached for the book that lay on the street next to him.

  As for his last coherent thought, it was only one word: Fernando.

  On a warm summer night, a tragedy took place.

  Oliver Pottsville, the bookstore owner, met his end from a heart attack.

  ==========================

  "Fernando!" Oliver yelled.

  As he stretched out his hand, the book was no longer there.

  In fact, instead of questioning the whereabouts of the missing book, his attention centered on his hand, which was now semi-translucent.

  He tried to stand but, he realized he didn't have any legs.

  Instead, he floated up into the air!

  He looked down at himself to find that his whole body was the same. He had an amorphous, ghost-like body that glowed light blue.

  "G-g-g-ghost!" Oliver yelled.

  He was completely frozen in shock and fear as he observed his new body.

  "You're not a ghost, you're a spirit," said a man's voice.

  Oliver snapped out of his shock, as he realized he wasn't alone.

  "I always do enjoy seeing your reaction to dying."

  He tried to find the source of the voice but all he saw was light.

  It surrounded him.

  Then, he felt pain once again. Unlike the physical pain of his heart attack, this pain felt like it was piercing his mind.

  A flood of memories entered with the pain.

  His ghost-like body wriggled and writhed in the air and Oliver Pottsville remembered.

  He remembered everything.

  ==========================

  He was a young man, spear in hand, prepared against a horde of armored men charging toward him and his comrades.

  He was watching a young woman wearing armor who was covered in ash, dirt, and blood as she watched a city burn. She had clear tear streaks cutting through her soiled face, and a mad hatred burning in her emerald-like eyes.

  He ran, he fought, and he followed her. He did everything for her.

  As he trained and fought, the years flew by. After a couple of millennia passed he had become powerful enough to shake the stars.

  He was fighting a man in an obsidian mask that radiated shadow. Spacecraft exploded and a moon shattered above a purple planet in their fight.

  He was being escorted by soldiers into an arena. As he headed towards the center to an upraised platform, he was being jeered at by the millions of spectators, both by those in seats and those flying above them.

  He was staring at the familiar obsidian mask as he felt the pain of his neck being severed by a blade.

  That was his first death. He became a soul, his memories were wiped, and he moved onto his next.

  He was a young man who inherited a farm after his father died from sickness.

  He starved to death because of a drought.

  That was his second death.

  He was a soldier who was killed in his first battle.

  His third death.

  He had children and lived a peaceful life, dying from old age in his sleep.

  His fourth death.

  He was a singer who dreamed of making it big time. He died in an automobile accident.

  His fifth death.

  He was a bookstore owner. He died of a heart attack on his way home to read the last book of his favorite novel series.

  His sixth death.

  ==========================

  The ghost-like blob stopped writhing as his mind settled.

  There floated Cutter York; the old, surly warrior-mage.

  "Do you have any fucking idea how jarring that is?" Cutter asked as he floated in the air.

  He spit on the ground, or tried to, but unfortunately for him, spirits don't have saliva; he still went through the motions.

  He looked up to see familiar scenery: white pillars, a red marble floor, and where the walls should be a starry void. The room looked like it was floating in space.

  He was in the private audience chamber in the Underworld Palace.

  "No. I've never died," the same voice from before replied.

  Cutter's attention turned to a man sitting on a black leather reclining chair. The man in question was wearing flannel pajamas and a white tank top; he had one leg crossed over his lap and his hands propped behind his head as he lounged.

  As for his face, it was covered in an obsidian mask, that radiated shadow.

  "You look annoyingly comfortable. I can only imagine how smug your face is under that stupid mask," Cutter quipped.

  "Do not be rude, Mister York. You are speaking to the King of Hell," commanded a haughty, threatening voice near one of the pillars.

  A 3 meter bull-headed knight in full shiny, silver armor stepped into Cutter's view. The bull-knight had blue fur and was carrying a greatsword on his back.

  Oh, this fucking douche bag!

  He spit, or tried to, as he was still a spirit.

  He was already annoyed from experiencing death, once again, and yet this idiot had to stick his snout into things.

  "Oh Blue Balls, grrrreeeeaaaat to see you. Nice entrance, very imposing," Cutter said. "Shouldn't you be out in a pasture somewhere grazing on grass, you fucking narc?"

  He didn't seem to like the bull-knight very much, to put it lightly.

  "As charming as ever, Cutter."

  The bull-knight stepped next to the man in the chair.

  "One, my name is Blue Bull. Two, I'm the personal guard of the King of Hell. So, of course I'd be here. Three, that's some specie-ist language there."

  Blue Bull counted with his hooves.

  This condescending prick, Cutter thought.

  "Shove it Bull. One, I clearly know. Two, no shit. Three, you have to have a species to be specie-ist and you're all alon-"

  "Don't you think that's a bit much?" The King of Hell interrupted.

  "I don't think so. He caused Mika's death. Don't you think it's a bit much to bring him around me?"

  The King of Hell didn't answer.

  "You know I hate his guts and even if a million years pass I will still hate his guts," Cutter continued.

  "He's my personal guard. He's supposed to be around me," The King of Hell said.

  Cutter scoffed.

  Blue Bull, who looked like tears were starting to form in his eyes, snorted.

  "The words of a traitor mean nothing to me."

  "YOU ALL BETRAYED ME!"

  He raised one of his blobby, ghost arms to point at Blue Bull.

  "My conscience is clear, and I owe you nothing. Now shut the hell up Bull. The words of a little bitch like you mean nothing to me."

  Then, Cutter laughed.

  Guard of the King of Hell? As if he needs a guard, it's more like he's guarding you, dumb ass."

  The King of Hell sighed, loudly.

  "Alright, Cutter. We get it."

  He turned his head to Blue Bull. He didn't say anything but it seemed the bull-knight got the message as he stepped back and quietly took up a guard stance.

  Then the King of Hell turned his head back to Cutter once again.

  There was a long silence as Cutter and the King of Hell observed each other.

  Cutter broke the silence.

  "How many times are we going to do this?"

  He sounded weary.

  "I have to relive my lives every time you return my memories, and you should know there's many things I'd prefer not to relive."

  Well, the twin princesses of Beautimicia, now there's a memory worth reliving.

  He inwardly chuckled which, at the very least, calmed his agitation a bit.

  "You know what I want," The King of Hell replied.

  "Well then, it seems we have nothing to talk about. It looks like we'll be doing this forever."

  Cutter spread out his stubby arms.

  "So why don't you go ahead and send me on my way?"

  The King of Hell asked in a playful tone this time, "You won't even consider it, Cutty?"

  Cutter spat again, or tried to.

  "Never, Kaeby. And next time, at least dress up for my death, it's a special occasion after all. You look like a bum."

  "What's wrong with being comfortable in your own home?" The King of Hell asked, indignant.

  And fine, I'll send you on your way."

  The King of Hell sighed once again.

  He then took his left hand and pointed forward.

  A portal of light sprang up next to Cutter.

  "Maybe the next time your memories recover, you'll have a different answer. Oh, and one last thing, my mask is not stupid. Now, until we meet ag-"

  As the King of Hell started to make another motion with his hand, a shadow flashed, pulling Cutter into the portal with it.

  Cutter heard an angry roar from Blue Bull as light surrounded him.

  "You better make this worth it," said a weak voice that reverberated through his mind.

  As Cutter was bathed in light, he was a bit confused by the turn of events.

  Then, he felt like his soul was being stretched out, more and more and more, until eventually, all went dark, and he lost consciousness.

  ==========================

  Cutter didn't know how long he'd been out.

  He couldn't open his eyes but, he felt warm, so warm but his mind felt hazy.

  He had no idea who pulled him through the portal but, he did know he still had his memories.

  I'm a baby, aren't I?

  He wiggled around a bit and the haze cleared up a little as he realized what was going to happen.

  Oh dear, sweet mercy. No no no no no way! At least erase my memories!

  Unfortunately for him, the only thing he could do was quietly wait for the inevitable.

  Most of the time, he was sleeping anyways.

  He didn't know how much time passed but as he felt the world around him tighten, he knew the time of dread had come.

  He started being pushed and squished as he slowly started heading towards what he would assume was the outside world.

  In the worst possible way.

  He felt like he was being squeezed like a tube of toothpaste.

  He did his best to try to make himself feel better.

  Okay okay okay! I can at least find the last book of the Tales of Fernando.. after I survive this nightmare.

  Trying to think happy thoughts he set a goal for himself.

  I'll find you Fernando, I swear it!

  He saw a light.

  I hope I'm handsome and really hope there's indoor plumbing...

  He felt hands grab onto his head.

  Oh dear, sweet mercy. I'm feeling existential dread as a baby..

  It's going to be a long life.

  After one of the worst experiences of his lives and no matter how bitter and humiliated he felt, Cutter York, was reborn as a healthy baby boy.