[ WP ] Death hates it when people fake their own , and it 's had enough .

`` Oh, that is just insulting,'' he rolls his eyes. `` Disgrace to my entire profession. Leave it to the professionals!'' 
 
 `` If you hate it that much, I do n't see you helping!'' I snap back at him. He shrugs, and drinks more of my coffee. I just sigh and keep painting the table. 
 
 `` Blood splatter's wrong,'' he comments, pulling his hood tighter over his head. I suppose even Death felt the cold. I make a little unappreciative groan and spread the blood around with the heel of my hand. 
 
 `` You know, most people beg to not die. What're you doing all this for?'' Death puts down the cup of coffee and tosses his scythe from hand to hand, clearly bored. Not bored enough to leave me be, though. The last ten minutes since he'd materialized in the middle of the room had been incessant complaining about how bad I was making him look. 
 
 `` Borrowed too much money,'' I explain, hitting the table with a candlestick to provide signs of a struggle. Death nods approvingly. `` I'd prefer to take my chances on the road than with the mafia.'' 
 
 `` Right, well,'' he taps his scythe on the floor twice. I expected something to happen, but he just uses the scythe to pull himself to his feet. `` I suppose I could help *a little*.'' 
 
 Death holds up a withered hand, the other pointing his scythe at the door. His fingers count down, 5... 4... 
 
 `` Should I be concerned?'' I ask him. 
 
 `` Hush,'' he reprimands. A chill runs down my spine like I'd watched a video of swarming spiders, or a stampede of elephants ran over my grave. 
 
 He reaches one, and a heavily tattooed, burly man bursts through the door, raising a nasty looking knife. I stagger backwards, as the entity which had haunted me for the last few months finally took physical form. 
 
 Then Death swooshes his scythe, and the man falls to the floor, choking and thrashing relentlessly. 
 
 `` Oh, uh, thanks Death,'' I glance from the couch to the gradually dying man by my front door. 
 
 `` No, no, not at all,'' he walks over to the burly corpse. With remarkable strength for his scrawny frame, he lifts the body and tosses it onto the table. 
 
 It's like watching an artist at work. I could n't see his face through the hood, and he said nothing, but the way he moved hinted at the absolute focus required. He handled blood and bone like a painter and a chef combined into a single, morbid art. 
 
 `` Ah, I forgot how wonderful it is to work. You know, most of the time I'm just choking people with tacos, or pushing them down stairs,'' he says, waving his hands around. The scene in front of him is altered accordingly, tables flipping over as he handles the body like a ragdoll. `` There's nothing to work with!'' 
 
 `` Alright,'' he plucks a hair off my head. `` I'm changing his blood type and whatnot. You'll have a couple of weeks to get away.'' 
 
 `` I, uh, thank you, Death,'' I smile awkwardly. I would shake his hand, but that felt like it would kill me. 
 
 `` Hope not to see you soon!'' he steps backwards, and out of my life. I could swear there was a little more... life to his voice. I wonder how that would change things.
