The chilly bones did indeed grip Lyle Musgrave’s shoulder as he ate his gourmet sandwich, however he was not choking and his spirit did not nudge. Lyle looked up at a very confused specter of Death, the empty caverns of a skull contorting and furrowing like a cartoon. It stopped, pulled out a notepad and rubbed his skeletal fingers against its forehead, letting out a sigh. Death vaulted the couch and crashed next to Lyle, his form transforming to that of an unassuming young adult. Answers would come, but first the young man asked if Lyle could be troubled to make a sandwich for him?
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