Who: Death and Allegra Lenkeit What: Legal proceedings When: Around six o'clock, Thursday evening Where: The offices of Smith and Smith
Death had never been a particular fan of lawyers. Heaven was already quite the jumble of bureaucratic messes, what with every mortal having a different perception of the place, and all those oh so charming little mortal comedies where it was depicted as an office. Thus, it had become some mad, mad jumble of the divine and the mundane, and angels made terrible, terrible lawyers. James was at the apartment, chasing after the child called Whig and Gladys, who Death did not trust around the rambunctious two year old, was with Chloe, an angel who owed Death a favor. Somewhere, one of the senior partners was directing the closing of the offices for the night, and James' interns, a crew of mortal twenty-somethings who looked like they had been vat-grown for an experiment in isolating the socialite gene were packing up for the night. Death closed his eyes and leaned back in James' office chair, if he listened closely (and he always did) he could hear the clacking of the female interns' mandatory three-to-six inch heels clacking away at the marble floors. He remained there for the next twenty minutes until all the sounds had stopped. When the only heartbeat he could sense in close proximity was the building's janitor (Steve, would die at sixty-three of a brain anurism), he stood and walked down the long hallway to the front door of the office, unlocked it, and then sat down in a plush leather couch in the lobby. His pale gray eyes found the copy of the constitution that James had framed and hanging on the wall, and he began to read it line by line. Knowing James, it might very well be the real damn thing.