Ahh, the weenies begged to be reaped @WxWatcher007
Yet I offer you no Reaper, flying in like a blaze of glory on a cloud of death, Motorhead screaming from his scythe as he plucks your weenie soul from you, its destination an image with your name on it. Yes, there are fates worse than death, fates that make the comfort of the Reaper's hollow of souls look like a five-star hotel. The horde, having seen their clown maps evaporate, their hopes of days at home watching white powder fall while reveling in winter dashed once again by their insidious climate - indeed, capable of putting one of their own to the torch faster than you can say "GFS". Truly they are among the most fearsome of entities. Welcome home.