Because You Love to Hate Me

But Steven Kemple just would not die. And sometimes even Little Angels of Death need to resort to more worldly methods and take matters of the flesh and bone into their own hands. It’s a dirty business, balancing the ledgers of the universe, but somebody’s got to do it.
I know where Steven Kemple lives.
And this is major foreshadowing.

Did you notice I referred to Crazy Hat Lady in past tense? Yeah, that’s major foreshadowing, too.

you’re probably, like, Man! I sure hope Julian kills Steven Kemple soon.

I’ll bet that just now, when I said “Steven Kemple,” it was like someone poked a rusty knitting needle slowly through your eyeball and into the center of your brain.

I had always been like that—the getting-away-with-things part, not the confident and good-looking thing. I can’t explain it. I’d hate it, too, if I weren’t me. But you’re not allowed to. Your job is to hate Steven Kemple.

Who knows? Maybe Steven Kemple will die at the end of this story—which may or may not be foreshadowing.
Don’t skip ahead.

And darkness was encroaching on the glade.

I hope this letter finds you well. I’m sure we’ll meet eventually, but hopefully not anytime soon.

“Shake on it?” he asks, offering his bone hand.

Death is awake, and so he is hungry.
He is hungry, and so he is awake.