Copyright © 2013 by Douglas T. Vale
Cover image courtesy of Nia / StockFreeImages.com
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
"Really, do you think I’m stupid? I’m not going to believe you."
Christopher Kismet stood before the tall imposing figure who had claimed several times to be Death, arms crossed and nose turned up. Death, since that was the only name Chris new to call him, seemed six feet tall, wore a black robe with his face concealed under the hood, and white, gnarled hands with pulsing dark blue veins on his exposed fingers. In his left hand he steadied a long, gently curving staff of wood. When Death spoke, his voice was deep and thunderous, though generally soft spoken.
"You doubt me, Chris? What proof do you want? How you died? Surely you remember?"
"So I fell off my bike and hit my head. So what? I’m ok now."
"You weren’t ok, Chris. You’d gotten drunk."
"I was not drunk!"
"Feel your pulse."