The door swings open. It’s a bald, gleaming, shiny head. The bald, gleaming, shiny head. The stench in the air is palpable. It is the stench of fear, and it was an all-you-can-eat-buffet for the nose which belonged to the bald head.
“What are you idiots waiting for? Go greet the food auditor!” The supervisor reprimanded his staff in a hushed whisper.
The staff proceeded to welcome the Grim Reaper wearing a bald-man-suit as a practised choir. Grim Reaper paid no attention, instead stalked straight for the kitchen.
The supervisor trodded behind him, not unlike a freshly nagged kid. Then Death spoke, “If I can taste a trace of food on whatever that used to contain, I’m suspending your license.” He stared pointedly at a container.
The unorthodox test caused the supervisor to take a moment to process what Death uttered. When at last he understood, he began to word his confused disbelief, “You can’t be serious…” But the container was already cradled by Death’s spiny spiderweb-y fingers, and it appeared to corrupt at his very touch. Death opened his mouth, and a tendril slithered out. The air stilled in that room, and a morgue may arguably be a more lively place than that kitchen at that precise moment.
Death’s tendril traced a slimy path on the container’s inner wall and withdrew.
“I can taste it…”
The supervisor and his staff visibly stiffened. Teeth were gritted, veins throbbed, breaths were held and five pairs of eyes widened.
“I can taste your license renewal.”
And nobody imagined that even Death was capable of a warm smile.