L
ong Po had been the Emperor's highly praised sandal maker for over forty-five hard
years. To lengthy a time to allow a little thing like Death to stop his work. So, Long
angrily slam the door to his work shop.
"Go!" yelled Long, "You apparently have the wrong sandal maker! Leave me to my
leather!"
But Death was not easily fooled. "I have waited patiently for you Long Po. You keep
abnormal hours for a sandal maker. Come, it is your time." breathed the Reaper as he
passed effortlessly through the door, "You are expected in Buddha's Mystical Temple."
"Do you think sandal makers grow on lime trees? Let Buddha make his own sandals. Go
away, I have work to do!", and with that, Long tossed his wash water at Death's skeletal
carcass.
"I just polished this sickle, old man!" furiously piped Death, "Now look at what you have
done! I'm covered in soap scum. I think you have made a grave mistake friend."
"I think that you are provoking the wrong sandal maker, you evil taker of souls. Now,
like I said earlier, LEAVE! Or perhaps you would like to taste my bed water."
"Fine." said Death, "I will take a pair of your sandals instead. Let this be a warning to
you!"
"Where do you think you are going with those sandals? You have not yet paid for them.
Stop you! Help! Guards! Thief!"
Horrified, Death threw the sandals to the floor and quickly fled. "This apparently was not
the correct sandal maker.", thought Death. Buddha would have to wait another day for his
sandals.
The End
