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metal had worn outward a bit from the continuous use, and the bar kept popping off. On a whim, I had been thinking about grabbing the pliers Tina had left by the stereo, climbing onto the back of the sofa, and giving the S-hook a squeeze. Why hadn't I done it over the weekend, or the last, or the one before that? Why did I decide to do it twenty minutes before I had to leave for work? A little, personal mystery. I guess I had always been impulsive that way.
    "Impulsive guys die too, Joe," he said. "So, what will it be? Many of my clients like to have a say in their method of execution. It's in the contract that I ask and get some sort of response."
    How did he know I was just thinking about my own impulsiveness? I thought. Tina dropped something upstairs, and I heard a quaint, "Oh shit!" I stayed where I was. I didn't think I was going crazy, and I was not foolish enough to wonder if I was dreaming. While asleep, one's dream could be mistaken for reality, but I had enough common sense to know it didn't work the other way around. Was I hallucinating? If so, this was one hell of a detailed manifestation. The Reaper pointed across the marble table that sat between us.
    "I knew you were considering your own impulsiveness because I can hear everything you think the second you think it, Joe. Your little honey dropped the tweezers back into the bottom of the tin tangled up with the hairbrush, the two combs, the nail file, the clippers, and the three scissors that are too dull to keep in the kitchen drawer anymore. That's why she just swore. You're not crazy, you are not dreaming, and you are not hallucinating. That which is presently before you has too much vivid order for that, and you know it. Now stop thinking around me and think directly to me. It will help expedite things. I do have other calls to make."
    "So, you can read my thoughts," I said. Tina did not respond, and a brush of new fear whispered up my spine. She should have heard me. It was a small row house. The Reaper clapped his hands together.
    "Joy!" he said. "Actual discussion! My creation! The big lie! Go ahead, entertain me! Tell me you are too young to die even though you know deep down that when it is your time, it is simply your time! Say that you don't fear me when you are actually terrified!"
    "What's the point?" I said. From beneath his cloak, the Reaper produced a long-handled sickle. He pushed himself up to a standing position and brought the weapon down with a kingly bang.
    "Because I am the provider of your shield, and I like to see my work in action once in a while!" He paused, and leaned in a bit. "Don't you see? I am the creator of the mask. Without it, the human race would annihilate itself in a matter of days. Call it a loan. I supply your species with this safety device, this ability to screen, refine, and purify before going verbal so to speak. In return, I take lives at random. That's the deal. On the downside, I am the artist who so briefly gets to witness his product first hand because he must inevitably erase his subjects. It is life's ultimate irony."
    "Then take back the mask."
    "What did you just say to me?"
    "Take it," I said. "I have nothing to hide."
    He cocked his head.
    "You reject my art? You dare to insult me?"
    "Yes."
    "You reject the gift I have given you? You reject the very essence of personal mastery?"
    "Yes," I said. And fuck you, I thought for good measure.
    His grin got savage and the air tingled. He pressed in across the table within an inch of my face, and I was overcome by an odor that drew up images of dead flowers strewn before gravestones under a pale moon. My head spun, and he spoke a last time.
    "I always like a good wager, so survive this and your life shall be spared. Speak the truth for two short hours."
    Then he was gone.
    It was 8:00 A.M.

    With every second that passed by, the "Reaper incident" dulled and lost potency. The bubbling sound indicated that the coffeemaker was on its last cycle, next to hiss the last of