It came as no surprise to Kim Jong-il when the Angel of Death came for him.
"It's your time," the Angel said, holding out one skeletal hand.
Kim stood up. As he got out of his bed he no longer felt sick. In fact, he felt pretty good.
"I guess you are were wrong," he laughed, smugly. "I'm feeling better."
The Angel laughed, too. A low, gutteral laugh.
"Look behind you," the Angel said. Kim Jong-il did.
"Hey," he chuckled. "Who's that goofy-looking guy in my bed?" He then took a closer look. "Oh... it's me."
Just then 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..."
They both cried out in joy. They were so happy they 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.
Kim Jong-il nudged the Angel with his elbow. "Boy, are they in for it now," he laughed, spitefully.
"Halt!" the guard commanded. "Why do you celebrate?"
The doctor looked at the guard in fear.
"Our glorious leader has died," the doctor said, feeling the 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...
The guard cheered, and then began doing a Russian dance where he squatted and kicked his legs out at the knees. Which was odd, since he wasn't Russian.
"This can't be true," Kim whined to the Angel. "After all I've done for them, how could they do this? Haven't I provided for them? Haven't I made sure that they had all the grass and tree-bark soup they could eat?"
That was the Angel of Death's cue. He took the recently deceased high above the Earth.
"Look," the Angel pointed. As Kim looked he saw the continent of Asia covered in lights, except for one dark spot... and then he understood. North Korea was smothered in darkness because he kept his country poor and primitive. He may have forced his subjects to say they loved him, but the truth was 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 regret.
"Launch the nukes," he said.