Pestilence wasn't a fish and, thus, couldn't swim. At first, seeing him splashing and coughing was funny, then, when he started to sink and go blue, it was hysterical. Needless to say, Pestilence avoided water from then on.

"Come on Death," said War. "There's worse things than a bit of bother in the world. And what if they all bring the place crashing down around their ears? So what? It saves us the trouble. As long as we don't run out of mayonnaise, we'll be fine."

Pestilence smiled and licked his lips. He loved mayonnaise. A squirt in his sandwiches, on his breakfast cereal and even in his bedtime cocoa. One time, they'd forgotten to buy it and he'd sulked for a week. It meant there was an increase in flies and the whole street came down with a bad case of festering boils. They made sure there was always a plentiful supply to hand.

Death ignored his brother. Worse things than a bit of bother? Of course there was. There was the four of them! They were meant to bring about the End of Days. It said so in that book, way back before the Kindle, steampunk and Harry Potter. The Bible didn't talk of a fizzle. It didn't mention a lacklustre fade into obscurity or a mucous filled burp to signal the final curtain.

No, it spoke of how the four of them would storm in and lay waste to everything! Or at least kick start it! It certainly didn't tell the tale of how they would sit about, reading newspapers, playing video games and entertaining the neighbours with their fireworks. Where was the meanness? Where was the fear?

It had faded the way the world was about to. Sputtered and died like the bonfire after Cedric had relieved himself over it. The Four... Thingummys...

See? They'd even forgotten their name. Yes, they knew they were Death, War, Pestilence and Famine, but they couldn't remember what it was like to have names that MEANT something! They were like a gang that had gotten old and infirm, and needed help going to the bathroom. Even Pestilence could manage that, at least so far. But for how long?

They needed to do something, before they faded into oblivion themselves. Death could just see them all.

He'd be sitting in his favourite armchair, his paper in his hands, head on his chest. Famine would be staring, unseeing, at MTV with Pestilence by his side. War would have worn his hands through with the constant rubbing.

And cobwebs would be covering them all.

Death shook his head. No. They wouldn't end up like that. They had to regain their former glory!

He stood up.

"Right," he said, his voice booming enough to make the coffee table vibrate and Famine's Coke drop off the side. And Cedric was served another little snack delivered from on high.

Famine managed to catch his drink before it hit the floor and spilled everywhere, and the complaint in his throat stopped just before it was foolish enough to pop into the open and earn Fam the Man the wrath of the Big D. He saw Death's eyes, and when they were that particular shade of crimson, you held your tongue - literally sometimes, just to make sure the words didn't deliberately escape and run around causing no end of mischief. Such a thing had happened in the past. Pestilence had commented on how his brother's rumbling often caused breakages in the house, in particular the time when his Transformers model collection had fallen to the floor due to the shelf they were standing on shaking loose. The models were transformed into broken pieces of junk very quickly. Pestilence had started ranting and ignored the change of colour in Death's eyes. He couldn't, though, ignore the way he was held up off the ground and hung by the coat peg in the hall. Or the way his sock was pulled off his foot and stuffed in his mouth. Nor could he ignore how Cedric had chanced by and licked his toes (almost chewing at one point), which tickled so much he had wet himself.

When Death was riled, you caged your tongue and locked the key in a box in a case in a safe in a vault. And then you promptly forgot the combination.

It was much safer that way.

The brothers looked at him. Famine had one eyebrow raised, his James Bond look. It made him appear constipated. Pestilence looked like he was a deer in the headlights of an oncoming car. His usual expression. War regarded his sibling over his glasses. War, though younger than Death, was the intellectual. Apart from his OCD, which he would never admit to suffering from no matter how many times he washed his hands or moved his cup just another fraction of a millimetre straighter, he had an aura of 'old' that wrapped itself around him like a comfortable cardigan and well worn pair of slippers. He was... venerable. He knew Death took things far too seriously. He knew Death could be hard to live with, moody and stressed - and stressful. But he knew Death, though prone to outbursts, was also the eldest and the one they, rightly, looked up to.

Death stood for a moment, his long arms crossed. Famine tried to look cool, but failed. Death didn't have to try. He was Death. DEATH. Imposing. Impressive. Incontinent.

Erm... Well, only that one time after the funny tasting chicken curry... But that's one of those 'hold your tongue' things that you only spoke about if you liked pain. Or dismemberment.

"We're going to stop this," he said.

Now some people, when they say something, even if it's an order, you might think you could argue, or ignore. You might feel inclined to do exactly the opposite. You might not even be particularly listening.

Not so with Death. When he spoke, and he wanted you to REALLY listen, that's exactly what you did. You were held by the tone of his voice in a vice like grip that threatened to squeeze you till your ribs popped if you even thought of looking away. When he wanted you to REALLY listen, nothing else existed in the world - or you'd pay the consequences.

War was the only one for whom Death's toll didn't have an effect. He listened because that was the sort of person he was. Usually Death spoke with conviction, which War respected. As much as he didn't particularly see what all the fuss was about, War listened, with no invisible hold on his body. War was often the voice of Reason in a house were Unreasonable often resided. Reason may once have inhabited the home, but it had long since packed its bags and sneaked away under cover of night. It was now working in a fast food restaurant asking if you wanted fries with that, but it was happy. Which was nice. Anything, Reason thought, was better than being in a house where you were tossed aside like last week's TV guide, crumpled and with your pages hanging out.

Famine and Pestilence were staring wide eyed at their bother. Even though Famine had a habit of being a little too cocky for Death's extremely sober tastes, he was still well covered by Death's shadow. He might try and step out into the limelight himself occasionally, but he knew exactly where he was best remaining. His brother really was the Big D. Pestilence was in awe of the awed, so by default he was in the shadow of the shadowed. It took him all his time to move from the shade of Famine's armpit without exiting stage right into the glare of Death's stare.