Hello people. Today I'm in a goth mood, wait ... I am a goth now. Happy deaths to the Cyborgs in this story. Smirks evil laugh R&R!
GB sat in a high-backed chair reading a big leather bound book. Jet walked in, his stripped top ruffled as he sat on the couch, staring out the window to the storm outside.
"And
nothing can we call our own but death
And that small model of the
barren earth
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.
For
God's sake, let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the
death of kings." GB said flatly looking at Jet with his now intense
hazel eyes.
Jet blinked stupidly, something wasn't right about 007 today, he was scaring him and things don't really scare him anymore.
"What the hay do you mean by that 007?"
GB
sighed "'T is strange that death should sing.
I am the cygnet
to this pale faint swan,
Who chants a doleful hymn to his own
death,
And from the organ-pipe of frailty sings
His soul and
body to their lasting rest."
Seeing the frightened look Jet was giving him, GB sighed and smiled.
"002 those were quotes from William Shakespeare."