Heather

“Never knock on death's door. Ring the doorbell then run. He totally hates that.
- T-shirt”
― Darynda Jones, First Grave on the Right

“Maybe I needed sensitivity training. I once signed up for an anger management class, but the instructor pissed me off.”
― Darynda Jones, First Grave on the Right

“Lok’tar ogar!” The daemon holding me pulled my head back, exposing my throat.
“Victory or death,” I retorted at my captor hoarsely. “For the Horde. And for the record, shouting World of Warcraft battle
cries kind of kills the whole ‘imminent death’ expectation.”

The daemon paused. “What server are you on?” he demanded.
“Blackhand.”
“Righteous. Guild?”

I couldn’t imagine what the hell that mattered at this point, but it was keeping me alive so that was a bonus. I’d gladly spit out
the rest of my Warcraft stats if it bought me a few more minutes.

“Yeah,” I coughed. “ElfhunterBitches.”

He blinked and then grinned, tapping himself on the chest. “No shit. I’m TartBarbie. Undead DeathKnight.”
I stared at him. “TB? Seriously? I’m Baconator. Blelf Warlock. You did a hell of a job tanking on that raid the other night.”

“Yeah, I am pretty awesome.” He glanced over his shoulder, releasing me. “Look, if I’d known it was you, I’d never have
agreed to this. Go on.” He nudged me with a leather boot. “I’ll tell them you got away.”

I didn’t have to be told twice. “Thanks,” I said softly. “I’ll make it up to you, somehow.”
“No worries.” He winked. “See you next Thursday.”
― Allison Pang, A Brush of Darkness

“How would you like your eggs?"

I tried. I really did. But I glanced at his crotch and it came out anyway. "Fertilized?”
― Darynda Jones, Fifth Grave Past the Light