Death has messed up a very simple NASCAR track disaster. Satan is, understandably, angry...
Death stood before Satan’s desk, head lowered.
“What were you thinking?” Satan yelled. “WERE you thinking? The cars go into the stands, the cars blow up, the people die. Weren’t you aware that this was scheduled for today?”
“My Dark Lord and Master – “ Death began, in the sepulchral voice of the tomb.
“No,” Satan said. “Save that for the groupies.”
Death cleared his throat, then continued in a normal tone of voice.
“I could go kill them now?” he said, helpfully.
“Now is too late, Satan said. "You used to be so good at this, but look at you now. You look like a cartoon character and, frankly, you smell bad.”
“I’m supposed to smell bad.”
“The cold stench of the tomb. And all that. Everyone.”
“And if Everyone told you to dress up in a pink bunny suit would you do it?”
Death knew that this was a trick question, but he couldn’t quite figure out the trick.
“Maybe?” he ventured.
At that moment Death’s scythe, which had been leaning against the wall, toppled to the floor.
“And why are you still lugging that thing around? Do you think it’s threatening? It’s not threatening. It makes you look Amish.”