Forever After (a dark and funny fantasy novel) by David Jester Page A

knead some life into his skull.
                  He said, “What are you doing--” but then stopped himself. “Can you give me a moment to get dressed?” he wondered.
                  “As you wish.”
     
    ****
                 
                  Azrael, the Angel of Death, calmly walked to the kitchen, leaving Michael to rouse himself in the bedroom. His huge body bound gracefully through the grimy flat, almost floating with an ethereal decorum.
                  He paused by the fridge and knelt down to open it; his eight foot frame towered over the large appliance. He looked through the contents with a murmur of curiosity. He picked up a tub of what appeared to be coleslaw, sniffed it with a startled grunt and then shoved it back on the top shelf, unimpressed.
                  When he closed the fridge door he glimpsed Chip standing on the other side, entering the kitchen with his grubby hands scrubbing sleep out of his bleary eyes.
                  Chip didn’t notice the Angel of Death poking around in his fridge, he brushed straight past him and drifted towards the couch in the living room as the demon watched him, perplexed and amused.
                  Chip sat down and settled into the couch with his eyes still half closed. He picked his nose and wiped the offending contents onto the arm of the sofa. He jiggled his grubby fingers inside his ears. He sniffed his armpits, the smell woke him like a tub of smelling salts, his head jolted back and his eyes sprang open. Only then did he see Azrael watching him on the other side of the room.
                  He dived onto the floor as if his legs had lost their rigidity and his body had spasmed.
                  “Good morning,” Azrael boomed.
                  Chip dragged himself back onto the couch, his feet kicking cartoonishly on the floor as he hauled himself up. He peered over the arm of the couch at Azrael, ducking down slightly as he prepared to hide or run.
                  “Is it?” he asked, agitatedly. “I mean, of course it is! Good morning to you sir.” He slapped on his best smile, he looked constipated. “Can I get you something? A drink perhaps? Coffee?”
                  He made a move to stand but quickly decided his legs wouldn’t hold him and sat back down.
                  “I’m afraid it goes right through me,” Azrael countered.
                  Chip tilted his head from side to side, bouncing it on his neck like an ornamental dancer. “That’s the point of a morning coffee isn’t it?” he enquired, feeling his heart rate settle slightly. “Helps clean the pipes.”
                  Azrael shook his head. “I mean literally,” he opened his robe, exposing his skeletal frame. He closed it again before Chip had time to thoroughly examine the contents.
                  “Holy shit,” Chip spat, more impressed than scared. “Well...” he said slowly, staring distantly at Azrael’s robe, “how about some toast?”
                  Azrael frowned and waited for Chip’s gaze to meet his, when it did it suddenly flashed with a smile. “You’re an odd little fellow aren’t you?”
                  “You’re not the first person to notice.”
                  The Angel of Death nodded curiously. “You work at the tooth factory right?”
                  “Freelance collector, kinda.” Chip shrugged. “How did you know?”
                  “There’s a bag of teeth in the fridge.”
                  Chip hopped to his feet. “I was wondering where I’d put them,” he declared, opening the fridge and removing the teeth, leaving another broad and simple smile for the Angel of Death as he passed.
                  “Are you here for me by any chance?” He