Someone just won himself a Cadillac

As I look back on this past week, and the complete randomness of some of the "name" people that have died, I can't help but to start thinking a few seemed to be a bit of a rush job. I began imagining Death as some down on his luck detective, or maybe even Shelley Levene from Glengarry Glen Ross:

I see him sitting at his desk, piles of manilla folders stacked on every perceivable flat surface. A small name placard his wife bought him - "Ira Death - Workaholic" - is barely clinging to the lip of the desk. Perhaps a styrofoam cup, with a few drips of coffee left in it, is sitting next to the photo of his wife, two kids and 10 years earlier. And of course, a red Swingline.

See, Death hasn't had a big "get" for weeks, and his boss is starting to come down on him - hard! "Death!!!", his boss yells, bursting around the cubicle wall.
"I've told you, sir, the name is Ira...", Death begins, meekly.
"Your name is gonna be worth jack and shit if you don't start showing results, Death! I'm getting tired of having to explain your poor showings to the Chief. He thinks we don't need you dragging our name and reputation down with you! You've been coasting on your laurels ever since you got that Duke fellow to off himself, like that was even a CHALLENGE!! The man's been on a constant peyote trip since the Nixon administration! Hell, the man had as many enemies as he did admirers!! I don't know how you even managed to get the closer's parking space for that one. Some showing!"

Death's boss picks up a casefile from the top of the pile nearest to him. It's corners are dog-eared, as if it's been thumbed through more than a housewife's copy of The DaVinci Code. "What's this? You're still dragging your heels on this Schiavo case?? This should have been filed away 15 years ago!! It was open and shut!"
Ira nervously reaches for his coffee, suddenly struck with cotton-mouth and desperate for something to focus on other than the noise. "PUT THAT COFFEE DOWN! Coffee is for closers!", his boss bellows. "I want to see this name up on the "Close" board by Friday afternoon, or you'll be schlumping home to that cow you call a wife as an unemployed loser!" He turns to leave, but stops himself. "Oh yeah, don't forget; we can only pull these things in threes, so you goddamn better well have two other deadbeats in these piles who are as open and shut as that Schiavo mark was supposed to be!! Here, let me help you...". The Boss of Ira wipes off a corner of the desk, knocking several casefiles to the floor in the process. Grabbing the first two he sees, he says, "THESE will complete your trifecta. Let's see, we've got...a purveyor of chicken and....a comedian?!?! Shit, even a complete fucktard like you couldn't screw this one up! The guy's in show business AND a pothead, for chrissake!"

Death starts to open his mouth, but before a word can pass, his boss leans in with the swiftness of a mongoose. "You listen to me, you goddamn little pissant. You know what it takes to succeed in this field? It takes goddamn brass balls. You've barely got enough going right now to scrape together two marbles. Remember. What. I've TAUGHT you. 'A-B-C : Always - Be - Culling'. It's that fucking simple!" At this proximity, The Boss notices a monster of a casefile sitting underneath Ira's desk, just out of sight. Reaching for it, he asks, "What the crap is this? The Pope Leads? The goddamn Pope Leads??? You don't get these! We've had our best closers working on these since '81!! To you, these are gold, but you don't get these because giving them to you would be throwing them away!! You're not here to fuck us up, you fairy. You company man!"

Little does his boss know that Ira has already made photocopies of the entire Pope file.