Mort - conversation

The abbot, who was small and totally bald and had more wrinkles than a sackful of prunes, opened his eyes.

“You’re late,” he whispered, and died.

Mort swallowed, fought for breath, and brought the scythe around in a slow arc. Nevertheless, it was accurate enough; the abbot sat up, leaving His corpse behind. “Not a moment too soon,” he said, in a voice only Mort could hear. “You had me worried for a moment there.”

“Okay?” said Mort. “Only I’ve got to rush—”

The abbot swung himself off the bed and walked towards Mort through the ranks of his bereaved followers.

***

Mort p64