A Death Appointment
The intercom buzzes in Death’s room. Death, with a sigh of frustration, lifts his head off the newspaper he’s been reading. He takes a puff on his cigar, then stretches a bit and presses the button on the intercom.
All this work will kill me someday, I swear. What is it, Miss Coffins? I told you I didn’t wish to be interrupted.
Sorry, Mr. Death. But Mr. Aging insists he must see you immediately. He claims that it is urgent.