Flirting With Death

“Is that what I think it is?”

“Yes,” the man in a black hooded cloak replied, “it’s a scythe.”

“And security let you in?”

“I let myself in.”

She slumped gracefully onto the adjacent barstool.

“So,” she leaned closer.  “Do you come here often?”

“Work takes me everywhere.”

“What kind of work?”  She smiled blandly, still unable to see his face.

“Acquisitions and Disposal.  I collect souls and dispose of the empty shell.”

“Oh…” her eyes widened.  “Are you here for me?”

He set an hourglass on the polished bar top, sand streamed into the lower bulb.  “All of you.”


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