Мор - ученик смерти

           Helookedbacklikeanocturnalrabbittryingtooutstaretheheadlightsofasixteen-wheeledarticwhosedriverisatwelve-hourcaffeinefreakoutrunningthetachometersofhell.

           Hefailed.

           ’No,sir,’hesaid.

           GOOD.WELLDONE.NowTHEN,WHATDOYOUTHINKOFTHIS?

           Anglersreckonthatagooddryflyshouldcunninglymimictherealthing.Therearetherightfliesformorning.Therearedifferentfliesfortheeveningrise.Andsoon.

           ButthethingbetweenDeath’striumphantdigitswasaflyfromthedawnoftime.Itwastheflyintheprimordialsoup.Ithadbredonmammothturds.Itwasn’taflythatbangsonwindowpanes,itwasaflythatdrillsthroughwalls.Itwasaninsectthatwouldcrawloutfrombetweentheslatsoftheheaviestswatdrippingvenomandseekingrevenge.Strangewingsanddanglingbitsstuckoutalloverit.Itseemedtohavealotofteeth.

           ’What’sitcalled?’saidMort.

           ISHALLCALLIT–DEATH’SGLORY.Deathgavethethingafinaladmiringglanceandstuckitintothehoodofhisrobe.IFEELINCLINEDTOSEEALITTLEBITOFLIFETHISEVENING,heSaid.YOUCANTAKETHEDUTY,NOWTHATYOU’VEGOTTHEHANGOFIT.ASITWERE.

           ’Yes.Sir,’saidMort,mournfully.Hesawhislifestretchingoutinfrontofhimlikeanastyblacktunnelwithnolightattheendofit.

           Deathdrummedhisfingeronthedesk,mutteredtohimself.

           AHYES,hesaid.ALBERTTELLSMESOMEONE’SBEENMEDDLINGINTHELIBRARY.

           ’Pardon,sir?’

           TAKINGBOOKSour,LEAVINGTHEMLYINGAROUND.

           BOOKSABOUTYOUNGWOMEN.HESEEMSTOTHINKITISAMUSING.