Death and the Sphinx

In which Scoffe and Banter seek the help of an old friend.

It had been a long week for Death. After the Event of last Christmas, he thought it best to disappear for the holiday season, no one wanted him around anyway. Being Death, navigating the realms of time and space was not an issue, or it should not have been. A long story short, what should have been a fortnight in the penthouse suite of The Night Drake, the most exclusive Gentleman's Club in Ursa Minor boasting spectacular views of Polaris (and, at the Club's discretion, the lithe forms of 'personal, intimate companions') became a week at The Night Mare, themed bar, Hull.

Naturally, Death was relieved when he found himself turning the key to his own house, not least because it meant he had his keys (anything could have happened to them for all he remembered of that abysmal week). The familiar must of the pokey hallway greeted him like a loyal dog at the end of a long day: a tatty, coffee stained dog covered in post-it notes and biro lids whose back legs were wheels, that kind of dog.

No sooner was Death settled on the sofa, his slippered feet resting on the coffee table and his overwhelming need for coffee that did not taste like hot mud sated, that the door went. Quite urgently, as it happens, for the knocker rapped several times before Death had plied himself away from the comforting arms of the sofa. Grumbling something along the lines of 'If they had any idea who I was they'd know better than to come a-knocking because they "wondered if I wanted to talk about Our Lord and Saviour Jesus?" For Christ's sake, I've had two thousand years of dealing with that bull-'

'All hail His Dark Majesty, General of the Four Horsemen and Commander of the Order of Dust and Ashes!'

Death glowered through the open door, though the granddad slippers shattered the 'menacing Reaper' illusion. 'You two.'

On his doorstep, though to Death's greatest regret anything but, stood a pair of rather distressed looking Victorian undertakers, top hats, tails and all. One, to whom Death assigned the voice that had addressed him, was the shorter of the two, stouter, and wore a monocle and a blazing red beard. His colleague, a fashionable gentleman by all accounts and a stark contrast to his bearded associate, favoured a grey suit over the traditional black. In fact, everything about the taller man only increased his image as a fop rather than an undertaker; the waxed moustache, pince-nez, pink carnation in the button-hole, all made quite the dandy of him. But none of this changed the fact the pair had the audacity to turn up at Death's door when he was on his first coffee of the day.

'What are you doing here?' said Death, clutching his coffee like a soldier clutches a rifle.

'Messrs Scoffe and Banter,' said the bearded undertaker, bowing low; his colleague gave a small nod.

'I know who you are,' grumbled Death. 'It's only been eight months since the Ikea incident.'

'Only eight months indeed!' cried the bearded undertaker – Cornelius Banter, Death remembered – 'How long ago that now seems, such is the nature of things when one has so often retold a tale it is practically legend. It is just that is it not, Mr Scoffe? Such a tale of courage and fortitude as shown by His Indomitableness? Oh how we rejoiced-'

'Enough with the spiel. What have you done this time?'

Banter stopped his rejoicing and looked at the ground dejectedly. His colleague took the reins, addressing Death coolly and without all the pomp. This was much appreciated.

'I believe what my associate is trying to convey,' he began, adjusting his pince-nez, 'is that His Ungrace's abilities in dealing with other-worldly, how can one put it?, inconveniences has proven invaluable in the past and would, should His Ungrace be agreeable that is, be exceedingly appreciated at this present time.'