I penned this from a writing prompt by https://plus.google.com/u/0/117611181638655435522/posts/dgDYa8XkGnVbut figured all the Bransonites might get a kick out of it too…for more great death conversations check out the prompt at
I felt the knife go in. It went deep and it went true. Time seemed to slow down and then the blood started to flow. Somehow, I smiled even as the knife was twisted. The pain must have been horrible – judging by the screams that were coming out of his mouth. He sounded like a girl.
Ha! Who’s the rich guy now?
Pretty soon he stopped moving and I smelled his bladder and bowels let go. I pulled the knife out and wiped the blade clean on his jeans – there were still some spots that the blood hadn’t stained yet. I sat down for a much needed rest.
“Wow. That was nice work. You’re an artist.”
“Thanks,” I said, without even looking up. I knew who it was. This guy followed me around and always heaped praise on me – I didn’t mind – I mean, there could be worse fans. This guy was more like a connoisseur – nobody knew death like he did. That’s why the praise felt so good.
He sat next to me, put his arm around my shoulders. “Is that it? Was he the last one?”
“Yeah. Got em all.” When I’d started I didn’t think it was possible, but there he was – the last of the billionaires. He’d been the hardest to get with his submarines, spaceships, and private islands – but there he was smiling up at me with death’s grin. I’d put him off until last because I actually liked him – but let’s face it – anyone with that much money is missing only one thing – a quick death.
“What now?” my fan asked.
I looked at his pale, skeletal face under it’s black hood. I didn’t understand how anyone could be scared of him. Death. He comes to us all.
Death was waiting for my answer.
“Next? Obviously, the millionaires.”