RIP Terry Pratchett
(I apologize for any grammar errors)
Terry opened his eyes. He felt like he never felt before, something understandable if you realize he just passed away. It didn’t seem for him a sad thing, because an ectoplasmatic being doesn’t have the glands needed to feel sorry.
– I BEG YOUR PARDON – said a voice that came from the inside of a hodd from which two blue stars shined like a supernova.
– Oh, it’s you – replied Terry. I wasn’t sure you were coming, you know…
– I COME FOR EVERYBODY.
– I understand, I’m only saying that as you are a literary charact…
– I AM AN ANTROPOMORPHIC REPRESENTATION.
– Belive me that I know that. I had you present in all my books.
– BE THANKFULL YOU HADN’T HAD TO PAY ME ANY ROYALTIES.
– Well, that is true. Although I also contributed to make you more popular. Not only in the Discworld, but in the Roundworld aswell. That’d count for something, right?
– THE REAPER ONLY CONCERNS ABOUT THE CROP. YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENS WHEN A PUBLIC WORKER LIKE ME MISSES HIS OCCUPATION DUE OTHER MATTERS.
– Another ordinary day?
Death stood in silence and over the ivory surface of his bony cheeks seemed to glow a slight red color.
– Oh, come on – said Terry. You were funnier in my books and not so deadly serious… No pun intended.
Death’s blue eyes turned into slits.
– DO YOU RATHER HAVE A DEADLY TIME?
– Why not? It doesn’t seem there is much to do around here.
– YOU COULD START BY PUTTING BACK ON YOUR HAT- said Death, giving Terry a frayed hat with his bony hand.
– That’s not my hat. It says sourcery there.
– OH, EXCUSE ME. IT’S FROM THAT ANNOYANCE OF RINCEWIND. HERE.
Terry put his hat on by a pure sugestion excercise of phantasmagoric will and asked: – Why would you have my hat?
– SO I COULD SAY THAT I TOOK MY HAT OFF BEFORE YOU, GREAT MASTER.
– Ok, that was clever, I reckon, but you could also have brought some good liquor… How should I say?… Spirituous. I wouldn’t like anything more right know than to take a good drink.
Death took his scythe aside and showed a small metal flask.
– Really? – asked Terry.
– WHAT COULD I SAY? THIS JOB CAN BE BORING AS DEATH.
Terry and Death toasted. They say a liquour is as good as old it is. Death’s one grow outside time’s limits, and it made a Châteaux Lafite-Rothschild to look like cheap wine.
– This soupe does certainly taste like something. I guess it could bring a dead back to life…
– ABSOLUTELY NOT.
– All right, all right. What now?
– NOW, SIR PRATCHETT, IT FINALLY CAME THE TIME FOR US TO WALK TOGETHER.
And using his scythe, Death separated Terry’s spirit from his corporal shell and started to walk together towards the black desert under an infinite night.
Source: Once I find out, I’ll credit it.