“...the miser is counting his gold pieces, unaware of Death, who holds two clear symbols: an hourglass and a pitchfork.""Why a pitchfork and not a scythe?""Because Death reaps but the Devil harvests”

“Is that a lion with horns and a pitchfork?""Yep.""Is he carrying the moon on his pitchfork?""Nope it's a pie.”

“The vampire leaned forward, tapping a scimitar claw. "Is that a lion with horns and a pitchfork?""Yep.""Is he carrying a moon on his pitchfork?""No, it's a pie.”

“There's the smell of the devil's mischievousness, a pitchfork in your ass and sulfur in your mouth. The Bastard's there, all right, don't doubt it.”

“I’m sick of white walls and endings. The only thing that doesn’t end in this place is me. I don’t end. I just go on, and on, swinging that scythe glued to my hand. There’s no rhythm to the strokes. Few see death coming, and even those who do see death don’t see me. Because there is no me. Not anymore. Always the reaper, never the reaped. Soon that won’t bother me. Soon I won’t care. Emotional death follows physical death at a different pace for each reaper. I’ve put it off for more than two years, but it’s inevitable.”

“You don’t return your phone calls.” The vampire leaned forward, tapping my doodle with a scimitar claw. “Is that a lion with horns and a pitchfork?”“Yep.”“Is he carrying the moon on his pitchfork?”“No, it’s a pie. What can I do for Atlanta’s premier Master of the Dead?”