"It's your time," the Angel said, holding out one skeletal hand.
Kim stood up. As he got out bed he no longer felt sick. In fact, he felt pretty good.
"I guess you were wrong," he told the Angel. "I'm feeling better."
The Angel laughed a low, gutteral laugh. "Look behind you."
He did. "Hey," he chuckled, "there's some goofy-looking guy in my bed." He then took a closer look. "Oh... it's me."
His doctor entered the room with a nurse. Kim looked toward the Angel, and said: "I can see their hearts breaking. We were very close." The Angel of Death just nodded its head.
The nurse turned to the doctor. "Is he..."
"Yes."
They both cried out in joy. They were so happy that they both began dancing an Irish jig, which was odd, since neither of them were Irish.
Kim was in shock. "I don't believe it. They both love me. My whole country loves me."
His personal bodyguard ran into the room--gun raised--to see what the commotion was about.
"Halt!" he ordered. "Why do you celebrate?"
Kim Jong-il nudged the Angel with his elbow. "Boy, are they in for it now," he laughed, spitefully.
The doctor looked at the guard in fear. "Our glorious leader has died," he said, feeling he sudden need to change his underwear.
The bodyguard looked at him with steely eyes. His finger tightening on the trigger of his AK-47. And then...
"WOO-HOO!"
The guard cheered, and began doing the Russian dance where he squatted and kicked out his legs at the knees, which was odd, since he wasn't Russian.
"I don't believe this," Kim whined to the Angel. "I thought they loved me. How could they do this?"
That was the Angel of Death's cue. He took the recently deceased high above the Earth.
"Look," the Angel pointed. It was night. As Kim looked he saw the continent of Asia covered in lights, except for one small dark spot, and then he understood. North Korea was swallowed by darkness because he kept his country primitive. He may have forced his subjects to say that they loved him, but the truth was that they hated him. Their hearts were as dark to him as his country was. They hated him. They all hated him.
Kim Jong-il sadly looked at the Angel of Death, its eye-sockets an empty blackness.
"Will you let me speak to my son a final time?" he asked, softly.
The Angel's voice was almost delicate. "As you wish," it said, and then took Kim to his son, Kim Jong-un, his chosen successor. Kim the elder gently woke his son, and when he spoke his voice was filled with a lifetime of regrets.
"Launch the nukes," he said.
Fifty Shades of Funny
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