Snippet #1139240

Danse Mors hears his name from the back of the store and with a moment of heavy silence, rolls his eyes. The tone was unmistakable. In all of Creation, every human being possessed the same tone, usually followed by a tirade; an anthem of the oppressed. He took his sweet time, abandoning his efforts for sustenance and instead, opting for a moment with his own thoughts. Danse forgot how stifling it was in such close proximity with his kind. So much activity and tension as if they could not come together without tremendous force and equal repulsion. He walked back into the room, dragging his feet just to hear the sound of scraping rubber against wood. And there was Quagmire, obviously livid, prepared to give Danse a “what for”. If Death were ambitious, he would have a catalogue of “what fors”. Not only did humans plead for their lives or barter but they yelled at him. They yelled at him for what was natural. If he thought that would change once he put on a skin sack, it didn’t. Even as a human, he was yelled at. Not because he simply took a life that was ending but because he was “creepy” and “kept to himself”. Everything he did seemed to antagonize others. So if Quagmire expected a shudder of obedience or shock, he would never get it. He dragged himself up to Quagmire and looked down, breaking apart the barrier of personal space. “Let me guess,” he snarled, “You don’t agree?”