Chapter 2
It was a clam and sunny Thursday afternoon on Motton Way. Death particularly liked these types of days. Sipping Chambord on the deck with the lofty sounds of light string music drifting through the house and out into the yard. The entire property at 34 Motton was surprisingly un-menacing in appearance, considering its eternal inhabitant.
Death picked his plot back in the late 19th century, after Ohio had been mostly domesticated, yet still retained a “new world” mentality. He had made the mistake of following John Smith in the original voyage some years earlier. While it turned out to be convenient, seeing as how he had quite a bit of work to do there at the time, he found the whole ordeal to be mind bogglingly boring and too rugged for his taste. He had not liked the early years of civilization at all. Plagues and pesitlence were not his style and neither was working triple overtime. Not too proud of it, during the black plague and yellow fever eras, he would just take whole houses just to save time. And now that it seemed the world had cooled off for a while, Death could finally kick his feet up and take a slight breather from time to time.
Considering who he was, the local wildlife and critter-folk had no problem skittering right up onto his porch and chasing each other around the worn and weather beaten wood. The squirrels especially liked Death’s company during the summer and fall months. Even with no need for food, he always liked to keep some around because, hell, the man still had taste buds. And with that food were his guilty pleasure, peanuts, and who else just happens to like giant handfuls of peanuts? Well, everyone really, but our bushy tailed friends in particular until he would smile and nudge the remaining nuts off the porch and into the garden for them to fight over in the flowers, chittering away for the remnants of the bountiful feast.
With his deck now clear, Death kicked up his feet in his home made rocking chair and reached into his pocket. He pulled out an uncommonly old linen pouch and an ivory pipe. He pinched a portion of tobacco from his pouch and pushed it into the opening of the pipe. He shifted in his seat and pulled out a dry and dusty matchbox, which incredibly has not lost a match in the hundred or so years since he bought it. One of the perks of being immortal, he supposed.
Striking the match, it seemed to light perfectly even. Lifting it to the opening, he dropped the match inside and took a series of short puffs and leaned back, exhaling. Death liked this particular area to settle down in. Secluded and far away from anyone he might meet off the job. As much as he liked people, he hated even more when he had to be the one to take them away. The explanation was the hardest part. Oh, hey we have to take a trip. It’s a surprise, just trust me. A fun afternoon does not that make. It was especially nice in this day and age where everything can be automated, he could have as little human interaction as possible.
As irony would have it though, someone just happened to be walking up his lonesome gravel way.
