Terry had been expecting this day to come for a while now - but it still surprised him when he woke up, gingerly climbed out of bed and took a moment to realize that the rest of his body had not tagged along with him. As he looked at the figure sleeping peacefully on the bed (a figure that bore a remarkable resemblance to himself, down to the grizzly white beard and shimmering scalp), the first thought that crossed his mind was: Oh bugger. It happened, didn't it.
He walked over to the armchair near his bed, settled into its recesses like a pearl inside a vast, comfy oyster, and tried to collect his thoughts. He had fought against the embuggerance of Alzheimer's for many years now, with a stubbornness and spirit that would make a Nac Mac Feegle[1] want to induct him into their clan. But some fights have an ending as inevitable as the sigh that escapes a sweet-tooth on a strict diet as they walk past a chocolate shop.
He looked for the silvery little thread that bound him to his body - ah, there it was. It looked exactly as he thought it might, and that briefly put a smile on his face. This was the last connection to be severed before he started his journey into whatever remained after life. He expected a familiar bony face to come along any moment now and sever that thread with a mighty stroke of the scythe...
I've Been Expecting You.
He looked up, and received his second surprise of the day. Looming before him was a tall gaunt lady, wearing a pant suit the colour of outer space. Her hair was long and dark, and seemed to defy the laws of entropy with its silky smoothness. Her face was pale, her features were angular and her eyes - actually, she didn't have eyeballs. In their place, she had dark spheres with a faint bluish glow that seemed to contain all of eternity inside them. This was a woman who would never have trouble being a disciplinarian.
Terry rose from his armchair. He found himself still looking up.
"I wish I could say the same. I was expecting a tall fellow in a cloak with a majestic scythe. Not that I'm underwhelmed, though. You've certainly got the tall and majestic parts nailed down."
Thank You. I've Always Thought First Impressions Are Important In My Line Of Work.
"I guess Neil was right after all," Terry chuckled to himself.
I'm A Big Fan Of Your Work. Not Everyone Has As Many Interesting Things To Say About Us Anthropomorphic Entities.
"You're welcome. Although I see I've made some glaring errors - such as thinking you would be a skeleton, for example."
No, I Think You're Accurate About Mr. Upper Case. Although He Disagrees - Sometimes.
"Mr. Upper Case? Wait, you mean the bloke who always speaks in capitals is around too?"
Yes He Is. Earth Isn't His Domain Though, Discworld Is.
She produced a small glass box from within her suit. In it, Terry thought he could make out a tiny dot of light rapidly bouncing up and down. He had heard of light clocks before, but always thought they were purely theoretical.
Oh, It's Time.
"Time for what?"
Death reached into her inconspicuous handbag and produced a small silvery implement. She pressed a knob on it and a curved blade slid out sharply from inside it. The eventual result was an elegant cross between a surgeon's scalpel and a scythe.
As Terry watched in fascination, she knelt down beside the silvery thread, and with a graceful swipe she severed it. As she got back up again, Terry asked her, "Do we now head into the great unknown?"
It's Unknown Only For You. And, Truth Be Told, It's Not Particularly Expansive. But We're Not Going Just Yet.
"Oh? How come?"
Someone Wants To Meet You First.
As if on cue, a rumbling began in the distance, the booming sounds of a drummer playing a drum set the size of a continent. As it grew in intensity, a heavy metal riff began to play, interspersed by crackles of thunder. Just as the crashing music reached its climax, a tall figure atop a low-rider made of bone, steel, chrome and flaming wheels burst through the doors of the bedroom and artfully skidded to a halt in front of them.
Terry knew this visitor. That skull with the eternal eyes. That dark cloak fluttering in whatever passed for wind in this place. That long, razor sharp scythe on his back.
The lady looked about as unimpressed as a personification of Death could.
You're Late.
THE AIM WAS TO BE FASHIONABLY LATE. IT APPEARS I HAVE AT LEAST SUCCEEDED HALFWAY.
Only Just. Well, I've Done My Bit Here. Many More Souls Await Me - So I'll Take My Leave. It Was Nice Meeting You At Last, Sir Pratchett.
And with that, she walked out the shattered doors. Death watched her go briefly, then turned around to face Terry.
SIR TERRY. WE HAVE MUCH TO DISCUSS. AND WE HAVE ALL THE TIME OF ETERNITY AT OUR DISPOSAL.
"That we do. Is the Death of Rats with you as well?"
A small figure popped up on Death's shoulder.
SQUEAK.
Terry grinned. This was more like it.
I WOULD LIKE TO STATE AT THIS JUNCTURE THAT YOU HAVE MISQUOTED ME AT TIMES IN YOUR WORKS. WITH THAT SAID, YOU HAVE OTHERWISE MANAGED TO CONVEY ME WITH A REMARKABLE DEGREE OF ACCURACY.
SQUEAK. SNH SNH.
MY FRIEND ADDS THAT IT WAS ALL VERY ENTERTAINING AS WELL.
"It was my pleasure. Writing is its own reward."
THEN COME. AT LAST, SIR TERRY, WE MUST RIDE TOGETHER.
Terry took a look at the eccentric construction of parts that gave the motorcycle an aura of engine oil and thunderstorms, and said, "If it's all right with you, I'd rather walk. I only appreciate motorcycles from a distance - the longer the distance, the better."
If Death's face had any emotive capacity, it would have shown the look a toddler has when the ice cream has just fallen out of their cone.
VERY WELL THEN. AT LAST -
"Oh, just a minute." Terry reached for the fedora and glasses on his bedside table, and watched in dismay as his ghostly hand went straight through them. Death then snapped his fingers, and a fedora materialized on top of Terry's head, fitting neatly as always, and a pair of glasses followed suit.
"Hah! I'm ready to go now."
Death seemed intent on making it a dramatic transition.
AT LAST, SIR TERRY, WE MUST WALK TOGETHER.
Terry took Death’s arm and followed him through the doors and on to the black desert under the endless night.
The End.
[1] A diminutive race of fairy-like beings, sometimes described as a cross between Mel Gibson's William Wallace, pixies, a fondness for drink and the ominous feeling that the smallest of noggins can cause the greatest of pain.
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