r/WritingPrompts • u/katpoker666 Moderator • Apr 03 '26
Off Topic [OT] Fun Trope Friday: Problem with Fighting Death & Western!
Welcome to Fun Trope Friday, our feature that mashes up tropes and genres!
How’s it work? Glad you asked. :)
Every week we will have a new spotlight trope.
Each week, there will be a new genre assigned to write a story about the trope.
You can then either use or subvert the trope in a 750-word max story or poem (unless otherwise specified).
To qualify for ranking, you will need to provide ONE actionable feedback. More are welcome of course!
Three winners will be selected each week based on votes, so remember to read your fellow authors’ works and DM me your votes for the top three.
Next up… IP
April showers bring… paradoxes? Yea, not a clear lead in for this one, but paradoxes are all kinds of fun, so let’s explore some this month! Please note this theme is only loosely applied.
"The fear of death follows from the fear of life." – Mark Twain
Trope: The Problem with Fighting Death — ...is that even if you win, you'll still eventually lose. As nemeses go, you can do worse than be Enemies with Death. The Grim Reaper isn't unbeatable, he can be whipped into submission by a sufficiently cunning Guile Hero with The Plan or a sufficiently tough Action Hero with a good enough weapon or a nice game of Chess.
There's just one small problem: these cosmic entities usually play a pretty important role in the universe and afterlife
Genre: Western — Yeehaaaa!!! We’re off to the Wild West again! The Western is a genre of fiction typically set in the American frontier between the California Gold Rush of 1849 and the closing of the frontier in 1890. The genre is commonly associated with folk tales of the Western United States, particularly the Southwestern United States, as well as Northern Mexico and Western Canada.
Skill / Constraint - optional: Includes a zombie of some form or meaning.
So, have at it. Lean into the trope heavily or spin it on its head. The choice is yours!
Have a great idea for a future topic to discuss or just want to give feedback? FTF is a fun feature, so it’s all about what you want—so please let me know! Please share in the comments or DM me on Discord or Reddit!
Last Week’s Winners
PLEASE remember to give feedback—this affects your ranking. PLEASE also remember to DM me your votes for the top five stories via Discord or Reddit—both katpoker666. This is a change from the top three of the past. In weeks where we get over 15 stories, we will do a top five ranking. Weeks with less than 15 stories will show only our top three winners. If you have any questions, please DM me as well.
Some fabulous stories this week and great crit at campfire and on the post! We had 5 stories, so we’re back to three winners. Congrats to:
Want to read your words aloud? Join the upcoming FTF Campfire
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Ground rules:
- Stories must incorporate both the trope and the genre
- Leave one story or poem between 100 and 750 words as a top-level comment unless otherwise specified. Use wordcounter.net to check your word count.
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- No previously written content
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Thanks for joining in the fun!
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u/wileycourage Apr 09 '26
Stranger
I sidled up to the bar in the saloon one night and sat belly up next to the strangest looking man I ever saw in all my born days. After ordering my whiskey from the bar keep, I made it my mind to introduce myself to this feller. I wasn’t sure whether it were curiosity or fear or the bottled courage I was drinkin' that were whipping me, but whatever it was, it outdrew me.
“Howdy there, stranger,” I gulped like a yellow belly coward but I wasn’t trying to be too big for my breeches or afear him or nothing like that.
Stranger turned to me. He were far younger than I had expected him to be, somewhere between grass and hay, in facts. He smiles his pale clean shaven face and displays the prettiest damn teeth and lips I ever did see and says, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Black.”
Stared right at him, I did, frozen there in place the both of us. The saloon felt colder after Stranger spoke and my face felt wet. Why would I sweat? I wiped my forehead and to my horror found the liquid thicker than it ought be, redder.
Stranger offered me a handkerchief and I gladly accept. After I wipe the blood on my head and hands, the handkerchief was still stark white. I handed it back to Stranger who folds it up and puts it back into the pocket of his charcoal jacket, and barkeep pours me another two fingers of drink.
“You ain’t from ‘round here, everyone in this little train stop knows everyone else.” I looked out to the floor of the saloon. When I had entered, it was bustling and full, but now it was empty. Not a soul to be seen or heard, but me, the barkeep, and Stranger. I looked back at Stranger, and asked, “Where you from?”
His voice was light and airy and higher pitched than any man’s ought to be. He was dare I say it, beautiful and slender and like one of the painted ladies available for hire here, a real lathy one her. “When I’m from is half as old as Time, Mr. Black.”
“That’s no what I- How do you know my name? I never met you in all my days.” Something was wrong, I felt it but couldn’t name where the fear came from, but I was readying to stand up and instinctively put my hand to my holster, but the revolver wasn’t where it always were. Felt also for my knife, but it weren’t there either. Neither were the other blades. A man can never have too many knives these days. “You’re waking up the wrong passenger, Stranger, if you mean to get one over on me,” I bluffed.
He didn’t move at all, Stranger. He kept his bright blue eyes fixed on me the entire time, his smile were permanent and genuine. “Would you like to play a Game, Mr. Black?”
“Yep,” I broke myself all to pieces when I said it. I had got it in my head I didn’t have a damn other thing I could possibly do. There weren’t no reason for me to play. I ought to have left right then and there I knew. Stranger knowing yer name never a good sign out here.
Stranger pulls out the shiniest polished six shooter and loaded a single of his gleaming bullets into the cylinder, locking it into place with a fluid motion and spinning it ‘round and ‘round. A lump formed in my throat and I wanted to cry foul, but could not find my words. Stranger pointed at my chest and pulled the trigger. Click. Nothing. Relief flooded my heart. He handed me the revolver. “Your turn, Mr. Black.”
“You sure about this, Stranger?” When he smiled back, I aimed at his head and fired.
Pain spiked from my chest. I pulled open my coat to see the scarlet stain growing through my shirt, and then the dark took me.
I sidled up to the bar in the saloon the next night and sat belly up next to the strangest looking man I ever saw in all my born days. After ordering my whiskey from the barkeep, I made it my mind to introduce myself to this feller. I wasn’t sure whether it were curiosity or fear or the bottled courage I was drinkin' that were whipping me, but whatever it was, it outdrew me.
WC: 746. Thanks for reading all crit appreciated!
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u/katpoker666 Apr 09 '26 edited Apr 10 '26
[ineligible for voting]
‘Death and the Rodeo Clown’
C’mon, Death, it’s time to, well, LIVE a little. So what if you’re a few dozen centuries too old to be a rodeo clown? It’s not like your bones break or anything. Besides, Pollution said it would make you look hotter than Global Warming! Hmm… is that even a thing the kids say anymore? Maybe ‘Climate Cataclysm?’ That sounds right. Anyhoo… you’ve always wanted to try your hand at barrel racing ever since you were knee-high to a scythe! This Groupon deal will change your life. I mean c’mon it said so online and everything.
“Death, Grateful. Is there a Grateful Death here?” The rodeo clown in the threadbare crimson shirt and scuffed cowboy boots scanned the assembled crowd of pre-teen participants glued to their phones. He chuckled without mirth. “Very funny, buckaroos… Har-de-har-har. At least if you’re going to make up a name, get it right. It’s the Grateful DEAD.”
Death coughed from the shadows, his voice harsh as if choked by a thousand cigarettes. “Umm, sorry, Sir. I’m Mr. Death, you see.” The gaunt and wizened man shuffled forward, his gait uneven. “I assure you, my name is correct. It’s theirs that is a wanton act of thievery! Those scoundrels got me drunk once and ensorcelled me with their crazy beards when I was supposed to take them out. Jerks ended up alive and with a version of my name. Copyrighted the damn thing and everything. You can’t imagine the paperwork—“
Looking over at the rodeo clown’s glazed expression, Death paused. “And… you don’t care about any of that, do you? Ah well, ancient history for you I suppose, but a drop in the bucket for me. So, I must assure you I’m really me and here.”
The clown eyed death up and down.
Death beamed, his hollow chest cavity puffed out, as he was wearing the latest in western fashion from his black jeans to his onyx and silver shirt.
My Stetson alone costs more than the poor guy probably made for doing one of these camps. Maybe I should cut him some slack.
“Alright, Grateful. You look the part, but aren’t you a bit, umm, old?”
“The Groupon specifically says ages ten and UP. I am perhaps a bit more ‘up’ than most, but there’s no violation here good sir.”
The clown sighed. “I do NOT get paid enough for this nonsense.”
“No, I imagine you don’t. Tell you what: do a good enough job today that I can ride around the barrels and I’ll buy you a whole new outfit.”
Perking up at that, the clown nodded. “Alright, I’d be mighty grateful, erm, Grateful… Okay, buckaroos, let’s saddle up and show ‘em whatfer!”
Disinterested pre-teens mounted their Appaloosa and Paint ponies. Most sat comfortably on their 15-hand mounts; Death was a different matter. His lanky legs dangled low, brushing the ground.
“My, you’re a tall drink of water, ain’t ya?” The rodeo clown chuckled as he dismounted. “Here, take ol’ Sundance. I reckon she’s the only hoss big enough fer ya!”
“Thanks, Marvin.”
Startled, the clown raised an eyebrow. “Never done told you my name… And that’s my proper one. So surefire not that… Folks call me ‘Wayne’ around these parts, like ‘John Wayne.’ How’d you know my name?”
“I am Death after all.”
“Umm, sure… Mount up.” Leery, Wayne gave Grateful a wide berth. “Oh, and take your gloves off. It’ll give you a better grip on the reins.”
Grateful gritted his remaining teeth. “Not sure that would be a good idea. My bare hands kill things you see…”
Wayne rolled his eyes. “C’mon, tough guy, just do it.”
Sighing, Grateful pulled off a glove. The sickly sweet smell of decay wafted.
Wayne gagged as he brushed Grateful’s hand to adjust his grip on the reins. “See ain’t that bet—“ The rodeo clown fell to the ground, his last words abridged.
Grateful groaned. Not AGAIN. How am I ever going to learn barrel racing and impress Pollution? With my luck, she’ll end up with that cocky bastard, War, after all these millennia. Ah well, just this once I’ll cheat. Reaching down, Grateful brushed Wayne’s hand.
Gasping, Wayne stood up, none the worse for wear and none the wiser. “Alright, buckaroos, let’s get barrelin’!”
The pre-teens glanced up from their phones, unaware of what had transpired, and started to trot in bored figure eights around the barrels.
Grateful beamed his rotting, gap-toothed grin. “Finally, we’re off to the races!”
WC: 744
Thanks for reading! Feedback is always appreciated
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u/Ok-Speed-2799 Apr 08 '26
The dusty road was never-ending. Maybe. Hard to tell without stars.
Everywhere around him the night was black and thick like the snuff Aunt Carol used to stuff up her lip before demanding cheek-kissing. It could've been tolerable, just like Carol, if he hadn't been cold and dripping wet from boot to where his hat was supposed to be. How long he'd been there he didn't know, and how he'd get back to the herd before sunrise, even less. So, when the creak and whine of cart wheels tickled his ears it sounded like a blessing. A carriage rattled into view, drawn by—
Well. At some point they must've been horses. Bone, now, mostly, and rotting flesh. At the reins sat a man, a pale figure in a black hat and a white mustache as wide as a bull ring. Offering a nod, he halted the carriage and pulled up a large dusty book, flipping through a few pages before his finger found the spot he was looking for.
"Young Stevenson?" he asked.
"Yeah..."
"Drowned by a horse?"
"Hey now— Not drowned. Had a little fall into the creek, that's all."
The man slapped the side of his carriage. "Hop on in, son."
"Where's you going?"
"Hop on in."
Young Stevenson did not like the look of it. At all. But the cold had crept all the way into his bones and he had never done well with the dark. So he did as he was told. As he climbed inside the air stuck in his throat, thick and sweet and smokey. There was an old, terribly old, woman in the corner of the carriage and opposite to her — a little girl with two black braids. After touching the curly tip of his head in search for a hat to remove Young Stevenson sat next to the girl. The old one seemed to be sleeping, so he kept quiet.
The girl, however, did not share his sensibilities.
"You're really wet."
Young Stevenson whispered, "I'm aware."
"Why are you wet?" she whispered back, loudly.
"Just fell into the creek a little."
"I heard you were drowned by a horse," the old lady snickered from the other side of the carriage.
The little girl shrieked with laughter and Young Stevenson's gut burnt hot. "Now that's just— you can't—"
"It's funny!" The girl giggled. "It's a funny way to die."
"What?"
"It's much funnier than influenza," she smiled.
"Wait. I'm not d—"
"You are, son, we all are," the old lady murmured as she leaned her head back. "Rest now."
"No, no, no." There was no rest in that. "I'm—I'm too young." The floor tripped him as he scrambled toward the door, almost falling on the little girl who stared at him, wide-eyed. "You're too young too!" he shouted at her as he burst out of the carriage. "Come on now! He can't take us all!"
Biting the dust took on a very literal meaning as he tumbled down the ditch, spitting and cursing. There wasn't anywhere to go but off the road into that ghastly dark. Better than to die, though. Surely. Hopefully. Boots and heart pounding in unison he sprinted through it. Far away a faint light flickered. There could be a herd and a home on the other side of that.
Then, a rope cut into his neck.
The dirty ground hit him hard, knocking the air out of his lungs. Above him stood the man and his wide white mustache, lasso in hand and knuckles on his hips. "You're not the first one, son," he said and dragged Young Stevenson behind him back to the carriage like an unruly calf.
"Please, sir," he gargled. "I can't be dead! Not like this!"
"It's already in the books," the man muttered.
"In this book?"
The girl stood on the carriage, her little hands gripping the book, half a page already crumpled in her fist.
Young Stevenson felt the rope slacken around his neck.
The man lifted his hands. "Now listen here, honey, don't you— That's years of—"
"I don't want to die yet. And not from something stupid like influenza or being drowned by a horse."
"The time and cause of a death is not a negotiable—"
"Oh leave it, reaper man," the old lady called from inside. "You have me. Let the young folk live a little."
The man rubbed his eyes and sighed into his fists — then threw the rope.
"Fine. Have it your way."
---
Word count: 750
Trope: check, Genre: check, and Constraint: well, if you're generous -> the horses
Side note: I continued this from last time's western prompt(https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/1r49evc/comment/o5kbs3s/), though still as a stand alone, I hope that's ok and counts as a "serial".
Finally, any feedback or thoughts or anything is greatly appreciated and obsessively reread!
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u/oliverjsn8 Apr 09 '26
Ok-speed, I love the character descriptions and imagery you give us in this piece. It makes me want more, darn the word count. The description of Death, the horses etc. is wonderful and fits the setting so well. I know given the word count you have done what you can but…sigh. I’m always a sucker for the dead’s appearance hinting at how they died, Young being wet is a great touch (blame the Beetlejuice movie.)
Dialog is also strong here, giving each character their own distinct voice. Each one has their own motivation and quirks, there isn’t anything else slot say.
Critic time. I’d like to bring the reaper in a bit sooner. Get us to the action, the hook that something is very wrong. The time Young spends analyzing their scenario makes me feel he should be more reactive to the appearance of rotten horses pulling a wagon. He has time to settle and come out of the shock of dying. We have a bit too much time as a reader to get grounded, and wonder about the choices made. Maybe him boarding should be more a compelling force than being afraid of the dark?
Small thing, Death asking his name as a question is understandable but I feel “Drowned by a horse.” should be a statement. Adding the question mark just takes away at the commanding, certainty that is death.
Again good words and look forward to campfire
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u/IdyllForest Apr 08 '26
It was a bright spring morning when Samuel killed "Red Hands" Brodie Wilkins, the Texas Terror.
"Whoo!" Old man Dupont looked at the corpse as he stood by Samuel. "That's some fine shootin', kid. Was sure Brodie had the drop on you."
"Misfire," Samuel replied, eyeing the gaping red hole placed above Brodie's left eye. "Just luck, I figure."
"... quisque fortunae."
The youth's brow rose. "That some sorta' prayer?"
"Naw, just bits o' Latin still rattlin' around in this old head," Dupont smiled. "We make our own luck, or some such."
The townsfolk were coming out of hiding to look at the aftermath of the shootout. Along with Brodie, eight men lay still in the dirt. Five of Dupont's men stood standing, along with Samuel.
"Too early for this..." Dupont muttered. "Hope the sheriff ain't too hung over or he's as likely to shoot us as give us our pay."
He turned to Samuel and clapped the youth on the shoulder. "You're good, kid, but don't let it get to your head, y'hear? There's plenty o' fast draws out here, and if you hear tell of a fella' named Maury, you best stay clear."
"That right?"
"That's right."
The sun was high and the day sweltering that summer when Samuel shot Miguel 'Bull' Cerillo in the middle of a saloon. Four other men lay unmoving in similar fashion to Miguel. For a spell, only the smoke from Samuel's gun dared stir at all.
A quick puff from Susan scattered the smoke. "Time to go."
Under the nervous gazes of the saloon's patrons, Samuel and Susan gingerly stepped over the bodies of Miguel and his enforcers, picking up bundles of cash from dealer's tables.
"Five men... " Susan murmured, stuffing the money into a sack. "... I know you're good shot, but you've the devil's own luck, Samuel Hartford."
"Didn't think we'd be dropping by the one saloon in town owned by the Bull," Samuel replied with a wry look. "Guess it must have slipped your mind, darling."
She laughed and it sent a thrill down the seasoned gunslinger's spine. "Ubi amor, ibi dolor."
"That Latin?"
"Where's love, there's pain." Susan smiled and kissed him.
As they headed for their horses, Susan's gaze fell on him, and Samuel thought it a heavy one. "Something wrong, darling?"
"Promise me you'll stay away from Maury."
"Him again?" Samuel quirked a brow. "Been hearing that name since I was a young buck. Feller' must be retired by now."
Susan shook her head and her curls dropped over her eyes in the way he liked. "Some men just never stop killin'."
"That right?"
"That's right."
The winds blew cold that late autumn, when Samuel gunned down Jonah "The Kid" Danson. Nine bodies lay amidst the oak trees in the little wooded meadow. Samuel alone remained standing, his shadow lengthening with the setting sun.
He winced as he took a step forward, blood seeping down his thigh from the Kid's bullet. "Near a daisy you were, Jonah Danson..." Samuel murmured, taking off his hat to reveal a thinning pate of steel gray hair. "... but you showed me too much. Showed me all your tells, you did, and for what? To impress some women?" The old gunslinger sighed softly and dropped his hat over the Kid's face.
"Ten men with ten shots..."
Samuel froze, resisting the urge to whip about face with his pistols drawn.
"... that's some fine shooting."
He was pale as bone, was the tall stranger that got the drop on Samuel. Black was his duster, and black was his hat. A cheroot was gripped lightly in his fingers, its tip lit.
Samuel turned to his side, eyeing him. "... might you be Maury?"
"Some folks call me that."
"That right?"
"That's right."
They half circled around each other. Samuel's hand drifted to the butt of his revolvers. The stranger smoked his cheroot.
They drew.
Samuel looked up from where he was lying. The stranger was holding up the black hat he had worn. There was a hole straight through the middle of it.
"...mighty fine shooting, Samuel Hartford." He said. "But you forget yourself. Memento mori."
"...never did find time to learn the language... " Samuel felt a chill far colder than winter spreading inside him. "...more's the pity."
The stranger nodded. He put his hat back on and drew his Peacemaker. "Don't always need to know the language to know the meaning." He brought the gun up and cocked the hammer.
"In pace, requiescat."
WC: 747
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u/Hero_Brave Apr 10 '26 edited Apr 10 '26
He was pale as bone, was the tall stranger that got the drop on Samuel.
I can't stop focusing on this line. It sounds off. Sounds like you were typing one thing, but though of something better and rolled with that. But forgot to delete the previous one. Was it meant to be:
Pale as bone, was the tall stranger that got the drop on Samuel.
?
Nice progression of time btw.
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u/Ok-Speed-2799 Apr 09 '26
Hi there, IdyllForest! I really liked this story, you did good things to spark questions I wanted answering early -> the latin and then the threat of Maury which made me very intent on finding out who he is and why we need to stay clear of him. Good reasons to read on.
Aside from that I like how you used repetition and body count to show how time passes and how he is progressing as a gunslinger, very satisfying to read. The same thing with the latin words -> one after the other it reads just like a life: luck, love, suffering, death, rest -> very nice.
Now, this might definitely be me reading far into things, but I like that he doesn't understand the latin. Like he can't understand the real life lessons and just kills his way through it all instead. "never did find time to learn the language" hit hard when I read it like this at least. If that was intentional -> nice.
I don't have a lot to complain about. I think you could drop the "the seasoned gunslinger" and "the old gunslinger" mentions just because you show it so clearly through everything else. Other than that I had one little gripe with "There's plenty o' fast draws out here, and if you hear tell of a fella' named Maury, you best stay clear." I would've liked it if he had actually not stayed clear of Maury, that he let it all get to his head and tried to find and kill Maury too or defy death or something like it. Because, unless I'm missing something, he did stay clear of Maury, and then Maury snuck up on him when he was old. This rings very true to death, of course, but a part of me would've just liked to see him fail or make a bad decision, if that makes sense.
So all in all, well done, this one read like it had a whole story beneath it!
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u/MaxStickies Apr 09 '26
Hi Idyll, really like the story! First of all, it's structured really well, and I particularly like the repetition and the sense of time you get across. I also like the use of Latin, as it gives it an almost Biblical feel, making Maury almost seem demonic and like Samuel's inevitable fate.
All the characters stand on their own as well, feeling fleshed-out enough without taking too much focus from Samuel and Maury.
Far as crit goes:
Four other men lay unmoving in similar fashion to Miguel.
This reads a little awkwardly, so I'd drop "to Miguel". I think it'd still get across the same meaning.
"Promise me you'll stay away from Maury."
"Him again?" Samuel quirked a brow. "Been hearing that name since I was a young buck. Feller' must be retired by now."
Though the reminders of Maury are good, I think Susan bringing it up this way comes across as a little too unbelievable. Maybe she could mention how Samuel's mentioned him before, and what he'd do if he did, then maybe Samuel could simply bring up "Well, I'm sure he's retired by now. Doubt I'll have to." or something like that.
They drew.
I think having one more sentence like "One shot hits flesh." or "One man gasps." would make the hit more apparent in the reading, as for me, I think moving onto the next paragraph feels a bit abrupt as-is. That may simply be personal preference, though.
And that's all the crit I can find. Great story, Idyll!
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u/bemused_alligators Apr 09 '26
A game for your life
I stared at the chessboard, illuminated by a stream of light filtering through the dusty window. The chatter of the saloon was muted, the patrons worried for their town's saftey. The pieces sat in formation, white and black lines of troops, ready to begin. And the calm being in black, sitting across from me, dust floating through their robe.
The doors slammed open as a big man strode into the bar, and the conversation stopped entirely.
Ah, this must be the problem. I eyed the man as he strode towards the tavern's owner. His swagger was oversized, as were his spurs. He had a pistol - a big one - strapped to his hip. He looked similar enough to the paper stowed in my vest pocket.
I let my eyes wander across the crowded tavern. Almost every seat was full of dirty, tired workers - but I was alone at my table. A stranger, and they all knew what I was here for. I would get no trouble from them.
"Excuse me friend!" I put a smile behind my words, but made sure to let my chair topple backwards as I rose, the clatter filling the silence of the saloon.
"Excuse me!" I called again - stepping towards the man. He glanced over and then turned to face me.
"what have we here? Come to give me nice present, little girlie?" he laughed as he made a crude gesture.
"You Tiburcio Vásquez?"
The man looked down at me from his considerable height advantage. "Who's asking? You?" He laughed and grabbed the pitcher of cheap alcohol the barkeeper had given him - without payment, I noted - and then pushed past me to sit at the only table with space - the one I had just gotten up from, with the chess board still there. And he sat in the same chair the being was sitting in.
As he sat, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding as the motion in the bar froze. I came around to the other side of the table, righting my chair and sitting back down in it. "I'm glad to see you accepted the game, friend."
"this thing?" The man laughed. "I could crush your head like a grape, and you want to play with these little figurines? I should shoot you were you stand."
"You have already accepted my challenge. We could sit here until you collapse from hunger and thirst, or you could play." I paused, considering, "or you could admit defeat and forfeit, I guess."
I glanced around at the frozen bar, my eyes catching on the scared faces of the townsfolk. This was a good choice.
The man growled and lunged across the table, scattering the pieces as he tried to reach for me, but his arm didn't quite make it and he proved unable to move away from his seat.
"What is this? Why can't I move?"
"You've accepted the game friend. You can play or you can forfeit."
With a roar that man pulled his large pistol out of his holster, and pulled the trigger three times. The barrel clicked and rotated, but nothing came out.
"I won't play your stupid game!" the man roared.
"So, you surrender?"
"i'll beat the snot out of you, little girl!" He tried to stand, but his bottom remained firmly attached to the seat - and the seat attached to the floor.
"Play or forfeit."
The man studied the board, which had reset itself as he flailed. "move that one, to there" he said. It was a legal move. The last of the tension left me as I relaxed, and responded to the move.
"that one... there!" the man said. he was clearly moving random pieces to random places.
"that's not a legal move, friend."
"Not legal my behind, I'll get you one way or the other!"
"Try again, or forfeit. If you forfeit you'll be able to get off that seat.."
"Fine then I forfeit!"
the man was lunging forward as he spoke, and the movements of the room returned as I lithely twisted away from the corpse as it slid across the table towards me. I glanced at Death, where he was sitting in the chair where the old man had been before.
"Good game, well played" death said. "Another time, then."
"Another time"