George was on her second beer, and it wasn't helping.
Since the epidemic of silence had struck the city, the threshold of the reaper's patience had plummeted. It was hard enough dealing with death when you had the ability to put what had happened to the recently reaped into words they could understand, but a combination of drawings and mime was just exhausting--especially when the stack of post-its she received daily had been steadily increasing in size over the last week.
How the bastards were managing to write out the information still eluded her, and that did nothing to improve the sight of things through the shades of suck that were being rapidly drawn one by one over her veiw. Try as she might, she still couldn't get so much as a 'Fuck you' scrawled across a bar napkin. Yet, there they were in her hand:
B. L. Tennant and E. Smith [Random McNightclub] E.T.D 7:52 PM
She doubted Tennant's first names were Bacon and Lettuce, or that she'd have something as obvious as a sandwhich to reap. Did sandwhiches even have souls? Had they remembered to take the pig's soul out before they baconified it? The idea of biting into something one day and having a soul come screaming out of it was enough to make her push the plate of what-ever-it-was the barkeep had given her with her beer.
Well, somebody's gotta die. George turned and leaned back against the bar, watching the swarm of swerving and dipping dancers. It wasn't her scene, because she'd never had a scene, but the scene that was about to happen was going to have a great deal to do with her, and if she missed it there was going to be a world of silent, dead bitching.