The air was electric with excitement as thousands of spectators lined the streets, cheering for the runners in the national marathon. Max, with his heart pounding in his chest, was among the frontrunners, sweat glistening on his forehead as he pushed himself to the limit. He had trained for months for this moment, dreaming of crossing the finish line with his hands raised in victory.

"This is it," Max thought, gritting his teeth as he surged forward, his legs burning with exertion. "I'm finally going to win. All those early mornings, all the sacrifices… it's all going to pay off!"

The finish line was just ahead, the ribbon fluttering in the breeze, tantalizingly close. The roar of the crowd grew louder, fueling Max's determination. He could almost taste the sweet victory, imagining the headlines, the accolades, the glory that awaited him.

Max's foot was about to land on the finishing line when his gaze caught something yellow on the pavement—a banana peel. His eyes widened in horror, but it was too late. His foot made contact with the peel, and in an instant, Max's world turned upside down and to matter makes worse he landed on dogs butt.

As Max lay sprawled on the ground, a cacophony of voices erupted from the crowd, each adding to the chaotic scene.

"Did you see that? Someone definitely caught that on camera!" a young woman exclaimed, pulling out her phone and frantically trying to record the aftermath.

"Oh man, that's going to be all over the internet in minutes!" a teenager nearby shouted, already typing furiously on his phone to spread the news.

Meanwhile, a cameraman from a local news station, who had been positioned near the finish line to capture the victory, couldn't believe his luck. "Did we get that? Please tell me we got that!" he yelled to his crew, eyes wide with excitement. The camera operator, still trying to steady the shot, nodded vigorously.

A couple of paparazzi, always on the lookout for a scoop, had their lenses zoomed in on Max as he struggled to sit up. One of them, grinning from ear to ear, shouted, "Max, over here! How do you feel about losing in such a spectacular fashion?" His tone was dripping with barely-contained amusement.

Another paparazzo, not to be outdone, snapped rapid-fire photos while calling out, "Smile for the camera, Max! This is going to be front-page material!"

To make matters worse, a commentator on a live broadcast, who had been narrating the race with great enthusiasm, suddenly found himself struggling to contain his laughter. "Well, folks… it seems our frontrunner Max has… uh… taken a bit of a detour! This is one for the history books!"

In the middle of all this, the dog that had been dragged along by Max shook itself off, giving a bewildered look to the crowd before sauntering away, completely unbothered by the chaos it had caused.

Max, still disoriented and with a growing sense of dread, tried to rise to his feet, but the slickness of the banana peel and his own dizziness sent him slipping again, much to the delight of the onlookers. The laughter around him was deafening.

"Ahh… so embarrassing… just pray that nobody got that on camera," Max muttered to himself, though he knew it was far too late for that. The only thing darker than his closing eyes was the viral fame that was surely on the horizon.

When Max regained consciousness, he was no longer sprawled out on the marathon course. Instead, he stood before a massive, foreboding gate that loomed ominously against a dark, swirling sky. The air was thick with the scent of sulfur and the faint echoes of distant wails. The landscape was barren, a desolate wasteland of jagged rocks and twisted trees, their branches clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. The ground beneath his feet was cracked and dry, the color of ash.

Max blinked, trying to make sense of his surroundings. The gate before him was made of black iron, intricately carved with strange symbols that seemed to pulse with an eerie light. Behind the gate, shadows moved restlessly, hinting at the unknown horrors that lay beyond.

"Wait, am I dead? Because of a banana peel and a dog's butt?" Max groaned, unable to believe his fate.

A figure in black—a grim reaper—stood nearby, nervously pacing back and forth. He was tall and lanky, with a scythe slung over his shoulder, but his expression was one of sheer panic rather than the grim determination one might expect.

"Uh, so, yeah… about that," the reaper stammered, avoiding Max's gaze. "You weren't supposed to die. This is all a big mistake."

Max's eyes narrowed as he approached the reaper. "Wait what ..A mistake??"

The reaper flinched, his bony hands wringing together. "Okay, okay, I messed up. I was… kind of on a date, and I got delayed. By the time I got to you, well, you had already slipped on that banana peel and I was supposed to take the dogs life not yours."

Max's fists clenched at his sides as he tried to process the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. His mind raced, teetering between disbelief and fury.

"So, let me get this straight," Max began, his voice dangerously low. "I'm standing here—dead—because you, Mr. Grim Reaper, were too busy getting cozy on a date to do your actual job?"

The reaper shifted uncomfortably, his bony shoulders hunching under the weight of Max's glare. "Well… when you put it like that…"

"Like that?!" Max exploded, his voice echoing across the barren landscape. "You were supposed to collect a dog's soul, and instead, you snuffed me out! Do you realize how utterly insane this is? I wasn't supposed to die today! I was supposed to win that damn race! And now I'm here, in this hellscape, because you couldn't keep your scythe in your pants?"

The reaper's eyes widened, and he held up his hands defensively. "Okay, first of all, it was a really important date! You don't get how hard it is to meet someone when you're literally death incarnate! And second, it's not like I did this on purpose! Things just… got a little out of hand."

Max stared at him, incredulous. "Out of hand? You think? This is a colossal screw-up! I'm dead, and for what? So you could flirt over dinner and drinks? You were supposed to take the dog, not me, you incompetent sack of bones!"

The reaper winced again, his bony fingers nervously tapping against the handle of his scythe. "Look, I'm really sorry, okay? I'll admit, it was a pretty epic screw-up. But hey, at least I'm owning it! I could've just let you think this was your time, but I'm being honest here. Transparency, right?"

Max threw his hands up in the air, his frustration boiling over. "Oh, wonderful! I'm dead, and you want points for honesty! What am I supposed to do with that, huh? Write a thank-you note to the cosmic HR department?"

The reaper hesitated, then spoke in a small, almost apologetic voice. "Well… there might be something we can do about this."

Max's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, 'something'? You mean you can fix this?"

The reaper bit his lip—or where his lip would've been if he had any. "Technically, yes. But it's complicated. It involves a lot of paperwork, soul transfers, temporal anomalies… you know, the usual bureaucratic nightmare."

Max took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm of emotions raging inside him. "So you're telling me there's a chance you can send me back?"

The reaper nodded. "There's a chance, yeah. But it won't be easy, and I can't guarantee it'll work out perfectly. Time and space are a bit finicky, and… well, I'm not exactly on top of my game right now. But if you're willing to give it a shot, I can try."

Max crossed his arms, glaring at the reaper. "You'd better try, because if I stay dead because of your screw-up, I'm going to haunt your bony ass for the rest of eternity."

The reaper gulped, the clattering sound of his bones echoing in the air. "Understood. I'll get right on it. Just… give me a moment to find the right forms and, uh, maybe a way to bribe the higher-ups."

Max shook his head, still reeling from the absurdity of it all. "Unbelievable. I'm dead because of a banana peel and a reaper who can't keep his priorities straight. This better not end with me coming back as a dog."

The reaper hesitated, then muttered under his breath, "Uh… let's hope not…"

Max shot him a warning glare. "What was that?"

"Nothing! Nothing at all! I'll just… get started on fixing this mess." The reaper turned away, fumbling with a stack of spectral paperwork that appeared out of nowhere, while Max stood there, simmering with anger and the lingering taste of banana peel still in his mouth.

As Max's voice echoed through the desolate wasteland, the massive gates in front of him began to creak open. The sound was slow and deliberate, like the groan of ancient metal long forgotten by time. He stopped mid-rant, his anger momentarily replaced by curiosity as the eerie glow from within the gates spilled out, illuminating the barren ground beneath his feet.

The scene before him was nothing like the bleak landscape outside. Instead, Max found himself staring into a grand and opulent throne room, the sheer splendor of which took him completely by surprise. The stark contrast between the desolation he had just experienced and the luxurious space now before him was jarring, almost surreal.

The floor was made of polished marble, its surface so pristine that it reflected the golden light that bathed the entire room. Richly colored tapestries adorned the walls, each depicting scenes of conquest, myth, and legend. The threads shimmered as if woven with actual gold, their intricate designs telling stories of ages long past. Pillars of white marble rose to the vaulted ceiling, where a grand chandelier hung, dripping with countless crystals that sparkled like captured starlight.

As Max's eyes adjusted to the brightness, he noticed the throne at the far end of the hall. But this was no ordinary throne—it was more like an extravagant armchair, plush and overstuffed, covered in a deep velvet that screamed luxury. The armrests were adorned with ornate carvings, depicting dragons coiled around golden scepters, their eyes gleaming with inlaid rubies.

Sitting on this throne, lounging as though he were at home in his living room, was the King of the Netherworld. Draped in robes that seemed to be spun from shadows and moonlight, the King didn't exude the intimidating presence one might expect from the ruler of such a realm. Instead, he looked more like a bored CEO, half-heartedly engaged in a meeting he couldn't wait to leave. His expression was one of mild irritation as he examined his nails, which appeared to be perfectly manicured, reflecting his nonchalant demeanor.

His crown, a simple yet elegant band of gold, sat slightly askew on his head, as though he had forgotten to adjust it after waking up from a nap. The King's posture was relaxed, almost slouched, as he reclined in his throne, legs crossed in a manner that suggested he was more interested in his own comfort than in projecting authority.

Max stood at the entrance, mouth agape, the anger from moments ago now mingled with disbelief at the scene before him. This was the King of the Netherworld? The figure he had imagined as a terrifying overlord was instead a figure of almost comical indifference, more like a tired executive than a harbinger of doom.

The King finally looked up, his eyes lazily drifting over to where Max stood. His gaze was sharp, despite the lethargic air he projected, and when he spoke, his voice carried the weight of command, even if it was laced with exasperation.

"Another one, eh?" the King drawled, his tone suggesting he'd seen far too many souls like Max's to be impressed. "What's the deal this time? Did you slip on a banana peel and end up here?"

Max blinked, his earlier frustration flaring up again. "Actually, yeah. Thanks to your reaper over there," he shot back, pointing an accusing finger at the nervous figure who was now cowering behind him.

The King raised an eyebrow, finally showing a spark of interest. "Well, this should be entertaining," he muttered to himself, leaning forward slightly, his fingers steepling in front of him. "Alright, mortal. Let's hear it. How exactly did my employee manage to mess up your mortal coil?"

"Your Majesty," the reaper began, pushing Max forward, "I, uh, accidentally brought the wrong soul."

The King rubbed his temples, clearly irritated. "Do you know how much paperwork this is going to cause? Alright, let's just send you back through the portal—"

Max stood there, staring into the portal at his own freshly dug grave, his mind racing. The scene was surreal—a grave with his name on it, flowers that hadn't even wilted yet, and his family already starting to walk away. The absurdity of it all hit him like a ton of bricks.

"Seriously?" he thought, utterly speechless. "I've barely been dead a few hours, and they've already got me six feet under? What happened to the good old days when they'd wait at least a day, maybe two, just to be sure? The world really has gotten faster—funerals done and dusted before the corpse is even cold."

He could almost see the headlines now: 'Man Dies in Marathon in morning, Buried by Dinner Time!' It was like the world was in such a hurry, even death couldn't slow it down.

Max shook his head, still in disbelief. "I mean, they didn't even stop for a coffee break. What's next, express grieving services? Mourn your loved ones in under ten minutes or your money back?"

The thought of how quickly his life had been wrapped up was as ridiculous as it was depressing. He could barely process the idea that his entire existence had been so efficiently packed away, complete with a gravestone and a bunch of flowers, all while he was stuck in some bureaucratic nightmare in the Netherworld.As he watched his family finally walk away from the grave, the weight of the situation hit him harder than the banana peel had.

"Well, that's... unfortunate," the King said slowly, his voice dripping with boredom. "Fine. You'll be compensated. Head over to that corner and ask for a DEM fruit."

Max blinked. "A DEM fruit? What is that?"

The King rolled his eyes. "Speak no more! Just go... I have other souls to take care of."

With a resigned expression and a growing sense of confusion, Max wandered over to a small, dusty shop in the corner of the throne room. The place looked like it had been forgotten by time, and the shopkeeper, a grumpy-looking old man with a permanent scowl, barely glanced up as Max approached.

Max's frustration bubbled over as he looked around at the cluttered shelves and the shopkeeper's lackadaisical attitude. This whole afterlife experience was becoming more and more ridiculous. "I'm here for the fruit," Max said, though he had no idea what that even was.

The shopkeeper squinted at him, his face scrunching up like he was trying to solve a particularly difficult math problem. "Fruit? What's that?"

Max paused, his mind racing. If he was going to be stuck in this bizarre situation, he might as well try to get something better. He began mumbling to himself, "Oh, right… no, I meant to ask for something better. How about the Cosmos Fruit? Nah, that sounds fake... God Fruit? No, too pretentious... Dog Fruit? Wait, what? Ugh, no, not that either... Oh, I know!"

Max's eyes lit up with a greedy glint as he looked at the confused shopkeeper. "The Forbidden Fruit."

The shopkeeper nearly dropped the jar he was holding, his eyes bulging out of his head. "The Forbidden Fruit? Are you crazy? That's—"

Before he could finish, the shopkeeper frantically picked up an old, rotary phone from under the counter and dialed the King with shaky fingers. Max could only hear the shopkeeper's side of the conversation, but it was clear he was on the verge of a meltdown.

"You really want to give him the Fruit of—?" the shopkeeper whispered, his voice quivering like a leaf in the wind.

On the other end, the King let out a sigh so exasperated it could have blown out a candle. "Yes, give him the fruit, and send him to the reincarnation pool! Honestly, do I have to explain everything? Just do it and stop bothering me!"

The shopkeeper's face drained of color as the King gave his instructions, his fear palpable in the dimly lit shop. With shaking hands, he reached under the counter, fumbling as he pulled out a small, glowing fruit. The fruit was an unnerving shade of dark purple, almost black, and it shimmered with a strange, eerie light, as if it had been soaked in something forbidden, something that should have stayed hidden.

Max, noticing the shopkeeper's hesitation, wasn't about to waste any time. He grabbed the fruit out of the old man's hands with a quick, decisive motion, holding it up like it was the Holy Grail. The shopkeeper gasped, startled by Max's sudden action, but his fear kept him from uttering a single word of protest.

"Where's the reincarnation pool?" Max demanded, his grip tightening around the fruit as if it might slip away.

The shopkeeper, now visibly trembling, lifted a shaky finger toward a door at the back of the shop. Max didn't wait for further explanation. He shoved the door open and stormed through, determined to end this bizarre ordeal as quickly as possible.

On the other side, Max found himself in a room that looked like someone had tried to merge a serene spa with the chaos of a disco. The reincarnation pool was a swirling vortex of neon colors, glowing so intensely that it was almost painful to look at. The air was thick with the scent of incense, but the pulsating lights and strange energy made the whole scene feel more like a rave than a place of spiritual rebirth.

Max stood at the edge of the pool, clutching the Forbidden Fruit like it was the last slice of pizza at a crowded party. The absurdity of it all wasn't lost on him—this whole situation had spiraled so far out of control that he didn't even have the energy to be surprised anymore.

"Well, here goes nothing," Max muttered to himself, his voice tinged with exhaustion and disbelief.With a resigned sigh, Max took one last deep breath and jumped into the pool, clutching the Forbidden Fruit like his life depended on it. As the swirling lights and strange energy engulfed him, he couldn't help but think, "If this doesn't get me out of this mess, I'm definitely coming back to haunt that reaper and his date."