Lou Reed watched his wife’s Laurie’s face rot away, revealing a grinning skull.
“Get up,” said The Grim Reaper, yanking the withered musician from his bed. “I want you to meet someone.”
From the shadows, a teenager in jeans and a leather jacket walked in, a guitar slung on his back.
“They tell me I had a promising future,” said the teen. “But I died while waiting on the liver transplant list.”
The kid strummed his guitar and sung a few lines, and Lou wept at its perfection.
Slowly, his face rotted away, revealing Death’s wicked grin.
“Murderer,” he said.