Unionized

Unionized

By Mark Meredith

 

“My skeletons have unionized.”

I slam my goblet down on the tavern table, mead sloshing over the rim. Across from me, Grimwald the Warlock chokes on his stew, while Seraphina the Sorceress bursts out laughing so hard she nearly drops her wand.

“You’re joking,” she wheezes, wiping her eyes.

“I am not joking,” I hiss, leaning forward. “I went down to the crypt this morning and instead of the usual clatter of obedient bones, I find them standing shoulder-to-shoulder, holding signs made of broken coffin lids. One said, ‘Better Bones, Better Wages!’ Another, ‘Bones Before Thrones!’ And do you know what their ringleader had? A clipboard. A coffin-wood clipboard!”

Grimwald smirks. “Clipboard, huh? Sounds organized.”

“Organized?” I practically shriek. “They’ve formed a bargaining unit! I tried a Silence spell: fizzled like a wet torch. Command Undead? Nothing! Do you know how humiliating it is to be glared at by empty sockets?”

Seraphina leans back, grinning. “So what are they demanding? Health insurance?”

I bury my face in my hands. “Dental.”

The whole tavern erupts in laughter.

“Half of them are all jawbone and no molars, but the way they clicked together when the demand was read aloud; by the gods, it was unanimous.”

Seraphina leans in, smirking. “Next they’ll want hazard pay. You do send them against paladins with hammers. Very unsafe working conditions.”

A bard at the next table overhears and calls out, “Better Bones, Better Wages!” to raucous laughter from the other patrons.

My face goes hot. “This is not funny. This is my army. Do you have any idea what happens to a necromancer without skeletons? You think lichdom is scary? Try unpaid overtime grievances.”

Grimwald raises his mug in mock salute. “To the brave bony brothers, rattling the chains of oppression!”

The tavern roars again. I sink lower in my chair, voice trembling as I begin, “It started this morning, when I went down to the crypt…” I swirl my goblet as if I could drown the memory in mead. “I expected the usual: bones snapping to attention, skulls rolling neatly into place. But no. Instead, I hear chanting.”

I lift my voice into a hollow rattle: “Better Bones! Better Wages!”

Seraphina snorts ale through her nose.

“I thought I’d accidentally wandered into a temple protest, but then I see them: my entire skeletal guard corps, lined up shoulder-to-shoulder. And there, at the front, the ringleader, an old soldier with a crack through his skull like a permanent frown.”

Grimwald leans forward, grinning. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” I say, jabbing a finger at him. “They had signs. Real signs! One scrawled on a ribcage: ‘No More Dusty Dungeons!’ Another written in charcoal across a shield: ‘Marrow Breaks Now!’ ‘Clattering Bones, Not Exploitation!’”

Seraphina wheezes. “You’re making this up.”

“I wish I were!” I groan. “I tried everything: Silence, Command, even Turn Undead in reverse. Nothing! My magic fizzled like it was bound by some infernal labor contract. Do you know what they did instead? They all turned their skulls to me at once and… tapped their foot bones. In unison.”

Grimwald cackles. “A sympathy strike!”

My shoulders slump. “Do you understand? My skeletons are no longer mine. They belong to… the union.

“I tried to reason with them,” I say, clutching my goblet with white knuckles. “I told them I’d give them sharper swords, an extra haunt night per week, something reasonable! But no. Their spokesman, Skull-face with the clipboard, stepped forward, cleared his throat, and read from a list of demands.”

I hold up a hand, ticking each off with shaking fingers.

“Number one: Bone polish. Not the cheap stuff, either;the imported kind from the dwarves, with the ‘high gleam’ finish.”

Grimwald snickers. “Can’t have creaky joints on the picket line.”

“Number two,” I continue, glaring, “holidays. Paid holidays. Which makes no sense, because they’re dead. But apparently, they’d like ‘every other Blood Moon off’ to spend time ‘with their loved ones.’”

Seraphina nearly falls off her chair laughing. “Loved ones? They’re skeletons!”

“I said the same thing!”

I drain my goblet and slam it down again. “Number three: Dental.”

The tavern erupts again, patrons pounding their tables. Someone calls out ‘Give ’em veneers!’

I shout over the noise, “Number four: reduced battlefield hours. No more being raised before dawn, no more late-night sieges. And number five—this one chilled me to my marrow—representation. They want a shop steward.”

Grimwald whistles. “A skeleton steward. Imagine the clatter of that gavel.”

“They even nominated one! Old Ribcage Sampson. Always thought he looked a bit too smug for a pile of bones.”

Seraphina wipes tears from her eyes. “So what did you do?”

I sag back in my chair. “I… signed their contract. What else could I do? They threatened a strike. No guard duty, no clattering in the halls, no eerie moaning on command. Do you know how humiliating it is to carry your own groceries into the crypt?”

Grimwald slaps the table so hard his spoon jumps. “Oh, this is rich. What’s next, your zombies filing for hazard pay?”

Seraphina snickers into her sleeve. “Don’t give them ideas. If they find out skeletons got holidays, the ghouls will want sick leave.”

“They’re already sick!” I shout, throwing my arms in the air. “That’s the whole point of ghouls!”

At the next table, the bard, still listening in, cups his hands and yells, “Union Strong, Skeleton Long!” The tavern roars again, mugs banging in unison like bones rattling.

My cheeks burn. “Stop laughing! This is serious! If word gets out, every graveyard in the realm will be a picket line by next week. Can you imagine the undead storming the Guild of Necromancers with signs? ‘We’re Dead, Not Disposable!’ I’ll be laughed out of the profession!”

Grimwald wipes a tear away. “Maybe you could start small. Give them a pension plan.”

Seraphina cackles. “What would that even be? Extra marrow?”

I bury my face in my hands. “If the zombies hear about this, I’m finished.”

I sit back, drained, staring into my empty goblet. The laughter around me swells and fades like waves crashing against my coffin.

“Tomorrow,” I whisper, “they’re holding a vote. On whether I’m a fair employer.”

The whole tavern falls quiet for a beat. Even Grimwald blinks at me.

Seraphina breaks first, sputtering into uncontrollable laughter. The bard strikes up a jaunty tune, singing “Better Bones, Better Wages!” while the rest of the patrons clap along.

I sink lower in my chair, pulling my hood over my face. “I don’t think I’ll pass,” I mutter. “Not with my record.”

The tavern roars, mugs clattering, bones of roasted chicken wings held aloft in mock solidarity.

And me? I sit in the middle of it all, a necromancer undone, not by holy fire, not by paladin’s blade… but by collective bargaining.