Death can sometimes be a funny little bitch.
Just like she was funny for Jeister Mok, The Man Who Could Not Die.
Mok did die in the end. No one escapes the sister of Morpheus and the daughter of life. Death gives everyone a chance for a date. Last date, of course. But Mok had avoided his date for the past three hundred seventy six years to be exact. The day he died was his three hundred and seventy seventh birthday.
Mok sat in the balcony of his mansion, overlooking the vast sea and the mountains as a flock of seagulls flew in a perfect V formation into the sunset. The setting sun cast its orange hues all over the water and everything was made from liquid fire that God himself had used to paint the heavenly scene in front of Mok's eyes.
He picked up the glass of vodka and took another sip that burned down his old, old throat and settled like a mini nuclear explosion in his stomach. His entrails were on fire the second the vodka reached inside him. He squirmed in his chair and slammed the glass back on the big mahogany table. (The table deserves a mention here. It was a massive piece of wood that could house a small family, a kitchen and two bedrooms under it if need be. In short, it was a massive table.)
And so, he drank. And so, passed the hours.
Mok saw her and squirmed in his chair, his breath became ragged, he gasped one final time and slammed his hands on the table.
"So have I." squeaked Mok as a figure extracted herself from under the table and bolted for the door. Death snorted in disgust, grabbed Mok's head and slammed it in the mahogany table.
Again and again and again.-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
If you figured this out, buy yourself a beer for having a twisted mind. If not, don't bother to ask. ;)
And forgive me if the formatting is fucked up. We are not doing too good on bandwidth here and have to make do with lot of crap floating around on the internet connection.
Next story, soon.