text: James parked the minivan in front of the open cemetery and turned the wheezing engine off. He checked his Apple watch- half-past eleven at night. His shift as the Confession Counselor for Departed Souls kicked off in fifteen minutes. Lifting the briefcase resting on the passenger seat, he shoved open the driver-side door and stepped out. The intimate breeze petted his neck, tickling the spine. Shivering, James scribbled on his mental pad to pack a scarf for the next visit. Waddling up the pebbled pathway, he continued in the familiar direction of the mausoleum on the burial grounds. At its entrance, James crouched, placing the leather case on its back. He clicked it open, hoisting the rosary above his head, sliding it thru the neck. Placing the jar of holy water next to his feet, he grabbed the can of meat, coil notepad, and ink pen last. The nameless, dead clients he counselled travelled through their coffin, flying out the muddy pathway at midnight on the dot. James directed only the ones who walked past him, as agreed in his signed contract. He snapped them out of denial by questioning: stirring them onwards to live in Afterlife Care. The rest, emotional strugglers, refusing to accept their death, meandered about the graveyard, confused and lost James knew little about Afterlife's living conditions- like the doors only opened for souls who willed to dwell as per the rulers’ ideals. If someone disagreed with their orders, they were allowed to return and roam alone in the cemetery. In time, restorable souls permitted to re-enter after counseling. A pitiful cry for help sounded at a distance. He waited for his client to approach. “Hello, I am James.” The sweaty, trembling man in front of him halted. “Who you?” The man scratched the open cut on the side of his bald head. His brain, missing. “I’m your counselor.” “Who you?” James bent to pick up the jar. A few clients developed hearing loss following landing. He twisted open the lid and dipped his hand into the chilled holy water. Then, stepping up, James rubbed the dripping liquid over the man’s left and right ears. “Can you hear me now?” “Yes, Who...?” “The counselor who will help you start a new existence at Afterlife Care.” “I am dead?” The client glanced behind James, chewing on his chapped lips. “Yes, on earth. But in the other world, you will never die. You can do anything you want there- roam free, dance, sing, smile all day, play Bingo... Do fun things without experiencing feelings of regret, doubts, anger. They erase all negative emotions there," James lied. “Are you dead?” “No, I am alive, for now. One day I’ll join you.” Silence flooded the gap between them. James counted to twenty. “You like to confess anything?” “I kill seventy people.” The man’s mouth curved into a smile. James nodded, unshaken, doodling in his notepad. His senses hardened by ghastly admissions. After tonight, he intended to ask his boss, the mortuary manager, to transfer him to the day shift, where he’d be interacting with corroding souls yet living humans for a change. “Do you remember where you buried them?” “I work the night shift at the factory. I used machine there to slice bodies.” James’s belly groaned, and he snuck a look at the canned corned beef. “Why do you kill people?” The man rotated his head, tilting it on both sides. “No idea. Maybe I do it because I cannot smell anything.” “Oh,” James quit sketching and stared without blinking. “You have no sense of smell at all?” “I smell everything but not blood or dead bodies.” “When did you become aware of this issue?” James quizzed. “My job they want me to kill chickens and pack them. I kill two first. No smell. Then I try smelling dead chickens for a week. Nothing.” “Did you inhale any bleach or chemical before slaughtering?” “No.” The man’s fingers explored the hollow space in the back of his head. “You butcher them because you can’t inhale their aroma?” “Maybe. I like to see and hear them crying before dying. My sister and brothers cry. I don’t.” “Never?” He foresaw the client blaming his family members, like every murderer who confessed to James does. “I cried one time when my young sister knife a woman first time before me. I am jealous of her.” Drawing a circle around ‘The Scentless Killer': the nickname James christened the man, he branched out arrows readying to list the members on his client's family tree of serial killers. “Your sister, a murderer like you. And brothers?” “Everyone: Pappa, Mamma, Sis, Three Brothers. We sometimes hunt for people together on holidays.” James's gut growled, signalling he'd heard enough of the client's confession. “You recall how you died?” “I ask my manager to work in the morning shift so I can go out with my girlfriend in the evening. He said, No. I try to stab him, but he stabs me back.” “That is unfortunate.” James signed at the bottom of the client's summary sheet of paper. “Are you ready to move into Afterlife Care? It is a good place to live ever after, and you will meet many individuals sharing the same passion.” “Honest?” “Oh yes. Imagine all-nighters with like-minded people, discussing your past acts.” “Ok. I will go then.” “Sign here. Somebody will pick you up in minutes.” James fished out his cell phone from his black suit pocket and a spoon. He sent a message to his boss. Then calculated the commission reeled in for the week selling Afterlife Care benefits. “Do you have any more confessions to share?” James pushed his index finger into the ring-pull on top of the canned beef and rolled the lid off. Dipping the spoon, he savoured his early hour snack. “You like that meat inside?” The man pointed. “It’s easy to eat out here while working. Your ride has arrived.” A black car jetted from the sky, zig-zagging towards them. It stationed itself on the sloped lawn. The left rear door blew open, and a hand gestured the client to step in. “I worked in same can packing company. I minced the bodies and mixed them with chicken and meat inside the factory. You like the taste, huh?" The client cackled, bouncing his pecs seating himself inside the car. James spat out in disgust. He hated the night shifts.