“The reason why you are afraid of me,” he said, pointing his left hand which held a gravy-stained spoon, “is that you won’t take resort to the construct of faith. Faith, the concept of the afterlife and a fecund imagination helps you get over the fear of death.”
I shrugged noncommittally. I hadn’t been too pleased when he asked me to meet him. A creepy pink buffalo with a velvet snout, and yellow polka-dotted horns – he didn’t exactly create a vibe wherein I could trust him. The more he tried to tag along with me, the more mortally afraid I became. I wasn’t taken in by his Candy-crush make-up. It was like disinfectant in a hospital, trying to mask the stench of death. Underneath, I knew very well who he was – a peddler of souls!
He looked over at me with glassy pink eyes, trying a different tack, “What’s this that we are eating?”