If I asked you what Death would look like, you’d probably go for something along the lines of an angry skeleton wearing a monk’s robe and carrying a very sharp farm implement with which to rip your soul from your body—am I right? Maybe he’d even have glowing yellow orbs where his eyes should be and speak with a voice that comes from his toes and goes right through you, despite the fact he doesn’t actually have a larynx or any vocal chords to speak of. And he’d have a strange obsession with egg-timers.
In fact, apart from the angry bit, he was nothing like that.
Life was a bitch, but if Tabitha Brownlee was to be believed, Death was an alcoholic megalomaniac with a penchant for single malt and eyebrows that met in the middle. The problem was, that he alone had the power to put her soul back into her body and evict the son of a bitch who’d taken her place.
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