It was daytime once again, and the Debs slowly came around, one by one, squinting against the sun that shone bright and harsh down on their unconscious bodies. They groaned and put their hands over their eyes and to their heads, and covered their ears against the birdsong that seemed deafeningly loud.
They felt those heads and ears and eyes, and then their arms and legs and stomachs, and realized they were fully solid now. The food and drink that had passed so easily through them for a fortnight or better was now in there to stay. For some of them, however, it would not, and those unfortunate number ran for the bathrooms or the nearest bushes. The rest simply gripped their heads and abdomens wishing to be dead again.
"Good morning," chirped the Harbinger of Death, to an answering chorus of moans. "It's November. You're alive and well." His gaze flitted over the miserable Debs and he tilted his head. "Well, alive, anyway. It's time to be corporeal again. I might have forgotten to tell you that you had to stop eating and drinking at midnight to prevent hangover and indigestion." One might have perceived a smirk, if a skull could do such a thing. "Now that you know what it's like to select your death, perhaps you will be more particular about what kind of trouble you get yourselves into during the off-season. And next year, you'll be back in my loving care." With a wave of his scythe, his skeletal face became sinister and grotesque, his finger bones longer and sharper, his robes tattered like pirate sails fluttering in a chilling otherworldly wind...
And he was gone.
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