Death's Life

Part I

    Death, Reaper of Souls and End of All Things, was trying very head to get some much-needed sleep. This was being impeded by the death-metal from next door, which thumped through thin walls like a sonic jackhammer. Despite being present on roughly 50% of all metal album cover art ever made, the Grim Reaper was more of a classical fan, save that embarrassing phase in the 70's involving a rhinestone scythe, but that was neither here nor there.
    "Turn that down!" Spoke Death in a voice as cold and creeping as a glacier, that sent chills down the spine, reverberated through the soul, that was no match for the scream of an electric guitar. "He does this in purpose!" The Reaper muttered as he donned a black bathrobe and matching fuzzy slippers. Still grumbling in a voice like the boom of stone coffin lids slamming shut in long-forgotten crypts, he swept down the hall and stopped at the door decorated with caution tape, military medals, and a large sign reading "No Girls Allowed". His skeletal fist pounded the splintery wood.     "Waaaaar!" He bellowed over the illegible screaming that was singing only because it happened in a song. After a moment, the music ceased and the floor stopped shaking. Then the door was thrown open.
    "Waddaya want!?" Boomed a towering behemoth of a man with a face like a jigsaw puzzle, a beard like an inferno, and a voice like a flak-cannon.
    "It's eleven-thirty-five!"
    "So?" Death stared at War like only a bare human skull can.
    "I have to start work at seven! Seven!"
    "You're always working! You can't just shut us all down every night because you're so stuck-up, you bony buzz-kill! Why don't you live a little!?"
    "Perhaps you'd understand if you tried working more!" War's military crew-cut began to smoulder.
    "Hey! Not all of us can have a steady gig! I've been doing part-time all over for years, bud, and Russia and America are gunna return my calls any decade now!" Death snorted. Flames licked the edges of War's beard, "Yeah? Well I've been emailing North Korea and they say they're interested!"
    "Korea? Seriously? They fired you back in 1953!"
    "Not technically! I just stopped getting shifts!" War leaned out into the hallway and bellowed: "HEY KEVIN! I GOT A CHANCE WITH NORTH KOREA, RIGHT!?"
    "Don't bring Kevin into this! He doesn't even live here!" Death growled.
    "Tension has been rising since North Korea declared the new UN sanctions made the armistice invalid back in 2013!" Came a reply from the living room. War looked smug.
    "I'm collecting your grandmother's soul in the morning, Kevin!" Hollered Death, "better say goodbye while you've got the chance!" There was a strangled yelp from the living room. Moments later, the front door slammed. War scowled.
    "You liar! Plague told me she still had a few years in her!"
    "Don't change the subject. None of this excuses your music!" Snapped Death, "I can't sleep with that garbage breaking my door down!" War's beard burst into flame.
    "Garbage? Garbage!? Look who's talking, Mr. Disco is Dead!"
    "Th-that was forty years ag-" BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBE Antiquated sprinklers flicked on, dousing War's incendiary hair, as well as the rest of the house. A few moments later, a woman with yellowing skin and a body like a shrink-wrapped toast-rack appeared dripping in the hallway. She brandished a soggy sandwich.
    "What the hell guys!? I was getting a midnight snack!" Rasped Famine in a voice as dry as a sun-bleached skeleton. Death pinched the spot where the bridge of his nose would have been.
    "You don't eat, Famine."
    "It's worth a try you inconsiderate sack o-"
    "Nooooo! My germ colonies!" Came a wheezing wail from the basement, "my little contagious babies! You've killed them! You monsters!" Death was holding his head in his hands now.
    "Sorry, Plague!" War bellowed, "It was Death's fault!"
    "Excuse me!?" Death's skull shot up.
    "Apology accepted." Nodded War.
    "Wha-"
    "Right, I'm gunna hit the sack, so keep it down out here."
    "You massi-"
    "G'NIGHT FAMINE!" The bedroom door slammed shut. A moment later, the death-metal began to blare once more. Famine glanced up distractedly from her sandwich, which was starting to ooze brown slime.
    "'night War." A large gob of sandwich struck the linoleum-tiled floor. Flecks speckled Death's fuzzy black slippers, but he was too engulfed in an all-consuming inferno of silent, baffled fury to notice. Famine sighed as she watched her snack fall from her spindly fingers. It had looked like a good sandwich. Death continued to stare at the closed door. He had started to make small, spluttering sounds. Famine saw the approaching iceberg and decided to head for the lifeboats. "Yeah, I'm going to go make sure my stuff didn't get soaked. Later Grim!"