“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.”

“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?”

“The sun's nearly level with the horizon, right behind his head, making this weird halo effect around his face—as if! I'm surprised he doesn't smell like brimstone. He probably has a red pitchfork and hides horns under his hair.”

“...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”

“If only her problems were as simple as dealing with a handful of townspeople with pitchforks...”