I discreetly feel for my wallet beneath the table.
A few bills left. That's all.
Somehow fitting.
You sit down to play poker with Death and the Devil, and slowly go broke.
The Devil notices immediately.
Of course he does.
"Financial difficulties?" he asks, sounding almost sympathetic.
"You'd be surprised how expensive existence has become these days."
Death calmly draws another card from the deck and silently slips it into his hand.
The Devil, meanwhile, taps two fingers lightly against the table.
Thinking.
I don't like that thoughtful look one bit.
"How about a theater?" he suddenly asks, delighted.
"A theater?"
"Of course."
He spreads his arms enthusiastically.
"You, onstage. Dramatic lighting. People screaming. Curtains on fire. Somewhere, an out-of-tune violin is playing."
Death slowly looks up.
"That sounds more like an opera."
"Opera is just dying dramatically."
Death actually considers this for a moment.
"Not wrong," he finally mutters.
I stare at them both.
"Are you seriously discussing whether I should die in a burning theater?"
"Not burning," the Devil immediately corrects me, sounding offended.
"Collapsing."
"Ah. Of course. That makes it better."
The Devil completely ignores my tone.
"Imagine the headlines."
He raises his hands theatrically.
"Mysterious Theater Collapse at Exactly Three in the Morning!"
Death shrugs.
"And so realistic."
He runs his index finger along the top edge of his cards with something approaching affection.
I'm liking his hand less and less.
The Devil glances at the facedown deck on the table and raises an eyebrow slightly.
"No," he suddenly mutters, leaning back again. "A theater is too ordinary."
He looks over at me.
That gleam in his eyes has become downright dangerous.
"Perhaps something involving a carnival."
Of course.
Why not put insanity on wheels while we're at it?
"A Ferris wheel suddenly grinds to a halt," he continues dreamily. "Thick fog. Power outage. Panic. Wonderful atmosphere."
Death slowly slides two cards together.
"Too many screaming children."
The Devil makes a face of disgust.
"You're right. That really does ruin the mood."
I pick up my now-empty glass and slowly turn it between my fingers.
Eight minutes left.
And here I am, actually sitting with Death and the Devil, discussing creative ways to bring about my demise.
Although, ever since the zeppelin suggestion, I'm no longer entirely convinced that I'm the biggest problem at this table.
The bartender looks ready to have a nervous breakdown.
Death deals cards like funeral offerings.
And the lunatic across from me is probably about to plan the most aesthetically pleasing apocalypse of the night.
The Devil slowly leans back and thoughtfully studies the bar's ceiling.
By now, I almost dislike that thoughtful expression more than his grin.
Death, meanwhile, calmly rearranges his cards as though none of this concerns him in the slightest.
"No," the Devil finally mutters. "The zeppelin had style, but not enough personality."
"A burning zeppelin doesn't have enough personality?" I ask dryly.
"Of course not."
He seems genuinely puzzled by my question.
"That's an off-the-rack catastrophe."
Death silently places a card on the table.
Queen of hearts.
"Interesting," he murmurs calmly.
By now, I'm no longer sure whether he's commenting on the poker game or the Devil's murder ideas.
The Devil, however, suddenly raises a finger in excitement.