"Fucking-sodding-blithering hell!" The string of Britishism-expletives didn't roll off the tongue of the lanky reaper a couple of paces ahead on the sidewalk so much as they were ripped from the core of his soul. Or something of the sort. It was still up in the air, really, and quite questionable whether or not Mason actually had a soul, and not just because it had once gotten 'popped' out of his body before he had killed himself.
Anyone aside from another card carrying member of the undead boys and girls club would have thought he was talking to himself because the person he was arguing with was already dead. "You're dead," he cried, continuing. She proved it by dissolving into a fine mist when Mason struck out with a balled fist, nearly losing his balance because the blow didn't bounce off of anything solid.
"I'm so not dead." She managed to connect with her retaliation shove, if only because the universe hated Mason with every fiber of its being enough for her to know how to interact with things already. "You saw me get up after that guy took a chunk out of my neck, what the hell!?" The wad of Double-Bubble she was chewing popped loudly.
Couldn't she have choked to death on that frigging gum? Saved him from her mind-numbing way of putting emphasis on every other word while she belittled him for doing his job? He wasn't asking for much, some silence was all. What? No? Well, why the fuck not?