The intercom in Death’s office buzzes. With a slightly frustrated sigh, Death lifts his skeletal head from the newspapers he was reading, takes a puff of his cigar, stretches out a little, and presses a button on the intercom.
— I swear, all this work is going to kill me one day. I said I didn’t want to be interrupted, Miss Coffins; what is it?
— I’m sorry, Mr. Death, but Mr. Aging insists that he needs to see you right now. He says it’s urgent.
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