The Summon.

The God of Death was having a hard time. His mission had failed. For the third time. He tried to remember what the locals said about three and luck. Bullshit! He emptied his third bottle of Trophy and walked out of the bar. If the job had been completed, he would have been on his sixth bottle and maybe a beauty to warm his bed after. The thought made him hate Samuel more.

The God of Death had received at least twenty requests daily concerning Samuel. If it was a lesser person, he would have sent Jamiu. That boy would do anything for money, he thought. He figured that if the requests could scale a number like that, the target must be worth it which meant free publicity. The only people who beat the request for Samuel’s demise were PHCN, politicians and NURTW workers. The God of Death hated dealing with politicians- they had a signed a pact with The One, meaning they were Untouchables. He hated corporations like PHCN, fucking capitalists. Everything is money and profit to them. And the NURTW guys, they were nothing but arrogant weasels, and if he killed one, the blame would be casted on another faction, leading to more bloodshed. Not good for business.

His iPhone beeped. Not another request he hoped. But it was Cenami, his secretary. Maybe she would finally open the door for him. Her buttocks were too big for her to enjoy it all alone. "Yes?", her voice awoke something in his trouser and he shook his head. Bastard. "Okay, tell The Boss he will have his ration of the deal by Tuesday". He wanted to ask what she was wearing but the line dropped dead. He had to get the deal done tonight. The Boss needed his ration of souls and production was at a low. Blame it on Dr. Pills, Latex, Ms. IUD and Thomas Malthus, the recession not only affected the material world. The Boss is finally succumbing to recycling. The other person who eluded The God of Death like this was Mavrodi. At least the request for him was now minimal. He sighed, and muttered. Bad for business.

In his Uber, curiousity made him google his target. Samuel was nowhere popular like he hoped. With luck, he found the man's Facebook page which he had updated last in 2015 but something caught his eye. Samuel had been tagged in an All White Party post which was happening right now. The God of Death promised to throw in a favour to Zuckerberg for his lovely invention some time in the future. "Drop me at the nearest boutique and that five star is yours", he called to the driver.

Class of 07' was having its tenth year reunion.
Music blared, bottles popped and jewels sparkled. There was a guest artiste but another guest arrived in their midst. The God of Death made a mental note to wear white more often. But that was business for another day. He spotted Samuel typing away on his phone. A host of people who surrounded him were taking selfies.

The God of Internet recently retained number one on the Top 100 richest gods list and now The God of Death knew how. "Okay, how is this going to go down, Samuel?", he muttered to himself. His iPhone beeped again. Not right now, idiots. He picked up his phone. Another request for Samuel's death?

What did the guy do anyway? He wanted to know but asking questions was not part of the job description.

At that moment, Samuel climbed on the largest table in the room. Everyone turned to him but soon the looks on their faces turned to horror. He was holding something in his hand. A gun. 
"Fuck!", muttered The God of Death. 
"This is not a robbery", Samuel said, and a drone of relief went round the hall. 
"For years I have been trying to get it over with. Somehow Death won't come"
A few people had concern on their faces. The others had their phone cameras directed at him. "I left him thirty six messages today. And he didn't show up".

Guilt gripped The God of Death. He was in the most awkward situation since he took The Nigerian Dictator in 1998. If he revealed himself now, stocks would plunge, a few would kill themselves. Again, not good for business.

"Somebody stop him!", a voice shrieked. Two powerful hands wrestled Samuel to the ground. Another wrestled the gun from his hand. The paparazzi focused their cameras on the scene for whomever had the best caption had the best views.

"Somebody call the police!"

Nobody moved. The noise became unbearable. The alcohol was already kicking in. A migraine would follow.

The God of Death was having the most intense week in all his millenia on the job. He slowly exited the building.

His iPhone made a sound, another job needed his attention.