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The Suicide Pod

by Antwan Crump

It’s just a job.

Something stable to pay the bills.

An income stream. No more. No less.

“Please press your thumb on the scanner.”

“Like this?”

“Perfect. We’re live.”

Up North, we’re called shepherds. In the South, we’re deathers. In the West, we’re deliverers. In the East, I’m an Anpu. No matter the title, end-of-life representatives have a single goal in mind: death. Quick. Painless. All sales final. Payment due at departure. 

“Hardly a hiccup.” The old woman smiled. “Thank you.”

I smiled back. Toothy and wide. “It’s my pleasure.”

Anubis Technologies is the largest stateside conglomerate dealing in transitional services. Our entire industry was born out of the ‘Right to Die Act’ of 2032. Passage of the RDA was footnoted by long lists of loiterers looking to end their nightmare. A lot of people died very quickly. So they made rules. Regulations. Limitations.

“Alright,” I said. 

“What’s next?”

A few states cover the cost. Most don’t. The powers that be can be convinced to let the poor subsist, but killing good human stock? No. Too far. That’s just immolating the inventory. Financial restriction keeps a sound lid on excess death. Most people simply can’t afford to die. Makes sense. Capitalism. Paying cash? Private insurance? Step right up and claim your prize.

“Have you given more thought to post-mortem?”

“No. I couldn’t care less.”

The motivated without coverage are left to seek alternatives—drugs, guns, knives, gas, or whatever does the trick. Those who succeed are posthumously fined for the inconvenience. Families are compelled to cover those costs. The ‘unlawful death’ penalty was meant to deter illegal suicides. State-sponsored media frames it as “saving lives” by “preventing temptation.” That’s horseshit. You can’t stop someone who wants to die. You can slow them down, but you can’t stop them. The government knows that. Everyone does.

“Clean cut.”

“I’m pretty tidy.”

It’s an intentionally flawed system—a cash grab. Even distant relatives can get a piece of the fee if your death is deemed unlawful. Those fees have had the unintended effect of putting mourners in debt while their dead decompose. If you can’t pay, the obligation falls to your next of kin. Then the next. Then the next. The compounding debt can wipe entire families off the map, whole generations. Always read the fine print.

“No problem.” I smiled again. “I’ll set you up with the standard.”

“What’s that?”

“Mulch,” I said, too crass, and pulled back. “You’ll be rested in a garden.”

“Oh…” she gasped, then conceded with a wave. “Better than a box.”

“Much better.”

Debt. Depression. Crisis. Suicide. Understandable. Imagine barely scraping by, only to find Uncle So-and-so’s death bill of doom in your inbox: “PAY NOW OR BE FINED.” “PAY NOW OR JAIL TIME.” Who wouldn’t prefer to see the last light? 

It’s a national issue—voluntary death fueled by inherited hardship and criminal destitution. ‘Death debt’ spooks enough people to fuel the bureaucracy. There are corruption complaints. False claims. Internal errors. Mischief. Revenge. Stupidity. One bad click on the file and little Timmy doesn’t get to go to college. Anyone or anything could go wrong and you’re screwed. There’s a better way to die. An easier way. Anubis Technologies takes you there.

“What now,” the woman asked.

“Pick a date,” I said. “Mondays are popular. Gives you the weekend for goodbyes.”

She laughed. “I don’t have anyone left to farewell.”

“Well…” I laced my hands together. “—could I interest you in a companion?”

“A companion?”

Greenlit clients don’t need any special circumstances or terminal diseases—just the will to die and clearance from two relevant professionals. One for the medical record and the other for legal scuffles. They were easy enough to buy. As an Anpu, I function as a human counsel, facilitator, and bureaucratic safety net. We’re paid via commission—ten to fifteen percent of the total disposal cost. Not bad. Not great. Better than hard labor and corpse management. They’re always hiring. Great benefits, but the pay is shit.

“We have physical and virtual options,” I said.

“For what, exactly?”

“Whatever you need!” A practiced smile. “Company. Intimacy. Deep intimacy.”

“No,” Myra rebuffed with a giggle. “I’m too frail for ‘deep’ intimacy.”

“We’ll put a pin in it,” I said. 

“I hope not.” Myra smiled.

I met Myra Benson in a hospice care center a few miles away from the office. Our unmarked building is within striking distance of obvious targets: three cemeteries, two retirement homes, a hospital, a homeless shelter, off-track betting, a courthouse, etcetera. The point is, we don’t have to look far for clients. We’re even considering ‘pact packages’ so that folks can transition together. People hate being alone in the end, especially the tough ones.

“What about your delivery method? Still partial to the gas or—?”

“Absolutely,” she fawned. “I have trouble with pills and needles.”

“Don’t we all?” I scrolled through the prompts on my screen. “Memory pull?”

“What’s that?”

“It’s like a personal highlight reel. You can even narrate for posterity.”

“No, no,” Myra dissented. “I want a nice Caribbean sunset on the beach.”

“We can do that,” I said. “Great choice!” There are worse things to see when you die.

Myra and I got to talking about her situation, terminal cancer. She was so soothed by the thought of retaking control that we started her paperwork that day. Fifteen or so minutes of jokes and sweet talk, and she was well-greased for the grave. Sane. On board. Fully covered. 

Full coverage meant the gold package. Standard burial. Residential cleaning. Corpse pickup and drop-off. And oversight of her choosing—someone to make sure things got done as planned. Myra chose me. She doesn’t speak to her kids. I forget why. Money? Property? Lies? Doesn’t matter. Myra and her daughters used to meet for dinner twice a week. She eats alone now. Old. Broke. Dying. Who wouldn’t speedrun to the end?

“Alright.” I looked up. Another grin. “Just need final approvals and we’re set.”

“What now?”

“Check your messages. Call me with any questions.”

“Oh.” She glanced at the time on her wristwatch. “That wasn’t long at all.”

“Life’s hard.” I sipped my coffee. “We make it easy.”

***

“GOLD FUCKING PACKAGE!” Brian slapped my back. “Lucky motherfucker!”

“Not luck,” I said. “Skill.” Then brushed his hand away. “Stay jealous.”

Our intake floor is quaint enough—one long hallway with small offices on either side, where we shift in six days a week. Sundays are for God. The hall leads to a claustrophobic common area where we let bashful clients stew. The room has too few folding chairs, a wobbly coffee table, two old coffee makers, and a too-loud TV that plays Groundhog Day on a loop. The air is always thick with lemon scent and wet linoleum, like a grade school or grocery store.

“Lunch?” Brian asked and checked his watch. “I’m at quota, so we can mingle.”

“Your quota,” I said, and stood from my chair. “Maye wants a puppy.”

“Come on!” Brian’s chunky cheeks rattled. “Three rounds. On me.”

“One.”

“Two.”

“Fine. But you got lunch. You owe me for Tasty’s.”

“We were celebrating,” Brian growled. “Fucking cheapskate.”

“I’ll be that.” I put on my coat. “My cards don’t decline.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you.”

“Ugh,” Brian groaned. “Fine. Deal.”

Brian Tomsin was a friend from college and a third-year dropout. Though he planned to spend his life in accounting, self-service systems kneecapped the need. AI killed just about every worthwhile career path in the same way. Oddly enough, people prefer a human touch when it comes to matters of life and death. I couldn’t tell you why, but ‘people’ is a booming industry. 

Brian and I reconnected after I graduated with a now-useless arts degree. Pretty words don’t pay the bills unless you’re slinging dirt or propaganda. I made it six years in digital communications before bots gave me the boot. Brian referred me to Anubis Technologies after a joke about killing myself. That’s how I got in. He saved my ass. I swore that I’d never go hungry again. “What are you thinking?” I asked, loosening my tie. “Chinese? Italian? Soul food?”

Brian grinned. A devilish stare.

“Oh, fuck off!”

“You can’t stop love!”

We were going to Tasty’s—again. That asshole was addicted.

***

In a world run by machines, people are restricted to a handful of roles and occupations—the ‘human experience’ industries. While teachers, lawyers, doctors, brokers, drivers, and city workers tried to outpace the great replacement, most found themselves unemployed before leaping to the investor class. Some might have had a drop in the bucket, just enough to stave off the streets for a while. Sooner or later, the money dries up, and they find their way to us. Better to die secured than to leave debt behind. Better me than autocratic autopsies by corrupt city coroners. Hard times. Hard decisions.

“Janet!” Brian shouted and waved his cash. “Come here, sweetheart!”

The young woman winced and then waved. “Hi, honey! Be right there.”

“You’re fucking embarrassing,” I said. “You know her schedule?”

“Calm down, nerd.” Brian turned and sipped his drink. “I got the app.”

“You downloaded the app?” I sneered.

“That’s what it’s for!”

“I hate you.”

“—and?”

Human presence is additive in most places—feel-good more than must-have. A ‘want’ more than a need. Politicians, end-of-life reps, natal care specialists, maintenance technicians, toothless managerial positions, massage therapists, strippers, prostitutes, and of course, the sweet C-Suite. Drug dealers and pharmacists can do well in cities, but they’re glorified vending machines. It’s the same with weed and alcohol. All of their days are numbered. Humanity’s role in the world essentially boils down to pain, pleasure, consumption, and extinction management.

Tasty’s is an extension of that—a high-end gentlemen’s club slash quiet brothel with good food and great service that aims to please. Marketing is everything. Their performers did well, thanks to cash payments, consistent work, and gracious tips from desperate dicks with money to blow. Brian liked to nest there and spend his last cents on beer and deep intimacy. They’d drain his balls and wallet, then break his heart. He was aware of the pattern but didn’t care. A drowning man seeks any shore.

“What you eating, baby?” Janet sat on his lap, caked in makeup and glitter. “The usual?”

“You know it.” Brian slapped her ass. “With a side of you.”

She giggled. “And your friend?”

“Burger and fries. Real beef,” I said. “No clone meat.”

Brian’s eyes shifted my way. “You’re killing me.”

“No,” I said. “I’d charge you extra.”

Unlike the shoddy shotgun approach in most dive bars, Tasty’s could pass for a reputable place. They’ve got leather-lined booths, black tiled floors, nice wooden tables with soft matching chairs, and three stages that are always occupied—part-timers on the sides, blue chips in the center, shining gold poles on each. The vibe is more like an auction than fine dining, but you get used to it. If you don’t, the music is loud enough to disturb the thought.

“I’ll get your order.” Janet stood and brushed back her hair. “Another round?”

“Please,” I said. 

“You got it.” She winked.

“Don’t forget our room,” Brian ordered. “Daddy needs dessert.”

“I won’t forget…” Janet kissed him. “‘Daddy.’” The thin girl swiveled away.

“No way she’s eighteen,” I said. 

“Complain to HR.” Brian downed his drink. “I’m enjoying a meal.”

“Until it enjoys you.”

“God… I hope so.” Brian looked over the stages. “Hear from Trent?”

I looked too. “Thought he quit.” Beautiful women. Healthy. Exotic. Clean.

“I don’t know, man.” Brian’s head fell. Squinting. Thinking. “Quit and do what?”

“Fuck himself,” I said. “Who cares?”

Brian turned to me. “Do you think he—?”

“He would’ve invited us.”

Trent was our co-worker and reluctant cohort—the runt of our pack. By then, we hadn’t seen him in weeks. He ducked us with excuses for weeks before that. We assumed that was due to the teasing. Boys play rough. Figured he’d get over it. A few months ago, he’d have been right there with us—eating, drinking, cursing, and living. His absence was odd, but what could I do? People fold. People run. People hide. Real life ain’t for everyone.

“But…” Brian worried. “—he mentioned it.”

“If Trent wanted out, that’s his call.” I sipped my drink. “Let the man breathe.”

“And Laurie?”

“Laurie’s a cunt. Probably got fired.”

“Alex…?”

“—is a lazy prick.”

“Three people. Not one homecoming? Dead accounts. That’s not weird to you?”

The ‘Right to Die Act’ gave birth to countless and common pre-death rituals. Live wakes, funerals, last rites, and things of that nature. Death parties amount to a final bow for the anticipated dead. They give things away, run up their credit, experiment with drugs, commit light crimes, and whatever else they can get away with before biting the dust. To us, the death crash-outs are as normal as weddings and birthday parties. Weird to skip. Not unheard of. Some people like to go quietly. I respect that. It’s their life. Not mine. Not yours. Why care?

“I wouldn’t spend my last day with you either.”

“Ha-ha.” Brian drank. “I’d spend mine with you.”

“Really?”

“Nah.” He smiled. “I’d traumatize Janet.”

The bikini-clad girl returned and set down the drinks. “Room’s ready.”

Janet offered her hand. Brian popped to his feet. “Bout time. Almost got deep.”

“I like deep.” Janet tugged his belt buckle. “Show me.”

“Later,” Brian said.

“Have fun,” I answered.

He was gone for five songs. 

We ate, then I went back to work.

***

“You smell like a bar,” Teresa said. “Brian or Trent?”

“Brian,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “He’s in love again.”

“Oh, lord,” Teresa scoffed and hung my coat. “He needs to grow up.”

“I know. Not our business.”

Teresa and I got married five years ago, after I started making real money with Anubis. The probation period is excessive, but if you survive it, the sky’s the limit. We dated on and off before that—cycling through incompatible stages of life. Then she got pregnant. Single parents are treated like fucking pariahs. That would’ve been horrible for the kid. A wedlock baby made us favored by the state. The reigning government wanted more families. Those families got special treatment. Marriage was an easy decision. We learned how to love each other after that.

“Where’s Maye?” I asked.

“In her room. Homework.”

“Ah, okay.”

Sometimes, your soulmate is just the sole person willing to welcome you home. A fellow passenger. A teammate. In the end, a reliable partner is worth more than new romance or mind-melting fucks. Those are temporary. Teresa’s my rock. Family keeps people sane.

“Dinner?”

“On its way.” She kissed my cheek. “I missed you.”

“Missed you, too.”

We own a connected townhome on the expensive side of Brooklyn. I wanted Maye to grow up with a yard. As a freelance interior designer, Teresa fashioned our home as a live-in calling card—‘modern aesthetics with medieval trappings and hints of sleek futuristic flair’. A lot of angles, space, drapery, and miscellaneous shit I’m not allowed to touch. Black, grey, and white. Some red. I never understood it. Not my thing. It’s nice when the extra cash rolls in.

“I’m gonna do some trading.”

“Which ones?”

“Bytecoin. Maybe Zelenium.”

“Okay.” Teresa turned toward the steps. “Do mine, too.”

“You got it,” I said, and Teresa was gone.

***

We put Maye to bed after dinner, as per our ritual, and then I got back to the trades. Anubis was fine for paying the bills, but good money makes money. Buy low. Sell high. Get out before it shits the bed. Retailers get fucked. Hobbyists can get lucky. The obsessed turn a regular profit—at the cost of sleep. I make up for the loss on my off days. Due to that, I was wide awake when the phone rang at three in the morning.

“Hello,” I said, annoyed by the private number. “HELLO.”

“Bobby,” the voice cracked.

“Trent?” I answered. “Where the fuck have you—?”

“I’m sorry.” Commotion. A struggle. “No! PLEASE.”

The line went dead. I called Trent’s work phone. Someone else answered.

—breathing…

—breathing…

—breathing…

“Purge yourself,” the gravelly voice demanded. “—or die.”

“What?”

The call disconnected.

Trent was an occasional prankster. 

I didn’t think much of it. “Jackass.”  

It was bedtime. I don’t remember falling asleep.

***

If you enjoyed this snippet, you can purchase “The Suicide Pod” on: 

Amazon – B&N – KOBO – Google Play Books

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