“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?”

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

“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...”