A split second later, my life flashed before my eyes, and I came to one important conclusion about it. It was fun while it lasted.

The dead guy looked at me with wide eyes. “I can’t move my legs.” I snorted. “You can’t move your arms either, or your feet or your freaking eyelids. You’re dead.

My prodding me didn't elicit a reaction. His unseeing eyes stared straight through me. Which was odd. He'd seemed so sane huddled in Cookie's trunk.

Still, this whole grim reaper thing should have come with a manual. Or a diagram of some kind. A flowchart would have been nice.

Don't judge me because I'm quiet. No one plans a murder out loud.

I may as well cut my losses and make a hasty exit while I still had enough self-esteem to walk upright. Crawling was so demoralizing

Since killing people is illegal, can I have a Taser just for shits and giggles? -Fourth Grave Beneath My Feet