A/N: almost forgot to mention this little one shot was inspired by a groaner of a 'dead guy' joke I heard recently from a friend and it immediately ade me think of Spears and how he has no filter between his brain and his mouth. The joke was kinda cute though... Undertaker would've loved it.

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A reaper was killed in the line of duty with his own scythe. He arrived shortly afterward before the fabled pearly gates, and stood awaiting admittance. Just outside the gate the great Saint Simon Peter was awaiting him with his great keys to the kingdom, quill in hand, leaning over a massive, gilded lectern on which a large book lay open.

"Name?" said the saint, fitting his pince nez to his nose without looking up.

"William Spears, sir, head of –sorry, former head of the London Dispatch Office for the past two hundred and thirty six years and four months." the reaper answered, tapping his spectacles home and straightening up proudly.

"Four months," repeated the saint, staring hard at the man before him.

"Yes sir."

"And how many days?"

"Four months exactly, sir."

The death god watched, puzzled as the saint suddenly crossed his eyes and made a twisted face, pretending to speak although no sounds came out. If Spears didn't know better he could've sworn the saint was making fun of him.

The venerable saint then fell quiet as he began to read, finger running down the record, then turned a page. Then another. Then page after page after page, scanning the extensive notes under the reaper's name, on and on until finally he glanced up sharply at the rigid-looking reaper with a sour glare. Spears took a step backward before he was aware he'd done it. The saint turned his eyes down again and pinched up about a half inch worth of pages back toward the front of the volume and, muttering to himself in a deeply annoyed rumble, turned them over and started reading again. Many pages later his already cranky expression had curdled even further.

Spears wondered if the saint was having a bad day. Do they even have bad days in Heaven? Perhaps he simply dislikes the sort of man who works indoors, behind a desk, like me. Peter, he recalled, had fished for a lliving a humble, physically demanding job.

"Pardon me sir, but is something amiss?"

The holy gatekeeper ripped his spectacles off his nose and thumped the lectern with an impatient fist.

"You could say that, yes. Frankly, Reaper Spears, I can't see a blessed thing you ever did in your long life that was worth being rewarded with a billet in Heaven." the saint ground out, clearly displeased.

"Sir? I—I don't understand!" Spears cried, shocked beyond measure.

"I mean it's not as if you ever did anything really bad in your life, but it seems pretty plain you never went out of your way to do much of anything outstandingly good either!"

"B-but sir— sir please! I was always careful to do my duty with alacrity and care, I was punctual and regular and—"

"Let's not drag your toilet habits into this Reaper..."

"No! I meant 'regular' in the sense of reliable! I never took a day off for sickness or frivolous carryings on in the entire 200 years I was head of the London Dispatch— surely such a record of faithful service counts for something?!"

"That's the trouble with you, Reaper Spears. You did your job— and that's all you did! Don't you understand? Those things were what was expected of you! Little children don't expect to get medals for learning to brush their teeth and wipe their own bottoms! But when did you ever go beyond the bare minimum and do good for someone? Anyone!? Haven't you ever heard the scripture that says 'nobody's interested in dying for a righteous man, but they might for a good one?' Well?!"

"S-Sorry! Yes sir, I have! Though I must confess I never really understood what the verse meant."

"Well clearly!" The irritated saint thumped both fists on the lectern, thinking hard. "To be 'righteous' is merely to be right, to do what is expected of you, to do just the bare minimum! To be good, however, is to go beyond that, to give to those who cannot afford to pay you back, to forgive those who don't deserve it, to help without regard to getting anything in return! Nobody loves a pillock who just follows the rules without any human warmth or compassion! People hate guys like that! And I don't blame 'em!" said the earthy saint, who then leant over and spat on what would've been the ground anywhere else.

"...oh, " Spears murmured softly, "I see." He was profoundly shocked and taken aback: apparently he'd been taking pride in putting all his effort into the wrong things his entire life. The irascible saint muttered something under his breath that sounded dreadfully similar to 'gobshite'. Spears blanched, horrified.

"Alright, listen up, slug-wit, gonna cut you some slack here," said Peter, "Try not to hang yourself with it. Lucky for you we don't send people to Hell for being dense. So! If you can point out to me a single good deed you did in your lifetime—a truly good moment, something that was wholly undeserved or unearned and without ulterior motive, I'll reconsider. Otherwise..." the venerable saint shook his head, shrugged and with a grimace, slammed the giant book shut in Spears' face. Spears leaped back in shock: That book slamming shut: It had sounded so...so final.

"Um... well, I did save the life of one of my colleagues, a fellow reaper. Would that..."

"You did?!"

"Y-yes sir. You see there's this other reaper in the Dispatch I graduated with. He's completely unreliable, never where he should be, highly undisciplined, continually causing problems everywhere he goes, never does his paperwork,- an utterly irritating fellow. He has this... I suppose you could call it a 'crush' a wholly inappropriate crush on a certain contracted demon living in our assigned district and he's always pestering the lewd beast, wanting to engage him in carnal— "

The saint stopped him with a clear 'that's enough of that!' gesture.

"TMI, reaper Spears, just... get on with the story."

"Yes sir. Well, on my way home I'd spotted this other reaper—he insists on wearing this garish red coat everywhere—I caught sight of him down a certain alley behind a tavern quite near my flat. He was being harassed by a knot of angry-looking demons who all looked like they were about to do him real harm. One of them had managed to get hold of his death scythe and they appeared about to turn it on him."

"Really. So, what did you do?"

"Well I certainly couldn't just go home after seeing such a sight, so I turned down the alley and used my death scythe –it's a telescoping mechanical pruner— to cut off the horn of the demon holding Reaper Sutcliff's scythe.

"After that the noxious beasts forgot all about Reaper Sutcliff. The broken horn got stuck in my blades so when my scythe contracted, I pulled the filthy thing off and used it as a dagger as I confronted the gang of vermin who by then had surrounded me. I told them what I thought of them and ordered them all to get their disgusting selves out of my sight and get back to Hell where they belonged, before I cut the lot of them into tiny pieces and dumped them all into the Thames. Reaper Sutcliff took his chance and ran away while I was confronting them."

"You can't talk like that to a pack of uncollared demons! Are you crazy?!" The saint looked the reaper up and down wondering how he'd escaped such a deadly confrontation. "I saw no record of any such incident recorded anywhere in these notes. When did this take place?

The death god reddened and lowered his gaze to the clouds beneath his feet.

"Spears! When did this take place!?"

In a barely audible voice the reaper replied "About twenty minutes ago, sir."