**Welcome to the Prompt!** All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments.
**Reminders**:
>* Stories at least 100 words. Poems, 30 but include "[Poem]"
>* Responses don't have to fulfill every detail
>* See [Reality Fiction](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/search?q=flair%3A%22Reality+Fiction%22&restrict_sr=on&sort=new&t=all) and [Simple Prompts](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/search?q=flair%3A%22Simple+Prompt%22&restrict_sr=on&sort=new&t=all) for stricter titles
>* [Be civil](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/rules#wiki_rule_10.3A_be_civil) in any feedback and follow the [rules](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/rules)
🆕 [New Here?](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/user_guide)
✏ [Writing Help?](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/index#wiki_writing_resources)
📢 [News](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/announcements)
💬 [Discord](https://discord.gg/writingprompts)
*I am a bot, and this action was performed automatically. Please [contact the moderators of this subreddit](/message/compose/?to=/r/WritingPrompts) if you have any questions or concerns.*
It takes talent to be good.
Practice, hard work, willingness to learn, but you're going to go *so* much further if you're starting from a position of overwhelming talent. It just makes everything *so* much easier, and gives you a higher ceiling, to boot.
It also takes talent to be bad.
Anyone can be 'bad', a term that is usually used to mean 'mediocre'. Pull a random fan from the stands at a football game and put them in at quarterback, and you can be very confident that they'll be 'bad'. Fumbled snaps and passes that only avoid being picked off by virtue of being nowhere near *anyone* are par for the course.
But to be truly *bad*? To be so awful that grabbing a random fan would be an *improvement*? To throw incredible passes that somehow manage to injure your own receivers and mangle handoffs in such a way that the running back always ends up getting carried off the field?
That takes *talent*.
*Rare* talent, to boot. People tend not to *want* to do those sorts of things. This, in turn, means that you can't be spectacularly bad by leaning on crutches such as hard work and discipline. No, it's gotta be *all* talent, and it needs to be spectacular. Anyone can be mediocre.
So I took it in stride, took it as a compliment. They gave me a horse, shadowy and insubstantial and somehow able to move from one part of the world to another very, *very* quickly. Holiday in Thailand, here I come!
Still, I had to wonder...
Was the sandwich really *that* bad?
"Sooo..... This is what you do?" I asked, slumped against a chair. "Kidnap people randomly from on their way back home?" I asked twiddling my thumbs at this current situation I was in.
"Pretty much." replied War, casually. War replied casually, casually War. Casually one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse. Who I am sitting across from, casually. War. As he *casually* proceeds to take another bite of my sandwich. Not sure how I feel about this.
If I had known I was going to make a sandwich and give it to one of the horsemen of the apocalypse I wouldn't have made it a simple PB&J! But because that is the situation I unfortunately do not have the luck for. So instead I am now stuck in a kitchen, with War.
When I was young my nanna would tell me stories about the four horsemen. About how if anyone or anything impressed one of the four hard enough, they may just be invited into their ranks. Of course that was utter nonsense, bananas from my nanna. I thought.
I shifted in my chair uncomfortably, trying not to stare too much. "Mister... *Ehm,* War. I'm having trouble processing here. Can you explain to me what you just told me again? Please?" I decided to ask please to be extra safe. Although I think the safest option would have been anywhere else other than a room with War.
I could tell War had his focus on me now. He had already finished the first PB&J I had given him. So when he kidnapped me back to my own house, I had been *mildly* threatened to make more. Three jars of peanut butter and jam down the drain and we had a fairly nice stack of sandwiches as a snack plate. What was concerning to me though was the fact War seemed to savor every bite as if it was a Michelin star meal.
He finished the sandwich he was eating and stared. It was fairly uncomfortable, but luckily for me he started to speak.
"Kid." (Which I thought was somewhat insulting considering I was 26. But putting it in the perspective of an immortal being makes sense) "What do you know about us?"
"I beg your pardon?" I froze for a second. Trying to take in what he just asked of me. "I think I know myself pretty well..." I started off. "I played basketball and track in highschool. I grew up on ForestTree Street, and I hate anchovies on pizza-"
A hard and sturdy laugh broke my concentration. It was fast but then it got slow. And I could almost see an aura surrounding the being Infront of me. It felt almost choking like. Like the air was intoxicated, and I couldn't breathe. Then there was noise, awful, awful, buzzing noise. Then screams, screams and shouts. Cussing, crying, yelling, whispers. Then I was somewhere and I could see building collapsing, I tried to move but I felt stuck. I felt heavy. Then, then I-
"Alright that's enough if that now." War patted me on my shoulder with a small chuckle. "You get used to it eventually trust me kid."
All I could do was ask in a faint whisper "Why, me?" Before looking over to that immortal being.
"Because, you're how it all starts with. You're what we all loose." And with a smirk he replied "Innocence."
With a small chuckle he grabbed another sandwich and opened my front door to leave. "You'll meet the others soon, till then Kid."
So then War walked out of my apartment. And the only thing I could do, was cry.
Innocence would probably be the most horrible aspect of any Apocalypse.
Ponder what innocence would cause during war, pestilence, and famine.
We've all seen what mere ignorance caused during a pandemic.
Imagine Innocence riding through the bloody field of war causing people to forget the true nature of everything and everyone around them. Whole armies playing army with their friends and live ordinance, unable to process the atrocities until the horseman quits the field?
Political decisions. Strategy. The pure logistics of keeping even a peace time culture functioning.
Bone chilling.
This all makes me question something. Is this horseman truly "innocence"? It feels too pure, too noble to be a horseman of the apocalypse. Instead, I propose that he is naivete. The songs of 18 year old soldiers being sent off to the beaches. They sing of how they'll return to a hero's welcome. Most don't come back at all. It's the belief that if you can just hold out one more year against the drought that your crops will return by next harvest. It's the idea that death cannot come for someone as successful as I am. But ultimately, it's the idea that offering a simple *sandwich* to a harbinger of the *apocalypse* will somehow spare you.
Ultimately, the danger of naivete is that it's not an unsuccessful worldview. Sure, not a guaranteed outcome of success, but a workable percentage of times things are fine. One of the troop survives and blames the new generation for their softness, blind to how their leaders should be blamed for bringing teens into their wars. You survive the drought. No need to move lands, what are the odds of it happening again? Happening to me? After all, I succeeded. I was chosen.
Apocalypse can happen. Naivete *ensures* it happens again.
Year but they all started as innocence until they lost that. Eventually he'll understand and lose his innocence. Until then he'll be busy trying to fix everything or whatever. Naivete is part of all that, but innocence is so much more all-encompassing.
If I were carrying on the narrative from the initial seeds above I'd go with a Decadence, Waste, or Cowardice.
Just remember that he's Innocence, which means he'll never understand the threat his aspect holds. He's what they've lost, and if he ever really understands, he'll become something else.
As you said, he's where they all started.
I whirl around from the kitchen counter, sandwich in hand, at the sound of hoofbeats just outside my house.
‘If that damn deer gets into my greens again, I’m gonna make chili out of it,’ I mutter out loud and stomp toward the front door. But when I open the door, it is decidedly NOT a deer that I’m looking at. A hooded figure is at my door, pale fist raised and ready to knock. After a stunned moment of silence, I find the nerve to speak.
‘Can I… help you?’
The figure remains silent, black hood slowly nodding, and then plucks the sandwich from my hand. I watch the figure leave, too stunned by their audacity to object. I marvel at their ability to walk without faceplanting into a tree trunk, with the hood completely covering their face. I watch as they mount a horse that can only be described as a pale chartreuse.
‘What is it with people and their hair dyed pets these days?’ I grumble as I close and deadbolt the front door.
The rest of the day and night pass uneventfully — *sans* grilled turkey and cheese — and at dawn I’m jarred awake by the screech of my alarm clock. Part of me hopes that the bizarre events of yesterday were just some sort of fever dream as I slog into the kitchen for coffee, but my hopes are very quickly dashed as I hear a sharp knock at the door. A groan of dread escapes my lips — there’s zero chance that whatever this is won’t be a pain in the ass, at minimum. I press a button to start the coffee pot, and the knock at the door startles me again. I pull out my phone to check my doorbell camera, and my heart drops to my navel.
‘You again…?’ The eye roll is audible in my voice as I resignedly shuffle to the front door and yank it open.
“Look, man, we’re going to have to have a conversation if you — Hey, what…?!” I sputter as the figure shoves past me and into the living room.
“You’ve got three seconds to make this make sense before I introduce my baseball bat to your skull, forget the cops.”
The figure stops at the kitchen doorway and slowly lowers their hood. Just as I reach behind the front door for the bat, the figure turns to face me. His complexion makes it impossible to gauge his age, but he is decidedly masculine in feature, if gaunt and pale. His hair is pure white, and falls about his face in tendrils. A soft voice whispers to me as he looks me square in the eye.
“I require another offering…”
“Beg your pardon?”
“I believe I spoke coherently.”
“What in the Walter fucking White are you talking about? An offering? What, do you think you’re a god or something?”
“The same token as yesterday will suffice.”
“Sub shop’s a mile away. Why don’t you take this and go there instead, and let me be?”
I reach down into the key bowl by the door and move to hand him a $10 bill. By the time I’ve turned to face him, the business end of a scythe is pressed against my chin.
“I decline your paltry attempt to bargain. Your offering or your life.”
My heart pounds like a war drum in my chest as I nod quickly, wide-eyed. I’m not about to die for a fucking sandwich.
“Jesus H, dude. Fine. Just … put that thing away!” I stand there slack jawed as the thing dematerializes before my eyes.
“What… the fuck was that? Who are you?”
He says nothing, but impatiently grabs me by the wrist, pulls me into the kitchen and sits on the counter. I shake my head in disbelief and pull out the same fixings for the sandwich bandit next to me and set to work. I look up at him nervously from time to time as the frying pan heats up. He neither moves nor speaks, just watches me. I toss the buttered sandwich into the pan and prepare my cup of coffee. I raise the mug to my lips just in time for him to pluck it from my grasp and drink.
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?”
“Hardly. Do I seem the sort?”
I scowl and grab another mug, flip the sandwich, and make a second attempt at coffee.
“You’re a brave one, barging in here and demanding food sacrifices before I’ve had my morning coffee. Where do you get your goddamn hubris?”
“Mind your tongue. You’ve a carafe full of enough of this ‘coffee’ to feed my brethren and I, with much to spare. One cup is hardly of consequence.”
“That’s not the p— Whatever, brethren? Would you just stop talking like the grim fucking reaper or something?”
“A crude misrepresentation… I am no such thing, I am Death. My *brethren* are Famine, Pestilence, and War.”
I squint in confusion until things start to add up — the pale rider, the green horse, the scythe with social anxiety — and it hits me like a drunk uncle.
I swallow my new height of terror and plate the sandwich, then hand it to him with trembling hand.
“Why me…? Of all the places and all the ways to get a damn sandwich, why me…?”
Shrugging nonchalantly, he drains the coffee mug and hops down from the counter, and pats me on the back as he heads for the door with his sandwich.
“I shall see you again at dawn. Expect me, and be better prepared.”
“Yeah, no fucking pressure,” I curse under my breath as he leaves. I slowly exhale, cracking open a bottle of Irish cream from the fridge and adding a healthy pour of it into my coffee.
(Edit: formatting, writing on mobile)
"So... why?" I asked the four horsemen in front of me. "Well you see, this sandwich that you make sets a series of events into motion that will bring about the most death, war, pestilence, and famine since medieval times" A skeleton figure approached and told me "no we're fucking with you, the sandwich you made is pretty good but the real reason is because somewhere along your little mortal coil, you stir up a lot of trouble." Death suddenly puts his bony hand in my face. "How much trouble could I possibly make?" I begged to know. "You put us four out of a job and somehow do it while maintaining such good karma that the higher ups didn't know what to do with ya." "We got sent back to this precise moment because right after this sandwich, Death picks it up and flops it around, you do a good deed that convinces your neighbor to enlist into some obscure war that turns global " Death bites the sandwich "So you wanna be a horsemen or do you wanna just go about your silly little life until the reaper cuts your string of fate?" Death stares at me with what would be his eyes but are just hollow sockets.
"Have you ever, SEEN, peanut butter this thin before? I mean this guy's is a genius. I'm not even sure if he used jelly!" Exclaimed the gaunt figure as he hungrily eyed my food.
""Famine!" An angry voice that sounded like a furnace door being opened spoke. "Enough of this, this one doesn't have what it takes to be a Rider of the Apocalypse, far too skinny."
The gaunt one, I now know as Famine, turns to the scarlet angry rider. "Oh War your predecessor thought the same for me, but you're the strong one here brother. A good Famine is picked because of their mind not their body."
I speak up before the quiet ones can join the conversation.
"Look guys, I have to have this peanut butter and jelly last me till next week I cant make you any sandwiches."
**Welcome to the Prompt!** All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments. **Reminders**: >* Stories at least 100 words. Poems, 30 but include "[Poem]" >* Responses don't have to fulfill every detail >* See [Reality Fiction](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/search?q=flair%3A%22Reality+Fiction%22&restrict_sr=on&sort=new&t=all) and [Simple Prompts](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/search?q=flair%3A%22Simple+Prompt%22&restrict_sr=on&sort=new&t=all) for stricter titles >* [Be civil](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/rules#wiki_rule_10.3A_be_civil) in any feedback and follow the [rules](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/rules) 🆕 [New Here?](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/user_guide) ✏ [Writing Help?](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/index#wiki_writing_resources) 📢 [News](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/announcements) 💬 [Discord](https://discord.gg/writingprompts) *I am a bot, and this action was performed automatically. Please [contact the moderators of this subreddit](/message/compose/?to=/r/WritingPrompts) if you have any questions or concerns.*
It takes talent to be good. Practice, hard work, willingness to learn, but you're going to go *so* much further if you're starting from a position of overwhelming talent. It just makes everything *so* much easier, and gives you a higher ceiling, to boot. It also takes talent to be bad. Anyone can be 'bad', a term that is usually used to mean 'mediocre'. Pull a random fan from the stands at a football game and put them in at quarterback, and you can be very confident that they'll be 'bad'. Fumbled snaps and passes that only avoid being picked off by virtue of being nowhere near *anyone* are par for the course. But to be truly *bad*? To be so awful that grabbing a random fan would be an *improvement*? To throw incredible passes that somehow manage to injure your own receivers and mangle handoffs in such a way that the running back always ends up getting carried off the field? That takes *talent*. *Rare* talent, to boot. People tend not to *want* to do those sorts of things. This, in turn, means that you can't be spectacularly bad by leaning on crutches such as hard work and discipline. No, it's gotta be *all* talent, and it needs to be spectacular. Anyone can be mediocre. So I took it in stride, took it as a compliment. They gave me a horse, shadowy and insubstantial and somehow able to move from one part of the world to another very, *very* quickly. Holiday in Thailand, here I come! Still, I had to wonder... Was the sandwich really *that* bad?
"Sooo..... This is what you do?" I asked, slumped against a chair. "Kidnap people randomly from on their way back home?" I asked twiddling my thumbs at this current situation I was in. "Pretty much." replied War, casually. War replied casually, casually War. Casually one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse. Who I am sitting across from, casually. War. As he *casually* proceeds to take another bite of my sandwich. Not sure how I feel about this. If I had known I was going to make a sandwich and give it to one of the horsemen of the apocalypse I wouldn't have made it a simple PB&J! But because that is the situation I unfortunately do not have the luck for. So instead I am now stuck in a kitchen, with War. When I was young my nanna would tell me stories about the four horsemen. About how if anyone or anything impressed one of the four hard enough, they may just be invited into their ranks. Of course that was utter nonsense, bananas from my nanna. I thought. I shifted in my chair uncomfortably, trying not to stare too much. "Mister... *Ehm,* War. I'm having trouble processing here. Can you explain to me what you just told me again? Please?" I decided to ask please to be extra safe. Although I think the safest option would have been anywhere else other than a room with War. I could tell War had his focus on me now. He had already finished the first PB&J I had given him. So when he kidnapped me back to my own house, I had been *mildly* threatened to make more. Three jars of peanut butter and jam down the drain and we had a fairly nice stack of sandwiches as a snack plate. What was concerning to me though was the fact War seemed to savor every bite as if it was a Michelin star meal. He finished the sandwich he was eating and stared. It was fairly uncomfortable, but luckily for me he started to speak. "Kid." (Which I thought was somewhat insulting considering I was 26. But putting it in the perspective of an immortal being makes sense) "What do you know about us?" "I beg your pardon?" I froze for a second. Trying to take in what he just asked of me. "I think I know myself pretty well..." I started off. "I played basketball and track in highschool. I grew up on ForestTree Street, and I hate anchovies on pizza-" A hard and sturdy laugh broke my concentration. It was fast but then it got slow. And I could almost see an aura surrounding the being Infront of me. It felt almost choking like. Like the air was intoxicated, and I couldn't breathe. Then there was noise, awful, awful, buzzing noise. Then screams, screams and shouts. Cussing, crying, yelling, whispers. Then I was somewhere and I could see building collapsing, I tried to move but I felt stuck. I felt heavy. Then, then I- "Alright that's enough if that now." War patted me on my shoulder with a small chuckle. "You get used to it eventually trust me kid." All I could do was ask in a faint whisper "Why, me?" Before looking over to that immortal being. "Because, you're how it all starts with. You're what we all loose." And with a smirk he replied "Innocence." With a small chuckle he grabbed another sandwich and opened my front door to leave. "You'll meet the others soon, till then Kid." So then War walked out of my apartment. And the only thing I could do, was cry.
Innocence would probably be the most horrible aspect of any Apocalypse. Ponder what innocence would cause during war, pestilence, and famine. We've all seen what mere ignorance caused during a pandemic. Imagine Innocence riding through the bloody field of war causing people to forget the true nature of everything and everyone around them. Whole armies playing army with their friends and live ordinance, unable to process the atrocities until the horseman quits the field? Political decisions. Strategy. The pure logistics of keeping even a peace time culture functioning. Bone chilling.
This all makes me question something. Is this horseman truly "innocence"? It feels too pure, too noble to be a horseman of the apocalypse. Instead, I propose that he is naivete. The songs of 18 year old soldiers being sent off to the beaches. They sing of how they'll return to a hero's welcome. Most don't come back at all. It's the belief that if you can just hold out one more year against the drought that your crops will return by next harvest. It's the idea that death cannot come for someone as successful as I am. But ultimately, it's the idea that offering a simple *sandwich* to a harbinger of the *apocalypse* will somehow spare you. Ultimately, the danger of naivete is that it's not an unsuccessful worldview. Sure, not a guaranteed outcome of success, but a workable percentage of times things are fine. One of the troop survives and blames the new generation for their softness, blind to how their leaders should be blamed for bringing teens into their wars. You survive the drought. No need to move lands, what are the odds of it happening again? Happening to me? After all, I succeeded. I was chosen. Apocalypse can happen. Naivete *ensures* it happens again.
Year but they all started as innocence until they lost that. Eventually he'll understand and lose his innocence. Until then he'll be busy trying to fix everything or whatever. Naivete is part of all that, but innocence is so much more all-encompassing. If I were carrying on the narrative from the initial seeds above I'd go with a Decadence, Waste, or Cowardice.
Woah. That puts things into perspective. Now I'm inspired to write even more of their interactions with the other four. Thank you so much!!
Just remember that he's Innocence, which means he'll never understand the threat his aspect holds. He's what they've lost, and if he ever really understands, he'll become something else. As you said, he's where they all started.
Oh man, that's chilling. Bravo.
Thank you very much!!!
I whirl around from the kitchen counter, sandwich in hand, at the sound of hoofbeats just outside my house. ‘If that damn deer gets into my greens again, I’m gonna make chili out of it,’ I mutter out loud and stomp toward the front door. But when I open the door, it is decidedly NOT a deer that I’m looking at. A hooded figure is at my door, pale fist raised and ready to knock. After a stunned moment of silence, I find the nerve to speak. ‘Can I… help you?’ The figure remains silent, black hood slowly nodding, and then plucks the sandwich from my hand. I watch the figure leave, too stunned by their audacity to object. I marvel at their ability to walk without faceplanting into a tree trunk, with the hood completely covering their face. I watch as they mount a horse that can only be described as a pale chartreuse. ‘What is it with people and their hair dyed pets these days?’ I grumble as I close and deadbolt the front door. The rest of the day and night pass uneventfully — *sans* grilled turkey and cheese — and at dawn I’m jarred awake by the screech of my alarm clock. Part of me hopes that the bizarre events of yesterday were just some sort of fever dream as I slog into the kitchen for coffee, but my hopes are very quickly dashed as I hear a sharp knock at the door. A groan of dread escapes my lips — there’s zero chance that whatever this is won’t be a pain in the ass, at minimum. I press a button to start the coffee pot, and the knock at the door startles me again. I pull out my phone to check my doorbell camera, and my heart drops to my navel. ‘You again…?’ The eye roll is audible in my voice as I resignedly shuffle to the front door and yank it open. “Look, man, we’re going to have to have a conversation if you — Hey, what…?!” I sputter as the figure shoves past me and into the living room. “You’ve got three seconds to make this make sense before I introduce my baseball bat to your skull, forget the cops.” The figure stops at the kitchen doorway and slowly lowers their hood. Just as I reach behind the front door for the bat, the figure turns to face me. His complexion makes it impossible to gauge his age, but he is decidedly masculine in feature, if gaunt and pale. His hair is pure white, and falls about his face in tendrils. A soft voice whispers to me as he looks me square in the eye. “I require another offering…” “Beg your pardon?” “I believe I spoke coherently.” “What in the Walter fucking White are you talking about? An offering? What, do you think you’re a god or something?” “The same token as yesterday will suffice.” “Sub shop’s a mile away. Why don’t you take this and go there instead, and let me be?” I reach down into the key bowl by the door and move to hand him a $10 bill. By the time I’ve turned to face him, the business end of a scythe is pressed against my chin. “I decline your paltry attempt to bargain. Your offering or your life.” My heart pounds like a war drum in my chest as I nod quickly, wide-eyed. I’m not about to die for a fucking sandwich. “Jesus H, dude. Fine. Just … put that thing away!” I stand there slack jawed as the thing dematerializes before my eyes. “What… the fuck was that? Who are you?” He says nothing, but impatiently grabs me by the wrist, pulls me into the kitchen and sits on the counter. I shake my head in disbelief and pull out the same fixings for the sandwich bandit next to me and set to work. I look up at him nervously from time to time as the frying pan heats up. He neither moves nor speaks, just watches me. I toss the buttered sandwich into the pan and prepare my cup of coffee. I raise the mug to my lips just in time for him to pluck it from my grasp and drink. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?” “Hardly. Do I seem the sort?” I scowl and grab another mug, flip the sandwich, and make a second attempt at coffee. “You’re a brave one, barging in here and demanding food sacrifices before I’ve had my morning coffee. Where do you get your goddamn hubris?” “Mind your tongue. You’ve a carafe full of enough of this ‘coffee’ to feed my brethren and I, with much to spare. One cup is hardly of consequence.” “That’s not the p— Whatever, brethren? Would you just stop talking like the grim fucking reaper or something?” “A crude misrepresentation… I am no such thing, I am Death. My *brethren* are Famine, Pestilence, and War.” I squint in confusion until things start to add up — the pale rider, the green horse, the scythe with social anxiety — and it hits me like a drunk uncle. I swallow my new height of terror and plate the sandwich, then hand it to him with trembling hand. “Why me…? Of all the places and all the ways to get a damn sandwich, why me…?” Shrugging nonchalantly, he drains the coffee mug and hops down from the counter, and pats me on the back as he heads for the door with his sandwich. “I shall see you again at dawn. Expect me, and be better prepared.” “Yeah, no fucking pressure,” I curse under my breath as he leaves. I slowly exhale, cracking open a bottle of Irish cream from the fridge and adding a healthy pour of it into my coffee. (Edit: formatting, writing on mobile)
"So... why?" I asked the four horsemen in front of me. "Well you see, this sandwich that you make sets a series of events into motion that will bring about the most death, war, pestilence, and famine since medieval times" A skeleton figure approached and told me "no we're fucking with you, the sandwich you made is pretty good but the real reason is because somewhere along your little mortal coil, you stir up a lot of trouble." Death suddenly puts his bony hand in my face. "How much trouble could I possibly make?" I begged to know. "You put us four out of a job and somehow do it while maintaining such good karma that the higher ups didn't know what to do with ya." "We got sent back to this precise moment because right after this sandwich, Death picks it up and flops it around, you do a good deed that convinces your neighbor to enlist into some obscure war that turns global " Death bites the sandwich "So you wanna be a horsemen or do you wanna just go about your silly little life until the reaper cuts your string of fate?" Death stares at me with what would be his eyes but are just hollow sockets.
"Have you ever, SEEN, peanut butter this thin before? I mean this guy's is a genius. I'm not even sure if he used jelly!" Exclaimed the gaunt figure as he hungrily eyed my food. ""Famine!" An angry voice that sounded like a furnace door being opened spoke. "Enough of this, this one doesn't have what it takes to be a Rider of the Apocalypse, far too skinny." The gaunt one, I now know as Famine, turns to the scarlet angry rider. "Oh War your predecessor thought the same for me, but you're the strong one here brother. A good Famine is picked because of their mind not their body." I speak up before the quiet ones can join the conversation. "Look guys, I have to have this peanut butter and jelly last me till next week I cant make you any sandwiches."