“It's the principle of the thing,” Death said, as he sat comfortably on the deck chair. Water had seeped in all the way up to his boots, and was beginning to soak through and into his wool socks. Though he kept up his cool attitude, he was in fact quite agitated, and only a few short moments away from cracking and beating the life out of the old man himself. There would, he knew, be a mountain of paperwork to fill if he did so, but if the sea water ruined his new suit he wasn't totally sure what he was going to do.

“Now you listen here,” said Cory Daniels, the old man in question, who spoke to Death with the air of one who thought quite a bit too highly of themselves, “you listen and you listen good: I'm entitled, you see? I'm entitled to a ripe old age and a long life, it says so in my contract. I get a pension, you understand, a pension and money to lavish on my grand-kids. How can I do that if I'm drowned at sea?”

Death sighed, and cut Cory Daniels' legs out from under him. The old man fell with a scream, face planting into the rising water. He struggled to stand on the stumps of his knees, cursing Death and cursing the water which was now soaking through his woolen sweater.

“Twenty years ago you made that same argument to me. Your grand children are now adults and two of them have kids of their own,” Death stood up, kicking one of Daniels' metal legs out of his way in the process. “You haven't spoken to a single member of your family since you're eighty-sixth birthday. You're almost ninety-four,” he bent down to haul up the struggling old man, who had been attempting to hobble his way to the life-preservers. He dangled several feet above the slowly sinking deck, leg stumps kicking feebly in the grip of the Reaper.

Daniels' spat in Death's face, “Go to Hell you sonofabitch!”

Death blinked once, then dropped Daniels into the chair which he had previously sat in, buckling his arms to his sides and holding him fast. The old man's gaze was fire; Death's was ice. “Fool me once, Cory Daniels, shame on you; fool me twenty times, and you lose my compassion.”

“This is inhumane!”

“This is death,” the Reaper replied, then turned and walked away.

Mortimer sat on a log, shaking water out of his shoe. The cloak of invisibility that he wore sat discarded on the forest floor next to him, and his annoyance was palpable. In the guise of Death, Mortimer was a cold, unfeeling, all-powerful force of nature; as himself, Mortimer hated getting his feet wet. A fish wriggled its way out of his trouser leg, and he thought for a moment he might be dreaming.

No such luck. Mortimer felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle, then stood to face the black visage of the Messenger. “Reaper Mortimer,” it said, “Telegraph.” Mortimer took the proffered document, and was about to turn away before a distinct 'ahem' from the Messenger turned him back.

“Yes?” he said.

“I also have a vocal message from Mistress Lilian. Shall I recite it for you?” Mortimer waved a hand and the Messenger continued, its voice changing in pitch and tone to a much higher if possibly more stern register, “Mortimer: I need you here. Now.” The Messenger quieted again, and Mortimer looked at it quizzically.

“What, was that all?”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” Mortimer shrugged, and turned around to read his telegraph. Some short minutes later, he turned back to find the Messenger still there. “Do you mind?” he asked in irritation. The Messenger stared at him for a long moment, then Mortimer remembered. “Oh, yes,” and he began digging around in his pockets for loose change. “Sorry I'm a bit distracted. Do you know they've called me into court again? For doing my job no less!” He hauled out sixty-six cents in assorted small coins, and offered them to the Messenger. “You know that man was an un-registered sex offender, right? And six years past due on his Death Certificate, and a con artist, and an a-moral sociopath, and a lawyer-” the Messenger was no longer listening; it had disappeared mid-sentence. Mortimer blinked.

“Oh,” he said to the empty air, then turned around to face the lake. The boat was nowhere in sight, indeed by that time it was impossible to tell where it had been at all. The fading light cast shadows on the water, through the trees, giving the whole place an unearthly feel. Mortimer found he quite liked it. Slipping on his damp shoes and throwing the darksome cloak over one shoulder, the Reaper began to trudge his way up the embankment to the road which he knew was only a few short paces away. Once there, he drew his scythe, and cut a hole in the Universe for him to step through. Then he was gone, and the lake and the road were full absent of people.

Crunch.

A bird flew from its nest, startled by the sudden activity.

Crunch.

Two squirrels scampered away in fright.

Crunch.

Cory Daniels crawled his way onto the street, water logged, exhausted, but definitely alive. The old Buick he drove was parked some distance away, still hitched with the trailer for his boat. He snarled at the sight of it, and dragged himself to the car.

“Cocksucking-motherfucking-asswipe,” he cursed silently at Death, at Mortimer, then started the engine, using his cane in place of a foot. “Two wars, a business Empire, three kids and more heartless bitches than I knew what to do with, and this is my reward?” He snarled again as he had to take his car off cruise control, forcing Daniels to once again use his cane as an impromptu leg. “The next time I catch that bastard I swear-to-god-”

Daniels broke off to swerve out of on-coming traffic; this only served to further agitate him. He growled a string of curses as his car turned off onto the main highway, and he began to head for home. Death watched him go; Death was not pleased.