He turned his head, wincing at the stab of pain, and saw a small but brightly lit folding chair in the sand. A robed figure was reclining in it, reading a book. A scythe was stuck in the sand beside it. A white, skeletal hand turned a page. Youll be Death, then? said Vimes, after a while. AH, MISTER VIMES. ASTUTE AS EVER. GOT IT IN ONE, said Death, shutting the book on his finger to keep the place. Ive seen you before. I HAVE WALKED WITH YOU MANY TIMES, MISTER VIMES. And this is *it,* is it? HAS IT NEVER STRUCK YOU THAT THE CONCEPT OF A WRITTEN NARRATIVE IS SOMEWHAT STRANGE? said Death. Vimes could tell when people were trying to avoid something they really didnt want to say, and it was happening here. It it? he insisted. Is this it? This time I die? COULD BE. Could be? What sort of answer is that? said Vimes. A VERY ACCURATE ONE. YOU SEE, YOU ARE HAVING A NEAR-DEATH EXPERIENCE, WHICH INESCAPABLY MEANS THAT I MUST UNDERGO A NEAR-*VIMES* EXPERIENCE. DONT MIND ME. CARRY ON WITH WHATEVER YOU WERE DOING. I HAVE A BOOK.
Posted on: Fri, 14 Nov 2014 03:35:35 +0000
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