Hanging from a noose is a man of 23 years. His ghost scrutinizes his body, arms folded and eyebrows pulled together. He feels that he could've worn better clothes.
"Hmm. You actually did it." The gravelly voice behind The Ghost sounds like it's filtered through a tube.
"Do you like it?" The Ghost asks, eyes big and full of anticipation as he turns toward The Reaper.
The Reaper shrugs. "You're not my type. Life was hard and you just couldn't hang."
The Reaper stamps something on The Ghosts' wrist. "I like the ones that use a gun. I ferry an incomprehensible number of souls each day, and they are very rare. In my world they're like....shooting stars.