The rusted batwing doors creaked in the cold wind, and the bottles were all dry. The saloon was empty, save for two dead men.

I sat in a creaky old stool, as did the man opposite me. Between us was an old poker table, slightly off-balance from a bad leg. Clean new cards were shuffled and stacked, ready to be dealt.

The man wore a wide-brim black hat, face hidden by shadow. Only his mouth was visible, immaculate mustache illuminated by the cigar he held in his mouth. His gloved hands were clasped, fingers interlinked as they rested upon the table. Behind him trailed a long, black coat.

I knew who he was.

"Am I dead? I asked.

He blew smoke, slowly. "I'm gettin' awful tired of that goddamn question. Not yet, despite your best efforts. "

I gulped, heart slamming against my chest. "Why am I here?"

He was silent for a moment, before he answered my question with a question. "Do you like your new world?"

I didn't take long to ponder it. "Not particularly."

"Why?"

I tried to find his eyes through the darkness, but failed. "It was made to get people to kill each other, weren't it? That's what this is all about?"

"Essentially," he said. Nodding slightly. "What's wrong with that?"

The light shifted, and I noticed the man cast no shadow beyond the brim of his hat. "Everything, I reckon. I'm not a fan of senseless violence."

The man stared at me for a few moments, and I wished I could see his expression. "...I'm going to give you a few seconds to think about how damn foolish of a statement that was."

I grimaced. "I killed a lot of people, sure, but..."

"But what? Mr. Jones? It was justified? Self-defense? They deserved it? Tell me, what's your excuse?"

My mouth felt dry. "All of the above?"

Death sighed, and he leaned back, crossing his arms. Another pregnant silence.

"Do you ever think about how many more people would still be alive if you didn't exist?" he asked.

Aw hell, what a question. He knew where to hit me where it hurt, and we had only just met. My hands shook, and my voice came out in a whisper. "All the time."

He nodded. "So, tell me, Mr. Jones. Why are you still here?"

My hands shook harder, and my vision blurred. I didn't answer.

Death stared for a moment. He reached for the cards, shuffling the deck of 52 with practiced efficiency. "Do you value yourself more than all the people you've killed?"

"No."

He nodded. "So there's only one real reason. You could cite anger, determination, a desire to make things better, to redeem yourself, maybe. They're all nonsense. Tell me the truth."

The wind picked up, sending motes of dust through the air. It whistled through the holes in the shabby wood. The old stained glass bottles rung like bells as they were shoved by the wind, yet refused to fall. The stairs to the second floor were rotted through, and creaked with the weight of boots long gone.

"I suppose...I don't want to die," I admitted to myself.

He began to deal the cards, slowly, emphasis on every placement. "And yet, you fearlessly throw yourself into every dangerous situation you can, hoping the decision will be taken out of your hands. That don't make much sense, right?

It wasn't a real question. "It don't, but that's alright. It's very human. There ain't a single person out there that ain't a hypocrite in one way or another. Personally, I'd go so far as to say that's what defines truly intelligent beings."

He finished dealing the cards and set the rest of the stack in the center. He left them alone as he continued to speak. "Let me tell you a story. There used to be a certain species, on some planet a few trillion lightyears away. Called the Hearthkin or some horse-shit. They existed to do good. They spread their love and peace throughout the galaxy, and were known as the fairest and most righteous species in their quadrant. They had discovered immortality, and had enough resources to expand the population almost indefinitely."

I spoke up. "Sounds disgusting."

Ash fell from the cigar as it illuminated a smile. "They were a god damn joke of a species. Every last one of them believed the same doctrine. A population of 587 billion, and they were worthless to the last. Their technology had stagnated for eons, their art was derivative, and their philosophers were fools."

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

"...What happened to them?"

The smile grew wider. "We processed them, same as your people. Do you know how long they lasted?"

I said nothing, knowing it wasn't a real question.

"Two god damn days. 52 billion qualified for the assessment, and every single one of them died just like that."

Qualified? What happened to the rest? ...I wasn't going to ask. I didn't want to know.

"They weren't much in the way of fighters," I ventured.

"Not one bit. They watched as the pathetically weak creatures tore apart their kin, and they implored them to stop."

He let out a genuine chuckle. "Hell, that was the most fun assessment I've ever watched. Complete fucking waste of resources, but it was cathartic like you wouldn't believe."

I gulped. The fear was wearing off, but I wasn't about to get friendly with Death. "That was an interesting story and all, but why tell me?"

His cigar burned too short. I blinked, and it was fresh again. "Come on, Buck. I know you haven't had the opportunity to read many books, but the moral of the story wasn't all that hard to understand."

I scratched my beard. My hand came back clean, for once. "They were too weak to live."

He held the cigar between his teeth as his sardonic smile widened. "Exactly. That's the only thing that matters."

I let out a scoff, against my better judgment. "You telling me strength is the goddamn meaning to life? If that was the only thing that mattered, then it wouldn't mean anything in the first place."

His smile faded, but he nodded. "You have a point, but I'm not philosophizing. I'm stating a fact."

He stated his next words with emphasis, voice droning into my head. "Strength is the only thing that matters."

He took the cigar out of his mouth as he spoke, holding it between two fingers. "Everything is secondary to absolute strength. Love, reason, knowledge, diplomacy, mercy, hatred, regret, dreams, desire... All of those methods and feelings are secondary. To be strong is to force your will upon others, to make your beliefs the correct ones."

He smiled once more. "That's what you do, Mr. Jones. That's your goddamn raison d'etre. Every person you killed was because you fundamentally disagreed with their beliefs. It's what makes you a real fuckin' human being."

That's it? It's that simple? "Who decides that?"

He didn't answer the question. He gestured towards the cards. "Up for a match?"

A game of cards with Death? Only a fool would take that offer.

"What are we betting?" I asked.

He smiled knowingly. "Absolutely nothing. It's just for fun."

I glanced at the side of the table. There were dozens of golden chips, embossed with a skull. They weren't there before.

I reached for them.

So began a quiet little game of poker. There were no stakes, no risks, and no anger. Just a relaxed game between two strangers.

We both had a perfect poker face, so there were no mind games to be had. Just chance.

"I'll fold," said Death, and I won with two pairs.

He began to speak once more. "If you don't think strength is all that, then the only way to prove that point is to bring it up with my boss."

"...With strength," I said, seeing his point. Who could boss around Death? God? No. If the god I knew was real, then he would pale in comparison to what I've witnessed.

He nodded. "I'll raise," he said, and I folded my pair. My luck was as awful as ever.

"That don't make the rest of the human experience worthless," said Death. "Just lower priority. A vehicle, or motivation, perhaps. A reason to gain strength. What's yours, Mr. Jones?"

I looked down at my cards that weren't cards no more. They were paintings, depictions of a time long gone.

On the ace of spades was my father, face stricken in anger, as he caught me sneaking back into the house. On the ace of clubs was Joshua, bright smile contrasting against his dark skin. On the eight of spades was a depiction of a flaming cross, an innocent man screaming upon it. And on the eight of clubs was my father once more, pleading for mercy against progeny out for blood.

"I'm missing a card," I said.

"Are you?" asked Death.

Ah. I could see it, face down on the table. How had it escaped my notice? I reached for it, but hesitated.

"I never got an answer," I said, delaying the inevitable. "What do you want from me?"

Death answered immediately, without ceremony. "I want a protégé', of sorts. A messenger of death. A motivator."

He showed his cards, breaking the rules. It was a straight flush. "That's what death is, Mr. Jones. Motivation. The shadow that nips at your heels, driving you ever-onwards. Humans race to the finish line, doing as much as they can on the way, gaining strength...and passing it onto the next."

Was this what I wanted? Strength? Was that truly the answer to my problems? No. It wouldn't help with the guilt, the shame, the loneliness.

I thought to Joshuas burnt corpse, all personality melted away by the merciless flames. It could help me stop those things from ever happening again. With strength, I could root out all the evil I could find and destroy it. Man by man, sin by sin. I would go all the way up the food chain, and kill every son of a bitch on the way there.

Death was right. This was what I do. This is what I believe. I force my will upon others, just like the men I hate. But that don't make me wrong.

That just means I'm living. A dead man no longer.

"I'm my own man," I said. "I won't dance to your tune."

"I know," said Death. "I'm here because you embody my will through your own. You need swear no fealty, nor offer servitude. "

His smile was gone, replaced by the white of a clean skull. The jaw came loose, and words rolled off of a nonexistent tongue.

"You are already the perfect messenger."

I flipped the card. It was a joker. It depicted a single gun. A 1847 Colt Walker, passed down from father to son.

Death smiled, his straight flush already face-up on the table. I looked down at my dead man's hand, clearly inferior.

"All in," I said, pushing my chips to the center of the table.

Death tipped his hat. "Congratulations," he said.

I looked down at my cards, only to find them changed. It was five of a kind, each image depicting a bullet in a cylinder. They were overlapped on top of each other perfectly, creating an image of a loaded revolver, five shots out of six.

I was missing a card once again, but I didn't let that bother me.

Death stood up from the dinky table, coat trailing behind him. "That's that, I suppose. I'll give you a little gift. I know you'll use it well."

"Is it a new horse?" I asked

"You will find out soon enough," he said, as he walked towards the batwing doors. He stopped before the exit, as if he had suddenly remembered something. "Oh, right. You might want to hold your breath."

I didn't ponder his words. I held my breath.

And splashed into a pool of blood.