I’d become nothing but a cliché, was losing my edge. I was no longer in fashion, like small pox and plague: I needed to update my wardrobe, my accessories, my repertoire. I ditched the hooded robe, the tall, glinting scythe, the long, bony fingers, the stench of decaying flesh. I liked the ambiguity of androgyny so I chose jeans and a lumberjack shirt finished off with a skinny white scarf. The gun just seemed apt. To uphold tradition and to allow for a little history, I stole an ancient mask from a museum, one adorned with horns and fiery feathers. I love a bit of spectacle, and like to give them a fright. When I reveal myself to them, they still know who I am. Death.