The Grim Reaper sat
in the far corner of a dingy tavern late one Friday night,
a cigarette clutched
between the first two skeletal fingers of his right hand,
he took a drag and
smoke escaped from the gaps where his eyes and nose had never been.
A waitress cautiously
approached the table,
nervously eyeing the
scythe which lay across it,
not waiting to be
asked, he rasped:
“Whiskey, leave the
bottle.”
As he began to drink,
he pondered the week that had passed,
most of his “clients”
met his arrival with awe and terror,
except for the old
ones who sighed with relief.
And now here he sat,
alone as always,
and why not? Most men
recoiled in his presence,
and he avoided the
crazy fan club.
His drink and
cigarette finished, he reached into his cloak,
suddenly, he slammed
two ancient silver coins on the table,
and without a word,
swept out into the night,
now more than ever,
his work is never done.
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