So, I love writing. When I was a kid I wanted to be a writer. I still kind of do, and to make sure my writing muscle doesn't waste away I sat down and wrote this story:
Once upon a time, in a village that was obscured all around by fog, be it winter or summer, a doctor had a strange, strange encounter. Death came into his office, laid his scythe to the side, took a seat and accused the doctor of healing the dying and thus stealing his victims.
The doctor, being a fraudulent old quack, summoned his two pet mosquitoes, named Malaria and Dengue, and had them bite Death until he fled. Death became infected by both malaria and dengue, and came back seven days later to the doctor, spasming and writhing and looking for all the world as though he was trying to tie his body into knots.
The doctor cured Death, and Death expressed his thankfulness to him by taking him out for a good stiff drink or two or seven.
The doctor, in his drunken stupor, confessed that he was completely broke and homeless and all he had was his office. Death graciously offered to let him crash on his couch that night, to which he happily agreed.
The doctor was never seen in the village again.