DEATH OF HOOMINS, IT HAPPUND AGAIN.
The Death of Fluffies looks up at his human(oid) counterpart. The Bone Fluff is dripping with ectoplasmic excrement.
AGAIN? YOU’VE REALLY GOT TO GET BETTER AT DODGING, DEATH OF FLUFFIES. LOOK AT THIS MESS.
The Death of Humans looks at the trail, leading from the Death of Fluffies, across the black lawn, under the black sky, to the spot where the Death of Fluffies entered the domain they share, in a patch of black trees. Guess what color the apples are. It’s a little world within a world, the Death of Fluffies’ domain accessed through one of the many black doors in the Death of Human’s black cottage, which is much bigger on the inside.
Obeying the laws of physics is merely an option for the incarnations of Death.
OH WELL. WAIT OUT HERE, I’LL GET THE TUB. I’M NOT LETTING YOU TRACK THAT STUFF INSIDE AGAIN.
WAWA AM BAD FOW FWUFFIES.
IT’S NOT LIKE YOU CAN DROWN, YOU KNOW.
DEATH OF FWUFFIES KNU. BUT WAWA AM STIWW BAD FOW FWUFFIES.
The Death of Humans sighs.
As the Death of Humans lathers up the Death of Fluffies, he keeps his diminutive counterpart distracted with conversation. There’s something on his mind.
The Death of Humans’ black cloak is hanging on a hook inside, and the Death of Fluffies’ black cloak is in the wash. Neither of them have any body parts that prudish societies insist should be covered up. The cloaks are just for the proper look.
WHAT I DON’T GET IS, HOW DO THOSE GHOST SMARTIES EVEN DO SORRY POOPIES? the Death of Humans asks the Death of Fluffies. ALL THEIR BODILY WASTE IS, WELL, IN THEIR BODIES. THEY DON’T TAKE IT WITH THEM WHEN THEY GO.
BY DA TIME DEY FIG-YUW DAT OWT, AN STAWP MAKIN POOPIES, IT AM A BIT TUU WATE. YU KNU HOW POWAHFUW BEWIEF CAN BE. AN OWD HABITS DIE HAWD.
The Death of Humans, who is, from our linear, and woefully inaccurate temporal point of view, thousands and thousands of years older than the Death of Fluffies, though not as old as the now retired Death of Protohumans, and not nearly as old as the also-retired Death of Tyrannosaurus Rexes, knows just how hard it is to let go of bad habits. His charges have been metaphorically clubbing each other on the head for millennia, and the only thing that’s really changed is how much damage the clubs do on impact.
The Death of Humans decides to change the subject.
SO HOW IS BLUEBERRY DOING?
AM DUIN FINE. WEADIN HEWD WEWW.
GOOD, GOOD.
DU YU KNU WUT DA DEEW AM WIF TOMMEH FUNDA YET?
STILL TRYING TO FIND OUT, I’M AFRAID. I HAD JUST GOTTEN BACK FROM SEARCHING THE ENTIRE LIBRARY OF ALEXANDRIA WHEN YOU SHOWED UP.
The Death of Humans starts rinsing off the Death of Fluffies.
The Death of Fluffies recently discovered, while carting off the soul of a fluffy from a rival herd who had foolishly tried to pull off a solo theft from Blueberry’s brownie room, that Tommy Fonda can see the incarnations of Death. Even on the rare occasions that he’s sober.
Tommy Fonda is not in any of the groups usually capable of this: the dead, because it would make the job the incarnations of Death have to do much harder to do if their charges couldn’t see them, the psychically inclined, because they usually spend a lot of time communicating with the first group, those rare few who have undergone special training to see what’s really there, the mentally ill, thanks to their distorted perception of reality, and small children and animals, because they lack the filters that prevent most people from seeing things they don’t want to acknowledge, like the Deaths, or uncomfortable truths. And, unlike Pierre Faucheuse, Tommy does not possess a pair of cybernetic eyes.
The Death of Fluffies reported this to the Death of Humans, who, existing in every point of time that humans exist in, has access to every book ever written or that will ever be written, and immediately began investigating.
Despite not yet finding an explanation, they are reluctant to tell their boss, Azrael, even though he has access to every book that could ever be written.
They’re sure he already knows about Tommy Fonda, but they think he might be pretending not to know, for reasons known only to him.
The Death of Humans towels off the Death of Fluffies. At this point, it shouldn’t have to be specified what color the towel is.
The two Deaths head inside, and after a few minutes, so to speak, time doesn’t really exist here, they exit the cottage, both robed, both carrying their scythes.
This time, they’re heading to a job together. A young woman, who tripped and suffered a fatal brain hemorrhage, and the stunted, mutilated fluffy she had just left in the freezer to die.
The fluffy actually ends up outliving his owner, not for long, mind, so the Death of Humans is dropping the Death of Fluffies off before going back to the woman’s time of death, a couple of days earlier. They’ll return home together when their respective DUTIES have been carried out.
The two incarnations of Death walk through the dark field together, and then out of the field and into the world.
