other way around. Ask the fish if they want to be eaten. I doubt they’ll say yes.”
The fish of Lake Huron had no comment, because they are fish.
“I guess I’ll get out of Africa eventually,” said Famine. He and Death were sitting on the couch at 55 Macci Street, sipping tea. “I never really feel like moving around. I don’t know how you and Pestilence do it.”
“I guess it’s just expected,” said Death.
“Oh, yo guys,” said Brian. He stumbled out of his room and stood staring at the ceiling for several seconds before clutching his stomach and saying, “Man, I’m starving.”
“Sorry about that,” said Famine. Brian walked to the kitchen area and began searching through drawers.
“I need to make an egg or something, I can’t even think straight,” said Brian. “Hey, what’s your name man?”
“His name is, uh, Frank,” said Death.
“Mind helping me with the pan up there? I can barely even lift my arms. Oh my God, am I dying? Derek, am I dying?”
“No, definitely not,” said Death. Famine walked into the kitchen and reached up to get the pan from the top shelf of the cabinet. But he lost his grip and it hit Brian between his eyes, opening a bloody wound.
“Dude, what was that for?” screamed Brian, clutching his forehead.
“Oh, dear, I’m sorry,” said Famine. He and Brian bent over at the same time to retrieve the pan and head-butted each other. Both fell backwards, Famine safely into the cabinets. Brian hit a cutting board with a used knife on it on the way down. Death watched as the knife twirled elegantly in mid-air before slashing Brian’s arm. In a daze, he ran to his door, fumbling with the knob. “Let me get it for you,” said Famine as Brian clutched his arm.
“I’m passing out. I’m going to pass out,” said Brian. Famine swung open the door with too much force and it crashed into Brian’s face. He reeled backwards towards the couch, showering Death in blood before turning back and collapsing into his room. Famine shut the door slowly behind him, and sat back down on the couch.
“Sorry about that,” he said.
“I…I think I’ll need a new suit, now,” said Death, wiping Brian’s blood from his lapel.
When Famine returned to his duties, Death made his way to the nearest men’s clothing shop, Fitzegerald’s. He walked in, still covered in blood. “Sir?” asked a man. He was straightening out the hem of a pair of pants on a headless manikin. When he stood up he looked Death up and down with eyebrows raised and lips pursed. “What happened to you?”
“My roommate bled all over me and now I need a new suit,” said Death.
“Well, here at Fitzgerald’s, our policy is ‘no questions asked,’” he said nervously. “What are you looking for?”
“I guess a…suit,” said Death.
“Yes,” said the man, closing his eyes and sighing, his smile still plastered on. “Of course. But what kind? Tailored?”
“Yes,” said Death.
“Three button or—“
“Yup, three.”
“Black, Bl—“
“Black, that’s the one.
“Vest?”
“Yes, vest,” said Death. He felt an odd need to not look like a fool—a very human desire.
“Wonderful, let’s find you something nice,” said the man. “Ah, here we go, a nice vest for you. A single-breasted pinstripe by Giorgio Armani. The polyester and rayon combination give it a relaxed yet classy feel. Along with the button-front is a left chest pocket and two side pockets, and an adjustable buckle on the back waist. I have a vision for you, sir, a vision of the perfect suit. You will…not…be…disappointed.”
“Wow, great,” said Death. He took hold of the vest and placed an arm through one hole, then struggled to wrap the rest of the vest across his body. As he thrashed about, the man could not take it anymore.
“Sir, sir,” he shouted. “What are you doing?” He seized the vest from Death’s grasp and looked as though he had just witnessed an unspeakable crime. “You are going to
The fish of Lake Huron had no comment, because they are fish.
“I guess I’ll get out of Africa eventually,” said Famine. He and Death were sitting on the couch at 55 Macci Street, sipping tea. “I never really feel like moving around. I don’t know how you and Pestilence do it.”
“I guess it’s just expected,” said Death.
“Oh, yo guys,” said Brian. He stumbled out of his room and stood staring at the ceiling for several seconds before clutching his stomach and saying, “Man, I’m starving.”
“Sorry about that,” said Famine. Brian walked to the kitchen area and began searching through drawers.
“I need to make an egg or something, I can’t even think straight,” said Brian. “Hey, what’s your name man?”
“His name is, uh, Frank,” said Death.
“Mind helping me with the pan up there? I can barely even lift my arms. Oh my God, am I dying? Derek, am I dying?”
“No, definitely not,” said Death. Famine walked into the kitchen and reached up to get the pan from the top shelf of the cabinet. But he lost his grip and it hit Brian between his eyes, opening a bloody wound.
“Dude, what was that for?” screamed Brian, clutching his forehead.
“Oh, dear, I’m sorry,” said Famine. He and Brian bent over at the same time to retrieve the pan and head-butted each other. Both fell backwards, Famine safely into the cabinets. Brian hit a cutting board with a used knife on it on the way down. Death watched as the knife twirled elegantly in mid-air before slashing Brian’s arm. In a daze, he ran to his door, fumbling with the knob. “Let me get it for you,” said Famine as Brian clutched his arm.
“I’m passing out. I’m going to pass out,” said Brian. Famine swung open the door with too much force and it crashed into Brian’s face. He reeled backwards towards the couch, showering Death in blood before turning back and collapsing into his room. Famine shut the door slowly behind him, and sat back down on the couch.
“Sorry about that,” he said.
“I…I think I’ll need a new suit, now,” said Death, wiping Brian’s blood from his lapel.
When Famine returned to his duties, Death made his way to the nearest men’s clothing shop, Fitzegerald’s. He walked in, still covered in blood. “Sir?” asked a man. He was straightening out the hem of a pair of pants on a headless manikin. When he stood up he looked Death up and down with eyebrows raised and lips pursed. “What happened to you?”
“My roommate bled all over me and now I need a new suit,” said Death.
“Well, here at Fitzgerald’s, our policy is ‘no questions asked,’” he said nervously. “What are you looking for?”
“I guess a…suit,” said Death.
“Yes,” said the man, closing his eyes and sighing, his smile still plastered on. “Of course. But what kind? Tailored?”
“Yes,” said Death.
“Three button or—“
“Yup, three.”
“Black, Bl—“
“Black, that’s the one.
“Vest?”
“Yes, vest,” said Death. He felt an odd need to not look like a fool—a very human desire.
“Wonderful, let’s find you something nice,” said the man. “Ah, here we go, a nice vest for you. A single-breasted pinstripe by Giorgio Armani. The polyester and rayon combination give it a relaxed yet classy feel. Along with the button-front is a left chest pocket and two side pockets, and an adjustable buckle on the back waist. I have a vision for you, sir, a vision of the perfect suit. You will…not…be…disappointed.”
“Wow, great,” said Death. He took hold of the vest and placed an arm through one hole, then struggled to wrap the rest of the vest across his body. As he thrashed about, the man could not take it anymore.
“Sir, sir,” he shouted. “What are you doing?” He seized the vest from Death’s grasp and looked as though he had just witnessed an unspeakable crime. “You are going to
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