The doorbell rang. Hank opened the door to find a scraggly man on his doorstep. He was pale, had shaggy dark hair, and had bags under his eyes. His clothes were an unkept and wrinkled sweater and sweat pants. He wore no shoes.

Looks like someone's come to our house to die, Hank thought to himself. ...again.

"Mr. Hill," L said to him. "I am L."

"El what?" Hank asked. "If you're speaking Spanish, you might want to try Mrs. Hill."

"Just L," he said tersely. "I was hoping to follow you to work today."

"Uh, eh..." Hank scratched the back of his head. "Look, Strickland Propane is a discreet business with a certain standard of quality. And not to be rude, but I don't think they'd take kindly to having the homeless hanging around and reminding them that some people can't afford propane-made food...Yeah."

L's face remained expressionless. "Oh! I'm not actually homeless. I'm Dale Gribble's distant cousin, from Japan."

"You mean that 'special needs detective' he's going on about?" Hank asked. "His name is Ryu-something, like that guy from Bobby's dang cartoon."

"Is that what he's been telling you?" L asked. "I'm no detective; rather, I'm just a propane aficionado. I've come from my home country to meet Buck Strickland himself."

Hank's face softened. He almost smiled.

"And my name is indeed Ryuzaki, but I wanted to go by L to sound more, how I should say this...American."

"If you need a new name to fit in, I'll call you by a real name," Hank said. "Stan. And Stan, I'll be glad to help you see the wonders that Strickland Propane can offer, but you'll have to look respectable. But on a tie and suit or something, or even just a golf shirt."

"I understand," L said to him. "I will join you at work tomorrow."

The two made awkward goodbyes and parted. L went back to Dale's house though the back door, as Dale had accidentally broke the front door's electric lock and made it almost impossible to open.


Hank got in his truck and drove to work. He knew it would be a busy day for him, with his planned assassination. Today was the day he'd be taking down a new business owner by the name of King Charcoal. He just needed to get the man's name, and he knew Buck always kept tabs on the competition when he wasn't...incapacitated through various means.

Hank parked in his spot in Strickland Propane's parking lot. He got out of the car, then lifted his car's seat. His hand searched underneath, growing more and more frantic as he didn't find anything.

"Peggy," Hank said under his breath. "You took it, didn't you?"

He found a piece of paper, ripped. The texture of the paper felt like the page's of the Death Note. It read:

Hank

I needed more than one page of the Death Note, because my murders are going to be very long and elaborate. Since you're just butchering, you won't need as much.

See you at home. I love you!

- Peggy of the Hill xoxo

"I knew she'd get in the way," Hank whispered to himself.


Peggy clutched her large purse, mentally listing all the creative deaths she had in mind. Her first target was the new Spanish teacher at Bobby's school, Julio Genuino, a terrible Spanish-speaker who was feeding children his bastardized version of Spanish, poisoning their minds. For the good of the children, and the beautiful language, she was plotting his demise. Something that would involve a window.