Death's mum had made him a sweater. It was fuzzy. It was a shade of peach that she probably thought was quite masculine, it was fuzzy, and it was a sweater. It looked very comfortable and warm and the sort of thing one would wear to be hugged. Death sighed. He'd tried explaining, "But, Mum, I'm Death!" before, but it never worked. He might be Death, but she was still his mum, and he looked cold as, well, cold as Death Himself, when he went out on his rounds. He might be Death, but he was also Sam... read more
