Death sat scowling in a coffee shop. Things have been good, he thought. Too good. A bomb here, an earthquake there, same old same old.

Maybe I should go play tennis, or watch a little TV. Or maybe I should get into another racket; I’ve been doing this for a long, long time.

He scanned the classifieds, but nothing caught his eye. Car sales, nah. What about audio equipment? Nope, too noisy.

Death went home, troubled. He got up to check the mail. The usual stuff, a few bills, an ad for a new kind of soap, and then he saw it--an ad for a rodeo clown. That’s it, he thought. Lots of fresh air, friendly faces, horses--that’s the job for me.

The training had gone well, though they were a bit resistant at first to his black outfits. The first real day on the job was working with bull riders. Out of the chute, a young cowboy on a big, nasty bull. The bull flung the cowboy off like popcorn, and he landed dazed.

Death moved into the ring and nodded at the bull, who rushed at the cowboy and skewered him through.

Old habits die hard, Death thought.