uncle norm stood on the corner, expecting cousin walter.
little did he suspect that he would never see walter again.
a car pulled up beside norm, and a man got out of it.
norm had an uneasy feeling about the man, who was wearing a blue suit.
norm was behind in his payments on a certain item of merchandise, and dreaded being approached by a bill collector.
the man who got out of the car had neatly combed white hair, partly concealed by a brown hat.
are you norman johnson? the white haired man asked.
i might be, norm replied with a neutral expression. johnson is a common name.
i am sorry to see you take that attitude, the man replied evenly.
who are you to ask me who i am? norm asked, am i the intended victim of some sort of scam?
there is no need to be apprehensive, the man replied with a friendly smile, relaxing his previous stern demeanor.
exactly who are you? norm rejoindered with a touch of exasperation.
perhaps you have heard of me - i am the messenger of fate, the whitehaired man stated ruefully.
i would prefer a less dramatic introduction.
very well - how about the angel of death?
you have chosen your prey unwisely , norm snapped acidly. i have absolutely no sense of humor.
at this point in the proceedings, the whitehaired man with the brown hat produced a handkerchief from the pocket of his blue suit.
my name is roger smith, he said. does the name ring a bell? no? but perhaps you recognize this handkerchief?
i have never heard such nonsense. i must ask you to desist, or i will take my phone out of my pocket and summon the authorities.
this is the handkerchief you dropped on a quiet street in louisville kentucky on the night of august 17, 2003. do you understand me now?
uncle norm clutched at his essence, which was exploding into a billion pieces.
when cousin walter arrived at the corner, he found no one standing there.
norm was often unpunctual, so walter had been half expecting not to find him.
a cloud passed over the moon.
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