Lady Death wasn't feeling well.

She complained.

"So many fucking people and they're all so shitty."

"They see me and they start whining. I'm only 54 years old! Do they think I give a shit?! I got a job to do! Maybe you shouldn't have been driving blind drunk on that mountainous road? Dumbass. It's not my problem but I have to listen to them and they all start to sound the same."

I nodded in agreement.

"Will you make me a sandwich?"

"One of those roast chicken sandwiches with mayo and onions? Thanks."

She grumbled off to the kitchen. 

I turned the tv up louder. Walter Cronkite was interviewing some dignitary.