The Mystery of the Man who Ran
Murdoch Steele, Private Eye, lounged with his feet proped on his desk, shadows from the window blinds striping his face. The last few wisps of smoke curled away from a crushed cigar, and a thick trenchcoat was serving as this detective's blanket for the night.
A sudden chill crept through the air, and he pulled the trenchcoat right tight, up to his nose. Murdoch suddenly felt more awake, but around him, lights dimmed, plants drooped, buildlings settled, and everything became quiet, as though trying to avoid detection.
The door to his office slid open. No sound came from it, and thusly Murdock noticed it not. And from the figure that loomed forth, no sound came either. None from the cloak dragging on the ground, none from the breath, for it did not exist, and none from the floorboards, for they recognized nothing atop them. It stopped, still looming, slowly shifting, before the Eye's desk.
By this time the chill had become so rigid and harsh, like ice scraping the Steele, the man opened his eyes, and saw before him, the thing. Or it's rough outline, in any event. 'Twas much too dark for Murdock to make out with any ladies, much less any detail anywhere on the figure.
"I am here for Murdoch Madson," said the creature with a voice like crunchy cereal, and then said nothing. Murdoch thought about many things very quickly. He figured that any other person, in this situation, would, dreaming aside, believe that this was Death before them, coming to take them to the World of Under. But Murdoch had opposition to that view. First off, he did not think there was a personification of Death, much less the steryotypical, black cloacked, dark hooded, twisted scyth carrying (which it was, so you know) being like that which stood before him. Also, coming to get someone to take them to their demise was just silly. A lot of people wouldn't be able to handle it, and would have panic attacks, run away, and they might even have a heart attack and die right in front of Death. Though he was confused how it new his real name. NO ONE knew his real name...
As Murdoch was finishing up his thoughts, the shadowed behemoth must had felt akward in the silence, for it spoke again.
"I am Death."
Murdoch's arms flopped out from his trenchcoat in dissapointed disbelief as he proclailmed, "What!?"
The room became colder. Murdoch was angry and confused, he was sure his line of thinking was correct. Then Death spoke again.
"A client of mine escaped when I arrived to collect him."
"...Escaped?" questioned the detective.
"Yes. He ran...Very fast."
"HA!" Murdoch exclaimed, jumping up from his chair and pointing his finger at The Hooded One, a triumphant smirk upon his maw. "And YOU want ME to FIND him, DON'T you?" he exclaimed, donning his coat. There was silence.
"I'll take the case!" shouted the Secretive Pupil, slamming his fist on the desk with an overdose of pride in his voice. He rounded the desk and gave Death a heartly slap on the lower back (because he was very tall, you see), and they exited the office to discuss the mystery.
A sudden chill crept through the air, and he pulled the trenchcoat right tight, up to his nose. Murdoch suddenly felt more awake, but around him, lights dimmed, plants drooped, buildlings settled, and everything became quiet, as though trying to avoid detection.
The door to his office slid open. No sound came from it, and thusly Murdock noticed it not. And from the figure that loomed forth, no sound came either. None from the cloak dragging on the ground, none from the breath, for it did not exist, and none from the floorboards, for they recognized nothing atop them. It stopped, still looming, slowly shifting, before the Eye's desk.
By this time the chill had become so rigid and harsh, like ice scraping the Steele, the man opened his eyes, and saw before him, the thing. Or it's rough outline, in any event. 'Twas much too dark for Murdock to make out with any ladies, much less any detail anywhere on the figure.
"I am here for Murdoch Madson," said the creature with a voice like crunchy cereal, and then said nothing. Murdoch thought about many things very quickly. He figured that any other person, in this situation, would, dreaming aside, believe that this was Death before them, coming to take them to the World of Under. But Murdoch had opposition to that view. First off, he did not think there was a personification of Death, much less the steryotypical, black cloacked, dark hooded, twisted scyth carrying (which it was, so you know) being like that which stood before him. Also, coming to get someone to take them to their demise was just silly. A lot of people wouldn't be able to handle it, and would have panic attacks, run away, and they might even have a heart attack and die right in front of Death. Though he was confused how it new his real name. NO ONE knew his real name...
As Murdoch was finishing up his thoughts, the shadowed behemoth must had felt akward in the silence, for it spoke again.
"I am Death."
Murdoch's arms flopped out from his trenchcoat in dissapointed disbelief as he proclailmed, "What!?"
The room became colder. Murdoch was angry and confused, he was sure his line of thinking was correct. Then Death spoke again.
"A client of mine escaped when I arrived to collect him."
"...Escaped?" questioned the detective.
"Yes. He ran...Very fast."
"HA!" Murdoch exclaimed, jumping up from his chair and pointing his finger at The Hooded One, a triumphant smirk upon his maw. "And YOU want ME to FIND him, DON'T you?" he exclaimed, donning his coat. There was silence.
"I'll take the case!" shouted the Secretive Pupil, slamming his fist on the desk with an overdose of pride in his voice. He rounded the desk and gave Death a heartly slap on the lower back (because he was very tall, you see), and they exited the office to discuss the mystery.