Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - Cheating Death | Part 1

Episode Date: August 4, 2025

When ruthless businessman Edgar Wilson attempts to cheat Death itself by bargaining an angel's life for immortality, he soon discovers the true price of eternal ambition. Author: Jake Bible * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 17. Listener discretion is advised.  #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Edgar Wilson sits alone in his open floor, penthouse apartment, a glass of scotch in one hand, and an unlit cigar in the other. The sun set long ago, yet Edgar hasn't moved from his chair by the penthouse's massive wall of windows and hours. He has a bottle by his leg and more cigars in his shirt pocket. To Edgar's mind, there's no need for him to go anywhere. But he doesn't sit there in the dark, alone, with only his own. vices to keep him company because he enjoys it. Now, Edgar Wilson is waiting for someone. He simply doesn't know when, or if, this someone will arrive. Edgar takes a sip of his

scotch and twirls the cigar in his fingers while he waits. Come on, he says out loud. I know you heard my summons. Let's get this show on the road. Edgar sighs and glances out at the incredible view of the city. From his perch atop the McLean building, he can see everything. Every landmark the city has to offer is within Edgar's line of sight, and by turning his head just a few degrees, so are pieces of art worth millions. He could spend hours, even days, just admiring his collection. Not that he has that kind of time for frivolity. Edgar is a serious businessman, one of the most powerful and wealthiest in the city. It's how he can afford a top-floor penthouse with such an enviable view. He looks down at the small side table next to the chair

and the newspaper that sits upon it. He sneers at the front page article about one of his rivals executing the biggest real estate deal the city has ever seen. Prick, he says, picking up the paper and staring at the headline. New development of approved by counsel. He thinks he's so big. He's little potatoes compared to what I have planned. This city will be mine, and I'll still be here long after the rat bastard is nothing but dust.

Edgar throws the newspaper onto the floor before placing the cigar between his lips. When he fishes a lighter from his pants pocket, he smiles at the zippo and the engraving on it. A large death's head adorns the stainless steel with the words, one goal inscribed underneath. That's right, he says around his cigar.

One goal, the only goal. Edgar flips the lighter's lid open and thumbs the wheel. A spark blazes brightly for a millisecond, but no flame. He flicks the wheel over and over until the pad of his thumb stings. Son of a bitch, he mutters, then tucks the cigar back into his pocket before slowly, painfully, extricating himself from the chair. He's been sitting for so long that his legs are pins and needles, and he has to take careful steps to avoid having one of them suddenly give out.

Edgar is not what most would call in shape. He's not fat, although he has plenty of it around his middle and on his ass. Not to mention his man boobs, which his secretary, Kiki, calls mobs, although never to his face. He has her desk, car, and apartment bugged, So there really isn't much about the woman's life or her opinions that Edgar doesn't know. Edgar isn't mad at Kiki's secret opinions. Why would he be?

She never reveals anything she shouldn't. And in the end, she's just a secretary, doing what secretaries do. Look out for her boss. She mentions to friends constantly that she's afraid Edgar's health is a problem, that he refuses to take care of himself. Yes, Edgar enjoys life. food, drink, cigars, women, cars, power. If the price to pay for all of that is a set of moves, then so be it.

Sure, he could work out and stay in shape, eat right, and blah, fucking blah. But where's the fun in that? No, the fun is enjoying all of life's finer things without worry. Forever. And that's what tonight's about. Frustrated with the empty lighter, Edgar limps to the kitchen and starts pulling open drawers at random, trying to find where the lighter fluid is kept. Kiki would know, since she is the one who is supposed to keep his lighter full.

Obviously, she dropped the ball this time. And Edgar's frustration grows with each useless drawer opened. Before he could move his hand aside, Edgar's left thumb catches on a counterlip as he slams a drawer shut. Crying out, he shoves the thumb in his mouth, hoping to ease the pain. He knows it's purely psychological, but it was what his mother did when he was small, something he never truly grew out of. That must sting, a woman says. Edgar jumps and grabs a chef's knife from the block on his kitchen counter.

Who the fuck are you? Edgar shouts, pointing the knife at a woman, now sitting in Edgar's chair. Really, Mr. Wilson, must you ask that question? Edgar scrunches up his face. What? I have no fucking clue what that means. Speak plain English, bitch. Or you're going to end up sliced and diced and stuffed down my garbage disposal. Wow, Edgar, you really know how to charm a lady.

You must have women fighting for your attention daily. The woman stands up. Dressed in a long, sleek black cocktail dress, her raven black hair, stylishly done up in a stacked bun on top of her head. She appears ready for a night. out, but a lack of shoes and zero makeup that Edgar can see spoils the image. She gives Edgar and his knife a cursory glance. Then she looks about the apartment, studying everything. She assesses the

furnishings, all modern and steel and leather and impersonal and cold and just blah. Then her critical gaze roves to the art displayed across the expertly grunged-up brick walls, more modern crap with nothing but shapes and splotches. The woman laughs. It sounds like birds being put through a wood chipper. Still laughing, she points at an especially audacious painting that has the words, self-portrait, spray painted over three large black circles. Can you imagine the balls it takes not just to make that,

but to expect someone to pay good money for it? She laughs and shakes her head. Will wonders never cease? That cost me a close. quarter of a million dollars, Edgar says smugly. For that? Really? It'll be worth millions in less than a year. And how can you?

A simple man without any obvious abilities, except for extreme bad taste, possibly know that. Edgar glares at the woman. She snaps her fingers. Oh, right, she says and points directly at Edgar. You cheat. I don't know who the fuck you think you are, but I want you gone. Now. Or what? You'll call the police? Oh, I'm calling the fucking police anyway, bitch. You don't walk into Edgar Wilson's place and expect to get a slap on the wrist.

Leave now, and things won't get too ugly for you. So much to unpack from all that blabber. The woman laughs again, and this time it sounds like a typewriter screaming for mercy. Edgar wenses at the sound. Stepping away from the kitchen counter, Edgar walks toward the woman. I'm gonna give you 30 seconds to get your ass gone, you hear? 30 fucking seconds. You don't want me to leave, Edgar?

I sure as fuck do. No, you don't. You got some kind of death wish or something? Me? Oh, I don't have to wish for death. The woman slicks her hands over her hair and then down her body. When she's done, she's no longer in a black cocktail dress, but instead is clothed in a long.

perfectly tailored, black robe that hugs her body in all the right places. She holds a pitch-black scythe in one hand and twirls the shaft so that the blade spins around and around as her eyes glow from inside the large hood that covers her head. How's this, Edgar? Do you know me now? Edgar's face turns pure white as all the blood rushes from his head and down into his suddenly churning guts. He wants to rush back into the open kitchen and puke up the dinner of steak and potatoes he'd wolf down earlier. But his feet are frozen to the floor. His bladder twitches, and he has to squeeze to keep from pissing himself.

I can see by the look on your face that you recognize me now. Edgar nods. Good. I am sure there is much to talk about. How did you get in here? Edgar asks, causing the woman to laugh some more. It's a normal laugh, light and airy. Mr. Wilson, please. There is no door. door, nor window, nor gate, nor anything really that can keep me out. I am here, there, everywhere at all times. Right now, I'm in an office building across town, watching a poor young man get eaten by a swarm of midges. The result of a curse his co-worker purchased at the night market.

Turns out, somebody is a little jealous of all the attention the new guy is getting. What? I'm also just outside the grove. as an old woman contemplates ending it all by just walking into those woods and letting the creatures that dwell there feast on her flesh. And while she's thinking that idea over, I'm sitting in a thousand hospital rooms, jail cells, back rooms, and dark alleys, waiting for folks to breathe their last breaths.

I don't understand. No, your small human mind wouldn't. But we're not here to talk about my omnipotence nor your ignorance. She frowns and pushes back the hood. Why exactly am I here? You called me. Not the other way around. I rarely respond to requests for personal appearances.

But, well, we both know you aren't the average citizen in this infernal city. Now, are you? No. Ah, finally, a little confidence. This is the Edgar Wilson I was hoping to meet. You're really. Death? Why? Because I present as female?

Well, yeah. And for some reason, you think of death as male? Traditionally, yes. Traditionally. Interesting choice of words. What is death's traditional appearance? Edgar looks the woman up and down. His knife lowers slightly.

Then he stiffens his arm and jabs it in the woman's direction. She rolls her eyes. You have the robe and the scythe, Edgar says. Yes, yes, they come with the job. But death is usually a skeleton under the robe, not, well, someone who looks like you. A skeleton, you say? Yes, sometimes riding a pale horse. Do you think a horse would fit on your building's elevator, Mr. Wilson?

Maybe in the freight elevator. In the freight elevator. Yes, that's how I like to make an entrance. Via the freight elevator. So classy, she sighs. Back to the skeleton. You know, the traditional me. What does this skeleton look like?

Um, I don't know. Like a skeleton. No skin? No. No hair? No, it's a skeleton. Just bones. Just bones.

Which means the skeleton can be from a man or a... Edgar doesn't say anything. Or a woman, you sexist prick, death finishes. I mean, the ego on you, Edgar. You summoned me to your apartment. Then are you about whether or not I am who I say I am? And when I reveal my true nature, I mean, shit, man, I even have the scythe. You still argue because, what?

I don't have a dick swinging between these perfect legs? Oh, Edgar. We are going to have so much fun. Wait, what? Fun? What are you talking about? That's for me to know and you to find out. She gives herself a full body shake and the robe and scythe disappear,

replaced by a tight black t-shirt, tight black jeans, and designer sunglasses pushed up on top of her head, holding her raven hair back away from her face as it cascades down her neck and past her. shoulders. She snaps her fingers. So are you going to offer me a cigar or what? Stardled and slightly surprised. Edgar plucks a cigar from his shirt pocket and holds it out. Are you going to make a lady walk over to you, Edgar? You're a sexist pig, sure. But I'm sure you have some manners and etiquette stuffed somewhere inside that doughy body of yours. Stepping

closer to the woman isn't Edgar's first... choice. But he did summon her, and for a very specific reason, so he needs to be his most diplomatic self. Drawing all his strength, Edgar takes one step, then a second, a third, a fourth, and continue slowly until he's only a couple of feet from the woman. Thank you, death says, and takes the offered cigar. She places it between her lips and raises her eyebrows. When Edgar doesn't move or respond, she takes the cigar from her mouth and says, Got a light? Automatically, Edgar flips open his zippo, then his shoulders slump and he snaps it closed.

Sorry, it's out of fluid. Here, let me have it, she says and holds out her hand. Edgar places the lighter in her palm, and with the smoothest motion Edgar has ever seen, the woman flips the zippo open on her jeans and then runs the wheel. across the denim in reverse. A flame sparks to life and the wick is engulfed in fire. Picture this. It's late at night. You're scrolling and suddenly you find exactly what you've been looking for. You add it to your cart, maybe browse a little more than head to checkout, only to realize you don't have your wallet. But then you see it, that purple shop pay button,

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See less carts go abandoned and more sales go with Shopify and their shop pay button. Sign up for your $1 per month trial today at Shopify.com slash DNS. Go to Shopify.com slash DNS. That's Shopify.com slash DNS. Death places the cigar back between her lips, then lights the tip, quickly puffing until the end glows red. She turns her head, blows out a thin stream of smoke,

and offers the zippo to Edgar. I guess it wasn't completely dead, she says and grins. Now, what are you drinking? Scotch, Edgar replies, taking the zippo back. He opens it, flicks the wheel, but no flame. Here, I can help, death says and snaps her fingers again. A small flame appears above her index finger. Go on, I'm not going to let it burn all night.

Edgar hesitates. then puts his own cigar in his mouth and leans forward. The flame touches the tip, and he puffs until his cherry is as red as deaths. There we go, two friends having a smoke and a scotch. She stares hard at Edgar. He stares back. Just like a man. Once his cigar has been taken care of, he totally forgets about the woman's needs.

Get me a fucking scotch, Edgar. Oh, yes, of course, he says. And he has to tell himself to play it quickly. cool and not brush over to the bar. He summoned her like she said. He did. Not the other way around. He's in charge. He's the one with the agenda. He has a plan and he intends to see it through. Nice. Neat, if you don't mind. Coming right up. Edgar pours three fingers of scotch, turns and sees death's disapproval. He turns back and fills the glass almost to the top. Thank you.

Death says when Edgar carefully hands her the tumbler full of scotch. She downs it in one gulp, then hands the glass back to Edgar. Now that we have that sorted, how about you tell me why you brought me here? Edgar leans past death and sets the empty glass down on the side table by his chair. When he stands straight, he puffs on his cigar and nods a few times. You said I cheat, he says. and holds up a hand as death is about to say something. She smirks at the hand held up to her, the nods for him to continue.

And, considering the item I have with the advantages it has given me, I suppose I do in a way. But that's not the kind of cheating I want to do. And what cheating do you want to do, Edgar? You. Death waits for more, and when nothing is added, she shakes her head. I'm sorry, but I don't follow. You. I want to cheat you.

You want to cheat death? Yes. And somehow, you thought it'd be a good idea to summon me to your apartment. Penthouse. Really, Edgar. Sorry, continue. Oh, wow. How gracious of you.

She puts the cigar to her mouth and sucks and sucks and sucks. until the entire cigar has been burned to a nub. Then she blows all of that smoke into Edgar's face. He turns in coughs. Then he coughs harder and harder. In seconds he's doubled over. A fist to his mouth as his lungs struggle to take in air. Death leans down and gets close to Edgar's face.

But far enough away, she doesn't catch any spittle back splash from his coughs. Uh-oh. Looks like all these cigars are catching up with you, Edgar. you smoke how many a day? Two, three, plus all the red meat and starch you eat. When was the last time you ate something green, Edgar? Or even fresh?

I mean, would it kill you to eat an apple or two? Edgar continues to cough and cough. Death pats him hard on the back. There you go, Edgar. Get it all out. Edgar lets loose with one last harsh cough. Then he begins to gag and try. choke. Oh dear, I wonder what that could be, Death says, and plucks Edgar's cigar from his fingers.

She takes a few steps back, puffs, exhales, then turns and walks to the bar. What was I going to say before you interrupted me with your useless dick measuring over apartment versus penthouse? Is that maybe it's not the best idea to invite Death for a drink in a smoke? Then tell her you plan on cheating her. I mean, I have to assume you never actually He said it out loud to yourself. Otherwise, you'd realize how stupid it sounds. Edgar gasps and struggles. Do you know how many people try to cheat me, Edgar?

Care to guess? Edgar's face is turning purple, but death doesn't look back as she refills her glass. Too many for me to even keep track of. Especially in this infernal city, all the necromancers and witches, not to mention the ghouls and haints, who are in some weird gruel. gray area, that is sort of my jurisdiction, but sort of not. I don't know. Anyway, everyone wants to keep on, keeping on, without a thought for what that does to me. When she turns to face, Edgar, the man is on his hands and knees, his throat swollen wide by something trying to force its way out.

Poor dear, look at you, down on all fours like a bitch. Is that what you wanted when you summoned me, Edgar? To be my bitch. Because right. now, that's what you are, my fucking little cheater bitch. Edgar makes a high-pitched squeaking noise as his hands slip. His face hits the floor hard, and his legs slide out from under him. He's flat on his belly, head turned to the side, still choking and coughing when death strides over to him. She squats down, sipping on her scotch.

You have to be some kind of special, stupid to try shit like this, and believe you can cheat your way out of every mortal's one true obligation. Guess what? You don't need to summon death to tell her that you don't want to die. I already know that. None of you little Nats want to die. It's what makes you all so adorable and infuriating at the same time. Barely breathing, barely moving, Edgar shifts his eyes to hers and glares. Damn, boy, I don't know what to do with you. On one hand, I'm curious. On the other hand, I'm really pissed off, which will win. Curiosity or rage.

She stands up, places her foot in the middle of Edgar's back, lifts it high, then brings it down swift and strong. Edgar bucks and lets loose with one last cough. A hunk of something red and black shoots from his mouth and splats on the floor a few feet away. Edgar gasps and takes in as much air as he can. Death walks to the object and nudging. it with her toe.

How's that for a cheat? She asks. This lung tumor would have killed you within the decade. I just got rid of it for you. Aren't I wonderful? Edgar rolls over onto his back and continues to suck air. Don't hyperventilate and pass out now, Edgar. Curiosity wins.

If you pass out, then you can't tell me why I'm really here. And I'm dying to know. She snickers at her own pun. Deal! Edgar says. We can't make a deal. A deal? What could you possibly offer me that I would want?

She gives the tumor another nudge, then walks over to the wall of windows and stares out at the infernal city's nightscape. Are you going to offer me your little scrying bowl or crystal ball or possessed radio? Or whatever it is you use to predict when someone is going to die? Huh? She sips her scotch and stares out into the night.

You'd be willing to trade whatever it is you have that has made you so very rich? Is that your part of the deal? Is it? She laughs and walks back to Edgar. Do you think a trinket like that interests me? I'm death, Edgar. I don't need a bobble to tell me when someone is going to die. And I have no need of riches. unlike you.

So please, Edgar Wilson, tell me what it is you think you can trade me so that you don't ever see me again. Angel! Death laughs and laughs, and it's like a million buzz saws or cutting concrete in the penthouse. An angel?

Holy shit, Edgar. I've heard some whoppers before, but this is the biggest of them all. I should shove that tumor down your throat and back into your lungs, just for thinking I'd even even remotely for one second believe that a capitalistic, greedy piece of shit like you not only has an angel to trade, but thinks that I would want it.

I do. I do have one. I call bullshit for eternity there, Edgar. She sighs. And even if you did, angels can't be killed. Therefore, angels can't die. Therefore, I have no need of an angel. They are not part of my purview. I stick to mortals like humans and ants and toy poodles. While not exactly punching above my weight class, after all, it's not like an angel can do anything to me since I am woven into the very fabric of existence.

I have no desire to mess with one. So, a hard pass on that, Edgar. Death walks back to the tumor and nudges it with her toe again. It looks homesick, Edgar. Edgar rolls onto his side and says, You're wrong. Am I? Do you speak fluent tumor?

Because I do. And yours wants daddy. It wants to be hugged in the folds of that black lung of yours. Crawl your ass over here. Let's get this done with. No, you're wrong about the angel. It can die. Edgar slowly, painfully gets to his feet.

He hunches over and takes a few breaths, then straightens up. And I know how. Death's toe stops nudging the bloody tumor. Still calling bullshit. Ah, it's true. 100%. An angel can die, and you will be there, ready to reap it.

Angels don't have souls. So what would I be reaping exactly? Pure, divine power. A literal slice of heaven. Death doesn't reply for a lot. long while. Then she looks over and smiles at Edgar. Okay, now we're talking. She holds out her glass. Freshing me up, will you? And do you have anything to munch on? Chips and salsa would be amazing right now. Edgar takes the glass and smiles. Sure, he says. Whatever you want. Seated in

front of the windows after Edgar pulls a second chair over next to his, death eyes Edgar closely, and waits while he settles into his chair. Is it here? she asks. I'd love to see it. Here? Oh, no, definitely not. Edgar pats his pocket and pulls out a cigar. Seriously, Edgar, I just cleared your lung of one tumor, and you want to start the process all over again?

Won't matter, will it? Not if I live forever, Edgar says and lights up. No, I suppose. I suppose it won't. But we are a long way from that kind of deal. I'll need details on this angel, specifically a name, and we'll also need to see it for myself. Obviously. She leans over like she's going to tell him a secret. Or I could just kill you, and then all of your secrets will be revealed to me as you die,

like a little movie of your life. You can try, but I don't die yet. Not according to the angel. the angel. Leaning back, she says. Oh, so that's how you're getting your info. I honestly did think it was some trinket. This city is lousy with them. I once reaped a man who used calf's blood in a scrying bowl to predict the weather. The weather, Edgar. Of all the things he could have looked for, he wanted to predict the weather, so he always knew when to go fishing. I can't make this shit up. She sips her scotch.

You know Edgar, angels are notorious liars. I don't know how you were getting anything even remotely truthful from a winged one. I took its wings. Death does a spit take, and scotch sprays across the penthouse. Some making it as far as the windows where the drops roll down the glass, joined together, and become one long, greasy-looking trickle. You fucking did what now? I took its wings, sliced them right off.

Bullshit! Edgar smiles. Okay, I didn't slice them off. Someone on the team I hired did that when they captured it. They don't make blades that sharp. They make saws that powerful, though. Then throw a couple hexes on some diamond blades, and it's all over except for the mess. I watched the video. It was quite messy.

And half the team went insane before it was over. But they got those wings off and secured the wounded angel in a special cage of my own design. Oh, look at the big balls on Edgar, starting to feel it, aren't you? That confidence from sitting down with the true force of nature, and not being consumed by the very energy that fuels all of existence. Not many people have been where you are, some here and there. I remember a night a couple centuries back who liked to play chess. He thought he had an angle on me. He even beat me in the first game. But I'm a... best two out of three kind of gal. So in the end, the night was reaped just like everyone else.

A beep comes from the kitchen. Chips are warm, Edgar says and gets up. He assembles a large bowl of chips and a much smaller bowl of salsa onto a tray and walks it back to the chairs, setting both bowls on the small side table, close to death. Then he walks the tray back to the kitchen and grabs a stack of napkins from a holder. Wouldn't want you to make a mess, Edgar says, and plops the napkins by the bowls as he retakes his seat. Oh, yummy, death says, and begins dipping and eating. She devours half the bowl of chips before coming up for air. Edgar just watches, waiting for her to be done.

That must make you thirsty. Care for a beer or a soda? Death crams a chip into her mouth. choose, swallows, then picks up her scotch and sips it. The great thing about being death is, I don't really get thirsty. I don't really get anything. But I've been reaping humans for so long that I've picked up some of your habits. Eating and drinking is one of them.

And I have to say, I don't think I could go back to not eating and drinking like I did for billions of years until your lot arrived on the scene. She leans back and pats her belly. Good thing I can't get pregnant with a food baby. None of it actually goes inside me, since there's no inside to go into. Everything I eat and drink just returns to the great ether as molecules ready for new assignments. Cool, huh? Yes, very.

Oh, Edgar, lighten up. You have gotten so much farther than anyone has before you. Even that Faust guy didn't make it this far. Dr. Faustus made a deal with the devil, not with death. Yeah, on stage maybe. The devil always plays for the audience and ends up stealing all the best storylines. But I can tell you with certainty that the real Faust tried to make his deal with me. There was a real Faust? No, you silly man, I'm fucking with you.

She sips. Now, tell me the angel's name. I can't do that. You mean you won't? Right, I won't tell you. You sure about that? She holds up her fingers. ready to snap them. I mean, it would be awful if your heart stopped, or your intestines perforated, and your entire body went into septic shock. Or you could have a brain hemorrhage. How about rapid-onset

lupus? That's a thing? Probably, maybe. I doubt it, but does it matter? I snap my fingers, and you bleed out from your anus. That's a horrible way to go, and I should know. I've been to every Ebola virus get together Africa has ever held. That shit ain't pretty, Edgar. Edgar gulps, his eyes on the two fingers ready to snap. If I tell you, then you'll have some power over him, and that undercuts my position in the negotiations. Go ahead and kill me however you want, but in the end, that makes you the cheat, not me. Oh, stop whining, you big baby, death says, and rests her hand on her lap. All right. No name. Kind of makes it hard to gauge just exactly how valuable your catch is. After all,

just like with humans, not all angels are created equal. They have a very specific hierarchy. And if you have one of the lower ones, well... Have you ever killed an angel before? You know, I haven't. I don't know that, to be honest. Oh? We're using honesty now? Yes. I knew angels couldn't be killed. But I didn't know for you. for sure whether or not you'd ever killed one before I summoned you.

If they can't be killed, then stands to reason I haven't had to reap one. Except I found a loophole. You did, did you? I can't wait to hear this. Everything I have studied says they can't be killed. However, it doesn't say they can't die. The smirk plays at death's lips. Took you long enough to get to that conclusion. Oh, I got to that conclusion.

I got to that conclusion a long time ago. I just couldn't confirm it. Now I have. Good for you. More chips and salsa? I'm good. More scotch. Still good.

Then do we have a deal? Sure. Great! You forgot one thing, though. What's that? You forgot to tell me what the deal is. I assume you know what the deal is. Ass is.

You, me. And all that happens when you make a susses. when you make assumptions and shit. How about you tell it to me straight, so we have no misunderstandings? I like specifics when I make deals. I have control of the angel because I know its name. I will order it to succumb to you,

and it will have to. Oh shit, I see what's happening here. You need me to kill it. An angel cannot be killed. Good, because I ain't your hit bitch. But you will invite it to die. Excuse me? What now? You will invite the angel to die. You won't kill it. It will choose to no longer live.

Splitting hairs, she smiles. Or splitting feathers more like. It will work. I have done the research, spoken to the experts. I have spent millions on this. Oh, millions, you say? Well, shit, Edgar. Being the uber successful businessman you are, then you must be really sure if you spent millions. Don't mock me, woman. I am right. Death's face goes slack. I'm sorry, but what did you just say to me? Not to mock you because you're right?

Is that it? I'll let the woman thing go. But if you really think you are right, then you're going to have to prove it. Proof, pudding. One is inside the other. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, Propose your deal now, bitch.

Edgar swallows hard. My apologies. Oh, fuck off and let's do this. Deal now. I give you the angel, and you give me immortality. Do we have a deal? So, you order the angel to succumb to me so that it dies, and I promise that you'll never see me again.

Is that the deal? Yes. You're sure about this? I am. Edgar holds out his hand. Death laughs, and it sounds like three wind chimes in a polyamorous relationship, having an argument over whose night it is. I don't shake on deals.

A simple verbal agreement works just as well. Do you agree to the deal I stated? Yes. Cool. That's done. Now, I can't wait to hear what your plan is. How in the heck will you get the angel to ask me for deal? Because it has been begging for it already.

It does not enjoy being caged, and would rather end its existence than be a captive for eternity. You may be stretching the eternity angle a little, but I see what you mean. Angels sure are proud motherfuckers. I'm guessing you've treated it like shit. I've created levels of cruelty that never existed before. Edgar, my man! You are something, buddy.

Once in a lifetime kind of guy, I have to say. Thank you. Now you can see why I want that lifetime to be forever. Oh, I see. Don't you worry. And I also want to see that angel now more than ever. You are one heck of a salesman, Edgar. You ever think of going into business?

Death chuckles. And the sound of happy thunder echoes throughout the penthouse. Just kidding. Now, let's go see that angel. Edgar stands and smiles. I'll go first, then summon you when I am at the location. What the shit does that mean? We might as well write together.

No, I need to settle a few things first. Prepare the space properly. Death rolls her eyes. I'm everywhere. You know that, right? Then where am I keeping the angel? Death sucks her teeth. Okay, so I'm not always paying attention, whatever.

I'll summon you within the hour. Great, can't wait, really. This is gonna be something.