Death wandered around the room, looking upon those within the last vestiges of life and smiled. He was a twisted son of a bitch with a morbid sense of humour often showing himself briefly to those he knew wouldn’t drop dead on him.
Instead he placed his icy touch up the shoulder of Dennis the janitor, a man still very much in his prime. As he grabbed at his chest mid mop and slumped to the floor, Death took a handful of coins from the outstretched hand of a watching Angel.
“Okay, so you’re a bit of a cunt!” remarked the Angel. “What’s the next wager?”