All Death wanted was a vacation.
He just knew that some time off would do him a world of good-- that is what the last doctor he visited told him. Vacations are great for the health, the doctor said, before falling to the floor. Death would have liked to have asked him more about the health benefits, but the doctor had already shaken off his mortal coil. Death realized that his doctor was right. He needed a break.
Death was plain stressed out. He was tired of the fear that always accompanied his arrival, tired of the whining, the bargaining, the denial. Death just wanted someone to smile at him. He wanted to be invited in for tea. Death felt that he deserved this; his arrival at a bedside was not always to remove the soul from the body, after all. It was not his fault that Regulation 7842 dictated that he had to carry the Scythe, the manifestation of his Office, on his person at all times.
The perky travel agent was more than happy to discuss vacation destinations, and before she passed on, she handed Death a brochure for an all-inclusive resort in the Azores. The pictures looked divine, the turquoise water sparklingly clear. It would be a crime to ignore such a place. Except that the cab driver died the moment Death entered the car, and the ticket agent collapsed before she could tell him which gate he needed to board, and the TSA people weren't even able to conduct their required search. He barely made his flight before it crashed.
Perhaps a cruise would be less stress? He boarded a ship headed out to sea. Once the crew, passengers, and every last rat had expired, Death found that he had himself a floating island...and finally, a vacation.
