Death hummed as he washed his scythes. He glanced up at the clock. His next customer should be arriving soon.
Ding"Is this four, four, four, four Omega Lane?" a heavily accented voice called from the front.
"Yes! I'll be right there!" Death called. He removed the scythe and stuck it in a gigantic vat of antiseptic. He floated out to find a tall priest flipping through an "Entertainment Weekly" in his front room. He quickly began to assume the human form his more… unaware customers found easier to deal with, but the priest interrupted.
"No need for that. I ken full well what you are."
"Ahh, you must be Mr. Anderson?"
"Father Anderson. Do I look like a pretty boy in a black coat and sunglasses who cannot even do an English accent correctly?"
"…I got the first part, but what's that about the English accent?"
Anderson put the magazine back in the rack and stood up. "I take it you've never seen the Francis Ford Coppola version of your Master's story?"
"I'm afraid not. From what the Master described I didn't peg you as one for movies."
"When we meet we're generally doing our best to remove each other's heads. Serious discussion of our personal lives does not often come up." He walked into the other room and sat down in the chair. Death threw a sheet around him and began to sharpen one of his scythes.
"From what I hear, you ended up quite badly the last time you fought my Master."
Anderson twisted around in his seat. "What did that piece of filth say?"
"Turn around and take off your glasses, please. He said that he managed to remove all of your limbs."
Anderson scoffed. "Not likely. He only got an arm and a leg. Besides, I got him back."
"What kind of look are you going for?" Death asked. He floated behind Anderson and began to inspect his head.
"Maybe the 'Just got of bed' look?" Anderson responded.
"… You already have that look, Father."
"Oh. Well, whatever you thinks best. You're the barber."
Death shrugged. He stared into the mirror. "Have you ever thought about shaving?" He suddenly found himself staring down a bayonet.
"Don't touch the facial hair. You may have been an angel once, but Lord in Heaven help me I will skewer you if you try it."
Death gently pushed Anderson's arm down. "Understood. No shaving, not a problem." He picked up the scythe and began to cut Anderson's hair. "So, out of sheer curiosity, what did you do to my Master in your last fight?"
Anderson chuckled, then let it give way to a full laugh. "Showed him what it must have felt like for all of his subjects back in the fifteenth century."
Death stopped cutting. "Wait, you don't mean?"
"Tell me," Anderson said, "Was he particularly fidgety the last time he was here?"