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Death sipped her beer, slowly. The cold, hard stool under her butt seemed much colder now that she was sitting on it. Comfortably cold. The bartender a stout, muscular man shivered as frost crept out from between his blue lips. His gray eyes welled up with fear. His body seemed to bend for his patron, humbled by her might. Death only smiled, it was her vacation.

She swirled what was left of the yellow, brown brew as if it were a wine. With a sigh, she stared back at the awestruck denizens of bar. They looked as if they had seen a ghost. Their pale faces were even paler when she caught their stares, but they weren't her concern. She was meeting her partner in crime at this bar, and as always he was late. Fate always thought he could take his precious time.

She checked her sleek, silver watch with its perfectly formfitting black leather band. Even on vacation Death had appearance to uphold. She didn't have the time to wait on Elton. Especially now, now that there were rumors that the Grey was coming to bring them to justice. That he had been found by the Lighter Powers. That both the Flower Child and the Coin Collector had briefed him on his mission. And that Puck had been ordered to be his guide throughout the quest. At that moment their rebellion, their civil disobedience, their strike was in danger.

Not like it mattered to Elton Fate (or Fait, depending on how you spelled it and whether you had a penchant for the French language), he was always so laid back. Taking another sip from her mug, she rolled her eyes, all those card games.

"Geez, Death its cold in here"! a familiar voice exclaimed. She only sighed, from the corner of her gray eye she could see a tall, pale man in a Seville Row suit and bowler hat. His fine leather soles clicked with every hurried step. Always had to make an entrance.

With a flirtatious grin, a twinkle in his eyes, and the snap of his fingers he immediately thawed out the bar. In the background, Death could hear the faint shaking of maracas.

She groaned,"Hello Elton."

"Why hello to you too, my lady," Elton greeted her still grinning from ear to ear.

She glared at him. "You do realize that I have appointments to keep."

Elton furrowed his brow, as if he were letting his inner monologue out, he asked, "What appointments? The entire point of this is that you don't have any appointments to keep. The entire point of this is to prove to the Lighter Powers that they can't control us. The Collector can't chain us with his coins, can't categorize us!" The barkeep dropped a drink by him, taking a sip he muttered, "Order, pah, order! An order existence will break down with the flick of my wrist. Life is too random to be controlled."

"I have appointments with those who would help prolong our venture, Elton,"
she growled. She took another swig of her ale. Her pale digits poked out of the fingerless black, leather gloves.

Elton Fate chuckled, replying sarcastically, "You always struck as rather anti-social Death." Tugging on her weatherworn, black trench coat, he asked, "Who are these chaps?"

She gave him a fanged grin, a knowing grin, replying simply she said, "Humans."

Fait raised an eyebrow. The Powers That Be had never really used humans, most of the time they weren't worth it. After all, they controlled the World, and in doing so controlled the humans by default. If crops failed humans died, it was Death's department to pick up the trash. Elton would be the one to choose which of the unlucky souls bit the dust. In the meanwhile, The Collector would make sure that those that died were somehow replaced by those that lived and The Flower Child kept the grease of the so-called machine well oiled. They really didn't need to visit each human personally cause their jobs were so impersonal. He couldn't tell the difference between a farmer and an accountant and he didn't care.

Taking a sip of his beer, he asked disdainfully, "Why are we messing with them?" He glanced back to the wretched, desperate dregs populating the bar. He really didn't trust humans. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

"Because they're giving us a place to hide," Death was frank.

"Good point," Elton smirked, trounced by Death's cool logic. "So who are they?"

"Let’s just say they’re…" Death grinned, "admires of my work."

Screaming at the top of their lungs the Lemmings fell off the cliff in twos and threes. In their blue, white, and black hoodies, tiny white tennis shoes flying off their tiny white, brown, and black feet. Their thin, fat, tall, short, bodies tumbled, tossed, and rolled down as the gray water beat its drumbeat against the shores. Providing the rhythm for their jumps.

There was soft, fleshy thud, then a puff of sand. Elton’s fine leather shoes were dirtied by the moron. "Bloody hell," he exclaimed to Death, "I just got these things cleaned yesterday!"

As the two lone figures moved closer to the dilapidated compound, they could smell dried blood in the air. To their left, two nimrods were playing William Tell. To their right, six space monkeys huddled around a lighter, one had two hairspray canisters in his hands. As they walked, very slowly, Elton saw a tall man standing on his head, his face was turning different shades of blue, red, and purple. At one point, the man even matched the shade of blue on his hoodie.

At the hilltop lay a rusted, old Victorian house. There was gaping hole in the roof, probably from great storm. Two red doors leaned on their hinges nonchalantly. There was no running water, no electricity, no phone, and definitely no way out. Its paint was cracked.  Not like the building’s inhabitants really cared to leave. An arrow whizzed by Death’s ear, they could pass the time.

Death strolled in between the two broken doors. The hard wood floors groaned under her feet. Elton gulped. The blood smell was stronger now. It was as if every piece of broken wood had been drenched in it. There a plastic thud as a black and gray New Balance shoe fell to floor. Elton almost jumped ten feet into the air. Death’s gray eye’s motioned upward. Above them was a chandelier of bodies swing about by their necks.

"Good god," Fate muttered.

Death didn’t say a thing, she only continued on up the stairs. Noticing she was gone, Elton scurried after her. Her black trench coat flowed behind her as her black boots clacked softly on the rotted steps. The Flower Child would have lost her nerve on these steps. She had always fought against the flaw in her creations, fought against their life force slowly leaving their bodies. Fought against their the natures of her creations, the wars, the murders, the stupidity. Every time a new creature was created she attempted to make it better the last one, make it last longer, but eventually even the tallest trees fall. Even the most beautiful flowers wither. Even the most noble of beasts dies in his cold den. Death was the only one who understood the truth, understood finality. Now the World was without her, everybody would understand the true meaning of life.

Soft skin against jagged glass. Drop, drop, drop. A groan. A sigh. Clawing at his neck. Tearing at his arms. A tiny river here. A vein there. More crimson blood. Drop, drop, drop. His blonde hair standing on edge, pulled up in frustration. Dirt under his finger nails. Wild gray eyes. And more drops. Drop, drop, drop.

"Didn’t your mother tell you not to play with sharp objects?" She leaned against in the doorway staring down pathetically at him. He shook, sweat dripping from his brow. Shivering in the cold, yet still warm. He shouldn’t be warm now, he should be cold. She just slunk in the doorway.

Another came into the doorway now, his mouth gaped open. He wore the most pristine white suit. He muttered something to her. Her lips drew back into a grin. His head swam, but he didn’t black out. Sitting Indian style, hunched in the corner, he drew another glass fragment against his skin. Drop, drop, drop. They just stared at him, he was their monkey.

"We’re staying here," she told him. He shook and nodded then shook again. "You don’t have a choice in the matter," she continued coolly.  The women in the trench coat and the man in the suit left the doorway. He continued about his work. Drop, drop, drop.