“What the fuck is this shit?”
I rounded on Death, who was inexplicably sitting in a battered tweed armchair, which looked preposterous, dwarfed by his height and almost enveloped by his robe. He gave me a blank look and reached inside his robe, as if he were a businessman about to offer me a cigarette from an exquisite silver case.
It is the end, he said, simply. His hand reappeared holding the same battered book I had seen him produce before. He flicked through the pages, stopping just before the end. There is nothing for you to do but watch. I thought you should at least be comfortable. [continue]